New Forum | Spring 2018

newforum

New Forum

Spring 2018


New Forum

UCI Undergraduate Creative Writing Journal

Fall 2011, Volume 22 Issue 1

http://sites.uci.edu/newforum/

newforum@uci.edu

Editor in Chief:

Shantrell S. Lumpkin

Media Director:

Patricia Estrada

Financial Director:

Adam Timms

Social Media Coordinator:

Misha Ponnuraja

Design Coordinator:

Yanit Mehta

Associate Editor:

Melissa Salcedo

Associate Editor:

Analisa Gomez

Associate Editor:

Camila Dadabhoy

Special Thanks:

Susan Davis, the Creative Writing Emphasis, the Department of English and Comparative Literature, Alternative Media,

and Justin Standard.

*This publication does not represent the views and/or opinions of the University of California, Irvine; the University of California, the

Regents of University of California, and/or its affiliates.


Featuring:

Audrey Fong

Leila Alskaf

Eliana Meyer

Cu Fleshman

William Anderson

Luis Gerardo Sanchez

Ruben Cota Jr.

Jordan Rodrigues

Mae Mayo

Interview Featuring E.J. Koh

Cover photo

courtesy of Jacqueline Weisbaum

Authors of the featured pieces remain anonymous during the selection process. Only after selection are names

revealed; multiple pieces by individual authors are coincidental.


West 4 th Street

Audrey Fong

The first time I met you, I smiled because it felt like you’d be in my life always and that you had been there

before. It was like seeing an old friend but also seeing so many possibilities stretching out before you like an

open ocean. I imagined us sitting together, sharing books and huddled up in the cove of my room. You’d

have your big sweater on and I’d have a scarf wrapped around my neck twice, twisting the plaid fringe around

my finger. I met you and felt all the possibilities of a future return, one that wasn’t bleak but filled with

adventures, laughs, and great food.

In reality, we had all of that in our year together. We walked up and down avenues, looking for ice cream, and

spent winter mornings nearly frozen outside of Dominique Ansel’s. My black boots would knock into yours

as I tried to kill time, stomping my feet into the snow to keep warm. You’d brush snow out of your hair and

get it stuck in the rims of your glasses. Children of tropical climates, we never let weather stop us - snow,

wind, slush, nothing. There was an almost sort of triumph in the way we marched through the slush of

Washington Square to get to the library. When our shoes and socks were soaked through, we’d quietly worry

about frostbite but also be proud, wondering if this is what being a New Yorker meant. Maybe we were

stronger. Maybe we were better. Maybe this would last forever.


ECDYSIS

Leila Alskaf

(I) THE ITCH

Her bones have adjusted

to the shrinking

she is putting herself through.

She contorts her body

in the

smallest form,

and mentally diminishes

in the same recoil.

She has lessened

herself and

her value is retreating

the same way her arms do as

she wraps them around her delicate waist,

she grabs, and holds and violently grasps

the edges of her body and skin.

She chooses to make them disappear at the clutch of her very

palms which

have done nothing but point sins at her

body and words.

Her insanity

carved into the

perpetual biting

of her paper thin nail beds which

attempt to hide

her distorted face –

a natural oily veil

But it does nothing to hold her back from singing

incantations of ‘sorry’s’ that result in

nothing more than another retreat.

She has created a musical within her mind,

one in which she is forcibly the lead and the audience all

in one.

Her body rocks her

back and forth,

her exoskeleton attempting to cradle

her back and forth,

the way her mother never did.


(II) THE PICK

Then a tingling begins to creep

Up, Up, Up,

the veins of her ears -

the ringing of dead skin strikes her bodily clocks hour

on the dot.

Her hands then begin to make their way

Up, Up, Up,

to peel and pick at the layer which never asked to be picked,

like the fruit of the wisdom tree.

And she as Eve, begins to

molt, peeling off layers of herself,

filled with pain and pleasure.

Her hands became a part of this impulsive spell, preoccupied as she played her body, the way a musician plays

their instrument;

eyes closed and all knowing,

the behavior became a waltz she had danced to her whole life,

her fingers did not miss a step,

her mind conditioned to play along with this performance,

she became so used to the dance

it became something she could do

rhythmically without thinking.

The combination of pleasure and pain and the wandering of her hands left her baffled;

a sense of relief flirted with her apparent fear

as she pulled her hands down to see

blood between her nonexistent nail beds,

her scalp

stinging from the scratches and tugs

she was virtually unaware of.

She had removed the layering of her scalp,

and the skin of her ears,

the wax that filled them to the brim.

Gently ending the song that began in a forte of sorts,

she silenced her conducting hands,

pulling them away from the knots that formed in her hair,

and rested them beneath her thighs,

sitting amidst a now pianissimo whirl of the

earths hymn.

Her emotions were roaring,

her nimble hands sore and shaking,

her mind repeating and repeating and repeating.


(III) THE PEEL

This metamorphosis had transported her to the shore of the ocean,

The blood on her fingers dried up in the hot sand,

as she stuck them into the ground.

Her ears, empty of wax, felt like hollow caves,

and all she could hear was the sound of seagulls flocking together above the beach,

echoing a mocking song in her empty ears the fact that which she feared –

the fact that they belonged.

And in this fashion,

she decided to screech with them.

Shrieking at the seagulls, but then at the ocean’s waves

for swaying her back and forth,

cradling her to the depths of the sea and the crease of the shore,

she screamed some more,

branding her with this similar perpetuated rocking motion –

she yelled at a heaven unknown to her,

as this movement of the ocean so reminded her of the way her hands moved so in sync with

the tumbling waves,

her fingertips hitting her hard mineral-like scalp,

her heart began to palp-,

itate, the way the waves crashed on the sandy shore,

guilt washing over her in an uproar,

her vocal chords go sore,

It was as if each graze against the white pearly scalp of her head

was something nature so desired,

she could no longer screech anymore.

Each time this reoccurring state of mind took place and hit her body

with just a tick of a word, she suddenly finds;

more arms to

hide behind,

more nails to bite,

more eyes to look away from,

and more

spinal malformations

to keep her

hidden from a world

she is

no longer

fully familiar

with.


The Farm Sink

Eliana Meyer

She stares out her window, the farm sink stretching

beneath her soap-sud covered hands. Across the street

swings an old rope swing. Her heart beats

and it hurts from the emptiness gaping

inside her chest cavity. She longs for her husband,

who she has yet to meet. An idea her friends

say is archaic and oppressive. Their words do not cool

her heart ache or stem the salt water drops

that fill the sink. She aches for her womb to be full,

for giggles to sing from every corner of their house.

For his musky smell, for soft kisses, for their fights.

Yes, even this she longs for. She does not know

in two years she will meet her husband. Together

they will adopt the child that her womb is unable to carry.

She does not know in two years she will be happy

and content.

How can she.

For now, she rinses her hands clean of the suds. She remains

with trembling shoulders; standing in front of the window,

she weeps.


Homing

Cu Fleshman

I.

It wasn’t like the summer flowed,

or even slipped, past.

Your three months left you

in minutes and seconds

of cussing the Southern heat with old friends,

of watching horseflies swarm

in a jade haze over the coppery

mud below your home.

II.

You counted down your lasts.

There was the last walk down your street

in the white moonlight, Spanish moss bearding

the pines. There was the drive to the

blue mountains, packed into

the car taking your final bite of Carolina peach,

juices painting your chin. On your last good day,

you drank Lake Fontana

down to its red dust,

and cried yourself to sleep.

III.

Like the pigeons flocking overhead. Like a device,

like the way you hate California,

all its pale gold and heartless grit.

Like your best friend’s voice, in the pinkish glow

of the last night you saw him saying, Please

come home soon.


Recipe Of Me

William Anderson

I like sweet things.

I like desserts:

Melt-in-your mouth apple crumble with

thick gelatinous nutmeg and cinnamon;

Towering vanilla cakes:

• ½ cup baked by princesses

• 2 cups frosted by king’s love

• 1 lb. stalwart strawberries guarding the foot of each tier

• 2 tbsp. drizzled by comic dark chocolate (73% will do);

Delicate lace caramel bubbling up from

heated passion for sugar;

Pastel colored macarons smoothed,

uncracked, balanced on a bed of flavored cream;

Every color imaginable in bite-sized

marshmallow fluff.

I like sweet things

But something has changed.

Baking used to be sweet,

An androgynous profession

(Though male bakers looked great,

All swol and buff with crossed buns).

“Guys bake bread, they don’t cut cake.”

Breadwinning by baking bread, breaking

bread, buttering bread.

Kid-boys can bake, and I’m a kid-at-heart

rising to the top, proving what I got.

I like sweet things.

I like bourbon.

It’s…

- Strong

- Smooth

- Robust

- Amber

- Business

- Manly

- …Sweet

Every sip tickles the back of my throat.

Guttural utterances rise as it flows down

And I find words I could never say

Without it.

It’s an elixir of enlightenment, a temporary

proficiency in your speech-craft stat.

(I should have written this with bourbon.)

I like sweet things

But bourbon isn’t always sweet.

Bourbon isn’t like the bonbons of baking;

Something is expected of nothing.

There’s a fun in baking, a release, a joy

That a man men’s bourbon cannot employ.

All work, all play. All play? No play. With

pay, I say? No sé, pero un día…it may.

Don’t get me wrong, despite what’s

advertised, I’ll still take the drink

Sipping it slow or “down the hatch!” quick.

I like sweet things.

I like dessert and bourbon.

Kentucky Bourbon Balls, mmmm!

There’s some dope ass shit.

Sweet chocolate outside, wet liqueur within…

Best of both worlds

just like me.

Or maybe opposite? If science would allow

The liquid as hell for the gooey-good sin.

• 1 pinch salt to round out the flavor

• 1 bite – all it takes to turn two into me


Nocturnal Rituals of the 21 st Century

Summer of 2014, San Bernardino CA

Luis Gerardo Sanchez

I.

I had forgotten how much I enjoy exhaling

this holy concoction of pleasure---

Offered by my brothers and sisters in this Crowded debauchery;

Wasted swarming youth, a thousand gazes of dilated pupils

mesmerized by strobes and lasers of aurora borealis,

lulled by the profound and supreme roars of the synthesizer.

Intense hues of LED color, dancing with us in the room

Deep Crimson ---revealing our vapors and our glands, then darkness.

Dull Indigo ---painting the smoke of our desire in its whirling, then darkness. Ultra Violet ---bathing our

bodies with ecstatic inaudible vibrations

...then darkness.

Sensory overload, my pursuit of reverie and trance, lift me

from myself for just a moment, a hallowed moment

leave me naked, leave me nameless

make me anonymous in this raving Crowd

help me linger like the marijuana smoke

deliver me from my skin,

deliver me from my bones, my pains, my groans.

Elevate me ---sanctify my longing.

In the end the rumble fades and ceases

and so do we as we depart through the open exit


II.

They say the ringing of the eardrums after

comes from your cells, dying inside, I let them shriek and echo through my ear canal

And though I walk,

I am unmoved. Suspended

two feet above the ground, for a moment,

I am aloof

I am released

I am surrendered

For I understood the truth of the drums

the rattle of muscles, of essence and core.

And clarity’s call pronouncing my name

through endless sonorous ethereal songs

The songs-- of I Belong

The songs-- of time’s-no-more

The songs-- of We’re all here, yet we’re all Gone

Sweat dripping slowly to sobriety

still in exit, retreating

to Slumber

back into the World.


If Kafka Worked in an Office

Ruben Cota Jr.

He has twenty something styrofoam cups balanced on the top of his head, ten against the back of each palm,

and he’s reciting the company mantra, which happens to be a poem, telling them in between stanzas, “Look

here, look here, look at me.” And they’re either laughing because of what he’s saying or what he's saying in

between, or maybe it’s both. It could be the fact he’s struggling to balance the cups. It’s debatable.

His name is John. They know this because that’s what it says on his nametag. Of course, he might’ve

stolen it in an effort to disguise his identity, in an attempt to spread cheer without the consequences that

follow such behavior, but most think it unlikely since to do so would require a tact none of them think he’s

capable of. Despite being aware that this is exactly what he’d want them to think if he were an outsider —

say, a member of the rival company — the name tag turns out to be enough for most. And everyone goes on

laughing.


The Girl in the Stairwell

Jordan Rodriguez

There is a stairwell that all the students avoid.

It is in one of the humanities buildings, lost somewhere between 18 th century Italian literature and Greek

tragicomedies. Like it is with all such places where the lights blur and shadows dance of their own accord,

stories spring up around it like wildflowers.

One of the students’ favorites is that she was a freshman who had taken her studies a tad too seriously, and

who had then taken her own life just a little too eagerly. Others swear that she had been pushed down the

entire flight of stairs, and that whoever had done it had left her there when she did not move. Left her there

for days and weeks and months, until her bones sank into the concrete itself. Some even whisper that she had

been there long before the school itself, and that they had raised the buildings around her. Whatever the truth

is – if there ever was a truth to begin with – she is still there now.

Most students are smart enough to avoid her stairwell whenever they can, even if it costs them precious

minutes of class time. Even during the day, when the sun is at its highest, there is a chill in the hall outside,

and a draft blows constantly out from beneath the sill, though it should not. Students have learned to keep

their footsteps light when they pass by her door, waiting until their gossip is wisely out of earshot before

resuming.

But every so often, someone is running late, and rather than waste any more time running through the halls,

they would risk disturbing her.

It is always as cold as winter inside, regardless of the time of year, and it echoes as though it were many times

larger. Those who have passed through without incident never describe it the same way twice. A church. A

graveyard. A library. A crypt. A museum. Sometimes, she is at the top of the staircase. Other times, at the

bottom. And sometimes, at certain times of the day – maybe when she has classes of her own to attend – she

is not there. But there is always something there.

The faint footsteps of someone following close behind, almost near enough to touch. The brush of arms

against elbows, as though someone were walking up the stairs at the same time one was walking down. A

melancholy sigh, and the lonely smell of someone walking beside. The cool breath of a long exhale against the

back of exposed necks. And sometimes, late at night, it is the sharp scratch of a shoe against concrete, the

rustle of a dress, and finally, the weight of a cold hand on a shoulder.


Melonseed

Mae Mayo

In front of a mall fountain, I saw a woman with blonde hair tied back and her red dress fitting

Over the pregnancy blooming beneath

Her husband held his arm up like a gatepost, so she could twirl around under it

I had to squint just to look at them, through the sun glare and the curtain of fountain waves

They were the best of anything I’d ever seen

My older sister was twelve and still believed that swallowing a watermelon seed

Could cause the fruit to grow inside you, your stomach to swell with the sweetness of it

She would stick out a careful tongue, the black seed spat securely onto a napkin

She cried when she swallowed one accidentally, and when we told her the truth

We laughed

Today she sent a picture of her silhouette, her daughter burgeoning under her hands, which she

held framing the curve of the swell

I replied, look who swallowed a watermelon seed

I’ve seen a baby bite it’s mother’s cheek in the grocery line, and now I worry

If my niece were to bite my cheek, how cold and foreign, how lemon-sour would it taste

Would the squirm I feel for children, the melancholy gasp when they start crying in my arms, the

gene of maternity I’ve long imagined my brain to have skipped altogether

Would that make its way onto her budding tongue

I was 18 the day I was sitting by the mall fountain

A brand-new 18, and my summer birthday means that my vampiric arms are always winking

slightly at a tan when I greet each new age

I had no sleeves, only straps, and with my arms free, and the fountain water sprinkling my skin

I thought how natural it might feel to fill all this empty space with a baby

Moments later, the couple, the red dress, and the watermelon beneath, had all danced away


Nocturnes

Cu Fleshman

This is his scarred, bony fingers, dark like the color of oak bark

darting across a piano keyboard & frantically butchering the notes

at 4am, with the black valley of night yawning between our voices

Are you doing okay, man?

His hand slides down scales

Nah. Chopin can go fuck himself.

I want to reach out and grab his hand, calm the jerking muscles

But this is how he tucks his shoulders in like a fragile bird

& this is how I look away, as if he didn’t know what I meant


An Interview with E.J. Koh

by Misha Ponnuraju

Biography from thisisejkoh.com:

E.J. Koh is the author of A Lesser Love, winner of the Pleiades Press Editors Prize (Louisiana State University

Press, 2017). Her poems, translations, and stories have appeared in Boston Review, Columbia Review, Los

Angeles Review of Books, Southeast Review, World Literature Today, TriQuarterly, Seattle Review of

Books, The Margins,PEN America, La Petite Zine, The Anthology of Surveillance Poetics (Black Ocean Press,

2014) and elsewhere. Koh accepted fellowships and scholarships from The American Literary Translators

Association, The MacDowell Colony, Kundiman, Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, Vermont Studio

Center, and The Jack Straw Writers Program. She earned her MFA at Columbia University in New York for

Poetry and joint-degree in Literary Translation in Korean and Japanese. She is completing her PhD at the

University of Washington in Seattle for English Language and Literature. She has received a Pushcart

Prize, Nadya Aisenberg Grant, and Hannah J. Caldwell Award. She is the recipient of the 2017 ALTA Emerging

Translator Mentorship and is co-translating Yi Won’s books When They Ruled the Earth (1996) and The

Lightest Motorcycle in the World (2007). She has been featured in Poetry Society of America,Best of the

Net, Culture Trip’s 10 Americans Changing the Face of Poetry, The Seattle Channel, Brit + Co’s 16 Modern

Poets, and others.


What was your recent publication accomplishment? Where are you working or studying, currently?

My poetry collection A Lesser Love, winner of the Pleiades Editors Prize, was published by Louisiana State

University Press. I’m pursuing my PhD in English Language and Literature at the University of Washington.

My dissertation defines an untranslatable word for love: Jeong. Ongoing work includes a book of translated

poems by poet Yi Won and my memoir collection.

How long ago to did you graduate from UC Irvine? What did you study?

Eight years ago, in 2010, I graduated from UC Irvine. My first poetry class, I fell in love. Soon after, I

changed my major from Political Science to English and added the Emphasis in Poetry. Susan Davis, Greg

McClure, and Colette Atkinson ushered me forward with great care. They taught me how to care. It’s one

thing to be agreeable, correct, unhurtful, but it’s another thing to care.

What is the premise or focus of your book of poetry, if any? How long did it take to write that?

The book is in three sections: Heaven, War, and Love. Heaven is closest to home. These are poems of my

family before and during our separation (while my parents lived in South Korea). War traces history and the

events of the Korean War, the Jeju Island Massacre, and others—stories of my great-grandfathers and greatgrandmothers.

Love returns to contemplation. In Love, poems like “The Water,” “The Wind,” “The

Mountain” hold the themes before but lurch for new possibility.

Poems I wrote at UCI appear in Heaven. I can’t discard poems easily, not ones in which I’ve learned a

valuable lesson. I keep these poems and appreciate how I arrived at them. If that’s when the book began,

then it was nine years. I’m still learning, arriving at insight. That’s the thing—seeing how alive a poem is, and

how it grows and matures with me. Looking at them, I see the beginning.

What was the most difficult part of writing your book?

The difficult part was how difficult I believed it must be. There was no amount of suffering I would refuse,

thinking I was paying for it with labor, as others must have paid. Completing a book is no easy task, but I

would’ve told my younger self that there’s no reason to make it harder than it is. I wish I beat myself up

about it less, and let it go as easily as if it didn’t belong to me at all. I cannot hope to meet what I expect from

myself, but I can hope to share an intimate experience sincerely.

Was there anything particular from your undergraduate career that helped you as a writer? A class

you took, a habit you picked up, etc.?

Mentors are everything. For me, I did not speak English at home. Writing in English was writing in a

language not my own. I was a Korean American woman feeling as though I did not have a way to speak

about the things I must tell. Everything I said or did appeared to be mimicry. What is authentic about me at

all? Not my language, not my poetry—and yet these are the only tools I have. My writing professors pointed

me to myself. My mentors, real people, and their conversations, meetings, workshops showed me a way of

telling that was authentic to me. Oh, I learned to trust!

I recall sitting in Susan’s office. She would read my poem out loud. It sounded very different when she did.

To this day, I read my poems aloud. I speak entire sections, books. This cadence, rhythm, space, and

intonation is essential to me. I write my poems for the reader who speaks them.

Any advice for aspiring writers?

Advice can be tricky. I can’t say for others, but I can say what took me a long while to understand. At the

time, I thought I can go at it alone. This was my thing, you know. Being alone, I’m good at it. It’s what my

childhood was to me, an isolation. It’s what I was in my workshops. Looking back, it was never true.

Anything that came to me, came from the help of others. It came from the recommendation or foresight of a

mentor, a colleague. Polishing my manuscript was the effort of my friends and teachers. Do you understand?


Finding a community, finding editors, gathering friends, supporting other poets and writers—this is the way.

You are never truly alone.


New Forum Staff

Shantrell Lumpkin - Editor in Chief

Shantrell Lumpkin is a second year English major with a love of reading and writing fiction. She is a selfproclaimed

nerd, lover of all things with a great story. She believes in the power of words and the affect they

can have on people. To her, the written word is important and should be shared. Fun fact: she loves Beyoncé.

Seriously. It gets ridiculous sometimes.

Patricia Estrada - Media Director

Patricia Estrada is a passionate soul, especially when it comes to creative writing. She has written several

stories of lands far, far away. In reality, she is one year closer to obtaining her English degree. She’s excited to

graduate, yet is a bit skeptic about the life afterwards, but will be consoled by her constant marathons of The

Lord of the Rings or Star Wars franchises. Or probably has to bother her cats into cuddling with her. Either

way, she’s going to be okay.

Adam Timms - Financial Director

If anyone knows what Adam is up to, make sure to let him know. He’s constantly torn between about 19

things and striving to perfect them all while laughing at the ridiculousness of his situation. I’m serious when I

say that I talk him out of about four new projects every week. Current professional driver, editor, nursing

student, writer, and dungeon master... when not being distracted by everything else that’s going on.

Misha Ponnuraju - Social Media Coordinator

Misha is a third year English Major. She just finished studying abroad at the University of Edinburgh, where

she left her heart and hopes to return to someday. Now that she back at her beloved Irvine campus, you

might find her walking backwards on Ring Road as a Campus Representative, answering phones at

Admissions, or performing at Soulstice with the comedy group, Soulstice League. Small girl with big dreams.

Yanit Mehta - Design Coordinator

Yanit is an English and Film major whose doe-eyed innocence and resolve makes him believe that he can

make it in the brutal, grimy (yet somehow dazzling) world of Hollywood, while writing prose that will only be

appreciated in hoity-toity literary circles and well, the only reason he thinks any of this is plausible is because

of his brief encounters with hopelessly romantic artists on the cobblestoned streets of Europe. Other than

that he's a pretty humble chap. In fact, the only time you can visibly see his ego inflate is when he's facing a

plate of the spiciest food. Which is weirdly redundant because he owes his ability to handle capsaicin to his

100% Indian genetics; it's not really a skill he honed and perfected over the years after training at some secret

temple under an army of airbending monks but, more so just because his parents happened to mate in the

very land of spices. However, when he's not marveling over his devoured plate of spicy food you could spot

him on-campus clumsily throwing his arms in the air listening to contemporary jazz/funk or, if you're

unfortunate ranting about how Edgar Wright is a visionary director who needs to be making more money or

why Greta Gerwig is the modern day Joan Didion of movies and he’s persistent about it (yes, it’s

insufferable).

Melissa Salcedo- Associate Editor

Melissa Salcedo is currently a second year pursuing a major in English with an emphasis in creative writing.

When she isn’t doing schoolwork she could easily be found binging television shows on netflix or hulu, more

often than not british ones. She aspires to live a life full of both the aesthetic of going to metal concerts and

that of a Wes Anderson film. And as with many another writer she warns to any person borrowing her

computer “ignore my search history, I promise I’m a writer not a serial killer.”


Analisa Gomez – Associate Editor

I used to be Snow White but I drifted. – Mae West

Jack of all trades, master of none, though oftentimes better than master of one. A former biology major with

a wandering mind that spent one too many sleepless nights with a pen in her hand, scrutinizing blank paper

and curious enough to stop and wonder at the daunting expanse daring her to form the endless

possibilities. Now a third-year transfer, if you told her back in high school that she would be an English

major working on novels, dabbling in archery and woodworking, and collecting pennies she would laugh

because then as now science is her interest (and pennies?). But the lost child Woolf spoke of has wandered in

her house and, for lack of a typewriter, lined paper is her preferred medium for that bleeding Hemingway

described. Now that she found her way to UCI with pen in hand for “taking notes” in class and a notebook

for reminders of whether a paper or a concert is coming up this weekend so she can work them around an

all-consuming obsession with words.

Camila Dadabhoy - Associate Editor, New Forum

Camila is a third year English major and Literary Journalism minor, 21 year-old ambitious world traveler,

netflix and movie enthusiast, passionate reader, jokester, and lover of all things cheese. She is a staff writer for

the Features section of the New University Newspaper, blog writer for the Spoon University website, former

published editor of the GenderSmash Magazine at Cypress Community College, and a Journalist in the

making currently attending UCI. She spends most of her time working as a Legal Service Director at Dignity

Memorial, discovering the best food and dessert spots all over OC, watching sports, and traveling with her

friends and family. You can find her in sunny Southern California, where she resides in her native hometown

of Cypress. If you’re ever trying to reach her, she’s probably making detailed, adventurous plans for her

friends to reluctantly follow, pulling all nighters due to her inability to focus on work when there is potential

for fun, and always dreaming big.

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