Mundelein High School - Voices Magazine - 2020

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Voices 2019-2020
Voices Editing Staff
Maximus Castillon
Ellie Rebellon
Abagail Coulter
Allison Kavanaugh
Ava McQuain
Phoebe Winters
Tegan Morrissey
Yianna Schneckloth
Gianna Horcher
Ryan Wilson
Bri Sierzega
Sponsor
Laura Garcia

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Table of Contents
Forging My Own Path Carter McHugh 4
The Universe Said to a Man Gareth Fullin 5
DACA Dianey Vilches 6
Heirloom Ashley Carrier 8
Babysitting in Mundelein Damia Ali 15
The Singing Butler Giselle Yanez 17
A Sense of Love Miriam Mitry 18
This is a photograph of me… Charley Tovar 19
Destruction, Creation Robyn Jamison 20
The Voice of the Sea is… Charley Tovar 21
You hurt me Brenda Lagunes 21
The Contributions of Teresa Burk Teresa Burk 22
Memory Postcard Amy Tellez 23
Out of the Dark Denise Gomez 26
Before My History Ends Maximus Castillon 27
Hour of Gold Brandom Ibarra 28
Raised by Two Older Brothers Lauren Geary 29
Guess What Monique Dirzo 31
Morning Beach Megan Van Engelehoven 34
Where I’m From Poem Ryan McElligott 35
Ignored Blessings Bryan Horvat 36
The Pain You Cause Dylan Pettinato 37
Final Goodbye Amanda Langford 38
Harry Potter and Me Paige Steiner 40
Hello, Goodbye Thomas Tyler 41
Mindful Garden Daniela Stepaniouk 42
Missed Connections Alonso Hurtado 43
Black and White Anastasiia Yehorova 44
“This Is A Photograph of Me” Colin Nacion 45
Breaking Barriers Jacky Morales 46
Grandma’s House Ryan Lange 47
Losing a Friend Charley Tovar 48

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Forging My Own Path
Carter McHugh
Let them be as machines, their blades forged by another being.
They do not live, nor die, for they go through the same process every day.
They never change their lives, for they feel they cannot, and fail to find another meaning.
But I shall be a man, who makes my own path, and I shall not slay.
Let them be machines, lacking purpose and repeating the same activities every day.
Thinking that if they do what they are told things will change.
Things will never change if you do not try to change what is marked as “The right way”
Living in a world of swords with no meaning, being the only man attempting to forge my
own path. For I shall forge my own sword.
In a world of infinite swords, cogs in the sky, turning ever so slowly, the murky lights and
fading sunlight, illuminating this dark reality, the gentle breeze they believe is life, but is
really false hope.
Let them be machines, forced to repeat the same activities every day of their lives.
For it is what they believe is right, they believe is their purpose.
But I shall be a man in this world of swords.
For I shall forge my own sword, made of my will and my body.
I will control who I become.
I will not be a machine.
I will not be a cog in another pointless creation.
I will be a man, who forges his own path.

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The Universe Said to a Man
Gareth Fullin
You tell me you exist, but you have
Shown no proof of the fact.
As I see, you exist just as much as a
Drop of water in the ocean.
One of many, many as one.
Humanity.
You are the ripple you make.
Make a wave.
Change people.
Turn your water into
A tumultuous sea, then
Look unto me and say you exist.
An existence that brings no change
Is no existence, but merely a presence.
Just as a man looks to the sea,
Expecting to bring forth a change in the tides,
The wind, the air;
You cannot look absently into the eye of life
And expect great change.
You are a machine that creates change.
I am simply here for supervision.
Create change amongst yourselves.
And when your sea calms
When the waves you created start to ebb,
Take a rest and admire how far your current
Has brought you,
And cherish the change you’ve created.

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DACA
Dianey Vilches
18 of May, 2019 12:00pm -2:00pm
My brother sat in the black, blocky chair in a large room waiting for his name to be called.
Over his shoulder, he sees our wide smiles and the flowers and the tears of pride bottled up
ready to burst like water from the cracks in Hoover Dam.
The coliseum is bursting at the seams with more than eight-hundred people;
the salty perspiration building up in their hairlines, ready to run.
But no one seemed bothered.
2003...
“Please rise.”
He takes a stand and begins to feel his arm hairs rise, trying to reach for the stars.
He takes the time to remember what led to this very moment.
Remembering our grandmother’s words: ‘Nunca te des por vencido mijo.’
Remembering the way his lifestyle changed from one year to the next.
Remembering he’s a DREAMER.
18 of May, 2019 2:30pm
The memories are a spinning Ferris wheel, re-playing so fast yet so vividly.
“Luis Marin Frasco…” the coliseum is filled with so much positivity,
I can feel so much festivity.
His walk towards the stage was not at all timidly.
I remembered everything he had given me:
hope, support, belief and taken away my negativity.
Why had he gone through everything?
To open up our eyes. We can set our minds to anything.
2:40pm
He held his triumph in both his hands.
I wanted to shout nothing but you deserve it.
Looking straight ahead he saw us, again.

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My mothers’ tears running down her face.
This one’s for you.
It all led to this moment; all his hard work paid off.
Walking on that very stage, in that green robe, in that state.
He lived his dream.
What he held in his hands wasn’t just a paper that stated his major;
it was his stress, his tears, his late-night studies, his long hour shifts.
It was his past, his present, and his future life.
What value does receiving a degree really have?
Living your best life, but suffering from a lack of fun.
Being diligent and getting everything done.
His life is anything but dull.
His conscience is his gold medal.
Walking down the stage without any weight on his shoulders,
just the ropes of his gown.
Receiving his Business Management bachelor's degree
is only the first step on the ladder.
Devotion And Constant Assiduousness...
“Please rise.”
My walk has only just been set, and my path has only expanded.
The value of a degree goes deeper than just a paper,
it’s the brush on my canvas, and my dedication.
Devoted All Compelling Ambition to my schooling.
I’ve been working for this moment and I’ve finally succeeded.
This one is for my family, I thank them every day.
Even when I’d work for hours, it always would outstay.
Yet my parents always found a way.
He’s striving to reach the bell on top of his ladder.

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Heirloom
Ashley Carrier
August Lasair stared at his new home and sighed. It was an ice cream parlor
crafted by his ancestor, George Lasair in 1920. The once clean stone exterior was now
worn with age, and patches of moss peaked from cracks where the cement was worn
down.
“Here,” his mother spoke. She stood in front of the doors, her usual stone cold
glare set on her face. August stepped towards the doors, and his mother handed him
neatly folded clothes with a white diner hat sitting on top. He took them reluctantly.
“Don’t embarrass the family name.” And with that, she was gone.
August looked back towards the parlor noticing the rundown sign reading ‘Lava
Cone est. 1920’ just outside the door on the right. The middle of the sign was lighter
than the rest due to passersby hitting it to watch it swing. He walked to the front doors,
unlocked them, and stepped inside. Circular metal tables were placed along the wall to
the left with metal stools surrounding them that had worn black leather cushion. In the
back left corner, there was a long booth that looked the same as the other tables and
stools. The leather cushions were clearly aged and had a few holes from where kids
enjoyed sticking the nub ends of their spoons in. The walls were a bright blue color to
make the parlor pop and add a playful vibe. To the right, there was a large counter
stretching from the back wall to a few feet away from the front of the store; the counter
had 6 stools on it. In the space between the counter and front door were more chairs
and stools. Behind the counter against the right wall were all of the ice cream flavors,
toppings, cones, and cups. 25 flavors of ice cream sat in large, circular tins that were
constantly kept frozen. Little tubs filled with warm water and ice cream scoopers hung
off the edge in front of each section. Behind the ice cream bar against the wall above
the toppings was a shelf with sugar cones, cake cones, and waffle cones in neat stacks.
Anther shelf holding waffle bowls, glass bowls, and glass sundae cups was next to it.
Under the two shelves were the toppings; clear tubs of rainbow sprinkles, chocolate
chips, candied cherries, and banana slices were placed neatly next to each other with
chalk labels on the front. Each container had its own scooper. Next to the containers
were three pumps with their appropriate chalk labels: Caramel, chocolate, and
strawberry syrups.
August dropped his belongings on the floor next to the door, and opened the
two large windows next to the front doors to get rid of the musty scent. He ran his left
index finger over one of the tables closest to him and grimaced.
“Disgusting,” he muttered. He walked back behind the corner through the back
door. To his left was a staircase leading to the basement, and to his right was another

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staircase leading upstairs to his new bedroom. A mop, broom, and dustbin were hung
on the wall between the two staircases. As he mentally prepared himself for the hard
work ahead, he grabbed his bag and got himself situated in his room.
[] [] []
It took him almost the entire day to clean the parlor to his liking including the
bedroom and bathroom, but he didn’t mind. If he was going to live there for the rest of
his life, he wanted it to be how he wanted.
Tomorrow morning, he would replace the melted ice cream with the freshly made
ones in the basement’s freezers. Then, he would begin to make the fresh cones and
bowls. But that was tomorrow; he still had lots to do during the night.
When the sun finally set and August hung the mop back up on the hanger, he
threw on a light zip up hoodie, locked the doors, and made his way over to his friend’s
house. The garage door was open, so he made his way inside like he always did and
went straight to the basement after saying hi to his friend’s mother.
“Yo, where’ve you been?” his friend, Eric, asked. August plopped down on the
armchair next to the couch in front of Eric’s TV. While some people’s basements have a
nice living room and maybe a bar or game area, Eric’s basement was his room. It was
filled with band posters with a TV, couch, and an armchair in the living area across from
his bed. On the other side of the couch opposite of the armchair was a large guitar hero
drum set and two guitars. Behind the living space was a real drum set and two electric
guitars. One of the guitars was August’s which he had to keep it in Eric’s basement for
fear of his mother seeing it. She wasn’t too fond of the idea of her son being in a metal
band, so when Eric bought his first and only electric guitar, he immediately hid it in Eric’s
house and visited every night when his mother was sewing in her room or fast asleep at
8:00pm. Now with the parlor being in his hands, he would have to leave later. The parlor
always had a reputation of opening exactly at 12:00pm and closing at 9:30pm.
“Sorry. It was my first day at the parlor,” August apologized, getting up off the
armchair and grabbing his guitar. He plugged it into the amp, and began to strum the
instrument lightly. “I had to clean up the place because it looked disgusting. My mom
didn’t even bother cleaning the apron before handing it down to me.”
“Apron?” Eric questioned, puzzled. “Can’t you just buy a new one if it’s so dirty?”
“It’s some stupid family heirloom. I have to wear it or my mom’ll throw a fit.”
Eric let out a small snort, and sat behind the drum set. He twirled the drum sticks
between his fingers.
After a few minutes, Eric broke the silence. “So it’s finally yours, huh? That’s kinda
bogus that your dad just threw that big of a responsibility at you.”

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August continued to tune his guitar and responded, “It would’ve been Nick’s, but
as you know, he passed away.” Silence.
“I’m sorry, man I didn’t mea-” Eric began but was cut off.
“It’s all good.”
[] [] []
August ended up leaving Eric’s house around 1am which was not ideal at all, but
frankly, he didn’t care. He took his merry time strolling along the concrete path closest
to the flaming hill enjoying the light warmth radiating from the forever burning flames.
Because the parlor opened at 12pm, August was in no rush to get home and sleep.
Besides, he always considered himself a night owl. Once home, August went straight to
the basement and began to gather ingredients for the cones. Before his father died, he
taught August everything he needed to know about the business. While it wasn’t the
most exciting thing for a 14 year old to learn, August still soaked up each little piece of
information like a sponge.
Birds chirped their morning songs, and the sun poked its head over the horizon,
but August was still focused on rolling out dough and shaping it into cones. His hands
and clothes were filled with flour, but despite being a clean freak, the flour never
agitated him. He was supposed to wear the family heirloom-the Lava Cone apron-every
time he worked in the parlor. Every generation before him wore the same apron no
matter the occasion. Whenever they were in the shop, the apron was on. August hated
the dirty white sheet, so he left it on its hook in his room.
While some ice cream shops prefer to make their cones using machines and
molds, the Lasair family always made their cones and ice cream by hand. It was the
cause of their great fame in Ashsea Port. Shaping cones and waffle bowls by hand was
by far more tedious than a machine, but the past generations (nor August) never
seemed to mind the long hours and cramped hands in the end. No matter the hard
work, the outcome was always satisfactory. Though August made it clear to family and
friends that he absolutely hated inheriting the parlor, he found pleasure creating the 25
flavors of ice cream, two types of cones and bowls. But of course he would never admit
it to anyone. Or himself, really.
August closed the lid of the oven, but kept it off when he was finished placing the
last of the trays onto the shelves. Once he finished that, he immediately made his way
upstairs and took a shower. The sun was even higher by the time he plopped onto his
bed. He closed his eyes for a moment and before he knew it, a hard knock interrupted
his brief slumber. Groaning, he rolled out of bed.

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“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes and stumbling down
the narrow stairs. The banging pursued and stopped once he unlocked and opened the
parlor’s door.
“What are you doing?! The shop was supposed to be open an hour ago!” his
mother yelled. “Look at your clothes! You’re still in your pajamas! And you’re not even
wearing the apron! You know that apron has been in the family since this shop started.
It was made by hand by your ancestor using red spider silk. Do you know how expensive
spider silk is?!” August flinched and pushed his black hair to the side.
“Sorry, I-” he started.
“Sorry does not cut it, August. You are already tainting the family name,” she
sneered, turning around. “And you haven’t even started yet.”
[] [] []
And that’s how it went with his mother. She never praised, only criticized. August
was used to it by now, so it never really bothered him, but the excessive yelling was a
different story. He flipped the parlor’s sign outside from closed to open, and made his
way back inside. He turned the oven on, and set the timer for 22 minutes. Then, he
opened the window to the right of the door, and went to open the second, but it was
already open.
“What?...” he breathed, scrunching his eyebrows. Puzzled, he looked towards the
rusting lock in the center of the window. The lock was broken and there were two
indents on either side of it as if someone wedged something under the window and
forced it open. “What would they steal? I have no… no…” August’s eyes widened. He ran
upstairs to his bedroom as fast as his legs could carry him. And there, sitting on the
hook next to the dresser, was nothing.
August’s stomach dropped. Someone had broken into his parlor just to steal an
apron with expensive thread. He shuffled through his dresser seeing if he accidentally
misplaced it. However, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he never
took the apron off the hook in the first place. As an act of rebellion against his mother,
he made the executive decision to leave it on the hook and catch dust, so there was no
way it could be anywhere else but on the hook.
Beep, beep! Beep, beep! The oven’s timer sounded from the main floor. August
groaned and trotted down the stairs. He grabbed the thick towel hanging over the
oven’s handle and used it to take the three sheets of cones out. He turned the oven off
and placed the trays next to each other on the open counter next to it.
“I’m going to be killed,” he sighed. While most people would look for their apron
after closing, August knew better. He knew at some point his mother would walk past
the shop to make sure there was no dilly-dallying, and if she saw him working without

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his apron, he was in for a treat. The best thing to do would be to close shop early and
go looking for the apron. Either way, his mother would be angry, but if she ever found
out that the apron was stolen, that would be the end. August locked the front doors to
the shop, and began his journey of looking for the lost family heirloom.
People walking out of The Miller Motel across the street were giving him odd
looks. For it was a nice sunny day out, yet here he was wearing all black looking like a
deer caught in headlights. He continued to walk down the street towards the flaming
hill. He took the familiar left turn towards his best friend’s house his calves screaming for
him to slow his walking, but he persisted. Loud talking and laughs were heard from
inside the Red Iron Tavern, and August looked through the windows as he passed
wishing he were in there laughing with those people.
Eric’s garage wasn’t open as usual throwing August off. He knocked on the front
door only to be greeted by Eric’s mother.
“August, what are you doing here?” she questioned. “Shouldn’t you be working
the parlor?”
“Is Eric here?” he asked, ignoring her questions.
“Yeah he should be in his room. Is everything ok-” August blew past her and
made his way towards the basement. He flung the door open and ran down the stairs
almost tripping over the last few steps.
“Ericit’sgone,” he rushed out, out of breath. Startled, Eric spun around in his desk
chair, kicking a robe under the desk.
“What’s gone? Why are you here? Isn’t your mom gonna kill you for not
working?” August put a hand on his chest and recollected himself.
“The apron. It’s gone,” he breathed. Eric stared at him for a moment.
“What do you mean?” He looked uncomfortable.
“I went to bed at, like, 2:30 and woke up by my mom banging on the door
because I slept in until 1. When I went to open up the shop, a window was open and
looked as if it was busted open, so then I checked upstairs to see if they stole anything,
and the apron wasn’t on its hook,” he explained quickly. He stayed standing in his spot
afraid if he sat down, he would shake uncontrollably from nerves. “Dude I’m so dead.”
Eric stood up pushing the chair and robe into the desk. He leaned on the edge
and crossed his arms. “Maybe you took it off the hook without realizing and misplaced it
this morning, and you were probably just too tired to remember.”
August loosened his muscles. “You’re oddly… calm.” He squinted his eyes slightly.
“What?” Eric uncrossed his arms.
“You’re calm. You usually always freak out with me.”
“Are you accusing me of stealing it?” August stared at Eric then let out a sharp
breath. He rubbed his eyes exhaustedly.

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“I don’t know anymore. I’m sorry, I just… I really don’t know what to do. You’re
the only person who knows about it, so I panicked.”
“It’s okay.” August kept his eyes glued to the floor. He was embarrassed that he
would even think Eric would steal something so important to his family. He scratched
the back of his neck and turned around.
“I’m sorry. I’ll just go,” he apologized, putting his hands into his pockets. He
began to make his way back upstairs. It was probably getting close to 4pm and he knew
his mother would come strolling past the shop anytime soon to check his progress. He
stepped on the first stair but stopped, noticing something out of the ordinary; a white
string hanging down from under the top of the second step. Thinking nothing of it,
August pulled on the string expecting it to budge. Instead, more fabric came out from
under the stair. He looked around the corner of the stairs, and saw Eric back on his
computer searching something. Focusing back on the stair, he grabbed the edge and
lightly pulled up. The top of the stair came loose with a small pop sound.
“It was you,” he gasped quietly.
“Hm?” August pulled the apron out from in the stair. He stepped back and looked
at Eric betrayal written all over his face.
“You took my family’s heirloom. Why would you do that?” The tension in the
room tightened to the point where it could be cut with a knife. August wanted to move,
but he couldn’t bring himself to. “You know my mom would tear me apart if she ever
found out that I lost one of the only things that’s been with my family for so long,” he
stressed.
“Do you hear yourself right now?” Eric laughed. “You used to never care what
your mother thought about anything. She constantly told you off for losing stuff, yet
you couldn’t care less. Now look at you; you just started working at the parlor and
you’re already changing. You say you don’t care, but here you are as frantic as can be
trying to find some family heirloom that you said you didn’t care about just yesterday.”
August stood still, his brain whirling.
Did he… actually care? No. He couldn’t. He never did. The family business was a
joke and he never wanted to be part of it. But spending a whole day cleaning… no. It
was just because he hates uncleanliness. And baking cones yesterday was just so people
wouldn’t get sick.
“I-I don’t care,” he replied unsure. Eric stared at him, a bored look on his face. “Or
maybe I do. I don’t know.” Maybe he did always care about the parlor, and he just never
let himself accept the fact because he was too busy doing the opposite of what his
mother wanted him to do.
“I was sick and tired of your constant complaining about the parlor, so I thought I
would do something about it.”

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August could only stare in response to his friend’s confession. Perhaps he really
did like that place even if he thought otherwise. Sure, it was a pain to wake up early and
open when he wanted nothing other than to sleep, but it gave him routine. August let
out a long sigh.
“Thanks, I guess.” The boy gazed down at his feet for a fleeting moment of
thought. He heard Eric shift across from him to move closer, and he suddenly felt his
friend’s hand on his shoulder.
“Go home and relax after all I put you through, yeah?” Eric’s tone was teasing as
he nudged August towards the front door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
[] [] []
August walked home, the apron dangling by his side. He moved to pull his keys
out, but froze midway seeing his mother’s angry eyes as she waited for him. Her arms
were crossed matching the fire in her gaze.
August swallowed. “Here we go.”

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Babysitting in Mundelein
Damia Ali
Picture a neat freak’s worst nightmare, and I don't mean a place with no cleaning
supplies. Instead there are snotty nose kids, booger-infested toys scattered about along
with dinosaur fruit snacks embedded in the carpet. It’s safe to declare that babysitting is
a war zone: with dodgeballs being launched in every direction, Lego pieces on the floor
ready to amputate your foot the moment you step on them, puzzle pieces dispersed all
throughout the house without a trace of their battle buddy, and worst of all, beheaded
stuffed animals and Barbie dolls lying around lifeless.
Rule number one after entering the battlefield, never ever disclose classified information
to the enemy (also known as the kids you're attending to for that night) because if the
war wasn't hectic before, just wait for the quivering lips and tears you'll receive after
stopping Cassie from throwing an explosive with a simple, “No, Cassie, we aren't
chucking dodgeballs at your brother’s head.” When the tears start to roll and the
quivering lips starts to poke out, there's no going back, you are now the enemy and the
mission to regain that 7-year old’s approval is now harder than ever.
Every room in the house has been transformed into a playroom with vibrant crayola
markings on the wall, carpet stained with slime, and toys strewn about. Take your shoes
off and walk into any room and you risk stubbing your toe on a building block.
Removing your shoes is almost as hazardous as Firewalking. And this is unfortunate
because any injuries that occur while babysitting at your pastor’s house doesn't count
for workers compensation. The dos and don'ts are listed in a single text message
admonishing me on how to keep their kids alive, but there's always some vital
instruction left out-- 9 times out of 10, you'll hear, “can we have icecream for dinner??
My mum lets us eat icecream for dinner all the time.” You learn to respond with a gentle
smile rather than rolling your eyes at their impulsive lies.
The idea of getting the kids to bed early so you can finally sit down and relax
summarizes the whole situation: it never happens, because there is no putting the kids
to bed early. Kids somehow always find ways to prolong any task-- brushing their teeth,
walking up the stairs, and if I told them to clean up their extensive mess, the sun might
rise before they even begin to pick up their toys, which leads me to rule number two:
after entering the battlefield, hold your pee until your bladder feels like it's going to
rupture. Because agreeing to patrol the enemy is what you do to take one for the team;
relieving your bladder in the Latrine is what you do for yourself. And I'm not quite sure

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 16
what lies their parents feed you before they left about how sweet and responsive their
little angels are, but take it from me, the only way to survive a night with the foes is to
plan strategically and hold on to the white flag for as long as possible. When you feel
like you can't take anymore, mentally and physically, the Latrine is your escape-- as if
the only time babysitters get to sit down and unwind is when we’re taking a leak. While
on your much awaited ‘break’, I advise against getting too comfortable on the toilet,
your legs will fall asleep faster than the kids and your ability to dismantle the booby
traps they started making the moment they realized you were in the bathroom will be
impaired.

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The Singing Butler
Giselle Yanez
They held their bodies together
Him tightly grabbing her bare tight, smooth back
She leaned into him
Slowly dancing
As the wind blew past them
The floor shone as it just had rained
The butler singing with his melodic voice
The umbrellas froliced out of their hands
Trying to resist them from being swept away
The romance between them made everything seem meaningless
It was all confusing, yet it made sense
It was just them two
Their bodies swaying through the breeze
Dancing made them a whole
Before they were 2, now they are one.

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A Sense of Love
Miriam Mitry
I felt content. It was a cold winter day and I was walking home from my friend’s
house. I could see my breath in the air but my cozy, wool jacket was keeping me warm. I
could hear the crunching of the snow under my feet and I could see the long trail of
footprints I was leaving behind me. It was so peaceful and quiet. I had nothing to worry
about in that very moment. Perfect moments like those only last a few minutes, and this
one was no exception. My phone wouldn’t. stop. buzzing. I rolled my eyes and gave into
the temptation. Checking my notifications, I couldn’t believe what I was reading.
Another church shooting in Egypt. This time, some of my relatives were on the list of
people that were killed. I was right in front of my house, but I couldn’t walk in. I couldn’t.
I wanted to freeze outside and be trapped in my own little ice cube forever. The shock
and sadness I felt quickly turned into rage. Who do these terrorists think they are? All
the good in the world is gone. Why would anyone in their right minds murder people
just because they don’t agree with their beliefs?
I furiously opened the door and stomped into my house. The first thing my eyes
met was my 7 year old sister. Her eyes were puffy and her lip was quivering. She knew.
The sadness her eyes held, my realization that she was robbed of her innocence in that
very moment, I wouldn’t forget it. Neither of us spoke or moved. We stood there like
statues just staring at each other. After what felt like ages, she broke the silence by
asking me why I was angry. Wasn’t that obvious? I blinked a few times and explained to
my seven year old sister why someone killing my relatives and my people for no good
reason made me angry. She just smiled. Why is she smiling at a time like this? I stood
there waiting for her to say something. After a few seconds, I heard her tiny, soft voice
say,“Maybe if you love them, they’ll learn to love you back.” What? It took me a while to
comprehend what she just said. Oh. I smiled.
She was right. My seven year old sister reminded me of what I believed in. She reminded
me of one of my favorite verses in the Bible, “If a man says he loves God, but hates his
brother, he is a liar” (1 John 4:20). This has been something I’ve held onto since that day.
Three more bombings have happened since then and I’ve never once had a heart full of
anger. Now, I just feel bad for the persecutors and I pray for them. “Forgive them, for
they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). All because of an innocent, loving, seven year
old girl. I grabbed her hand and decided to go on a walk with her. Our feet fell on the
freshly fallen snow, past the footprint trail I had left earlier, and I felt content.

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This is a photograph of me…
Charley Tovar
It was taken 7 days ago…
To the naked eye the photo is bursting with joy. Laughter. Happiness.
To someone else it is nothing but a memory. A frozen second out of hours of
uncomfort.
Streaks of white shoot across the picture.
From the sun dipping just below a building.
Frozen figures of ranging colors and heights and shapes
Standing on rows of silver
The green grass with carefully measured lines of white and yellow.
The endless blue sky stretching for miles
Populated with puffy clouds. Floating so calmly.
It’s a great day.
On the bottom left there is a boy.
You can’t see it, but his expression is filled with sorrow.
You can’t hear it, but his heart is beating pounding with anxiety.
You can’t feel it, but his presence brings nothing to anyone.
He is alone in the frozen frame.

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Destruction, Creation
Robyn Jamison
If only we could see the lies we’re fed,
There would be no righteous declaration;
Instead of brave protectors of our nation,
We’d realize all they bring is more bloodshed.
Look closer at our country’s situation:
The black and brown unjustly murdered dead.
Why don’t you see that we have been misled?
Each day we grow closer to confrontation.
These crimes will not be pardoned any longer,
Open your eyes, don’t accept exploitation,
Though we are weak, together we are stronger.
It’s time, we must destroy this aberration;
Tear down the flag, its stars, blue white and red.
The real threat.

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The Voice of the Sea is…
Charley Tovar
The voice of the Sea is destructive
Raging with monstrous waves
Bursting with blinding lights
Consuming the lost souls who find themselves within its grasp
The Voice of the Sea is piercing
Screams echo throughout its corrupted body stretching on for years
It’s touch, cold and vile, wicked and evil
The Sea shows no mercy to its victims
You hurt me
Brenda Lagunes
That doesn't stop you right?
Not the times you held me tight
In the long, shimmering nights
The luminous stars and you...
Two beautiful sights
But that doesn't stop you right?
Not even the times you would look at me in the eyes
And tell me “you're too pretty to be sold lies”
You hurt me
You destroyed me
I am no longer me love
But nothing ever stops you….right?

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The Contributions of Teresa Burk
Teresa Burk
I’m from singing prayers
Even though I’ve never touched a Bible
From dying of no air conditioning and electricity
But loving every moment
Crying at the last dance
Not wanting to leave
But missing my family
Wanting to talk to friends and see what’s going on in the outer world
From being isolated in a clearing in the forest
From the camp that showed me compassion and love
I’m from large families
From wondering if these people are your cousins or the neighbors that came over
From family drama spilling sessions
To being left with none to trust so you aren’t the next family “scandal”
From family parties that are hours long but feel like seconds
Sitting in the basement with your favorite cousin reconnecting
I’m from small towns that aren't even close to a map
From everyone knowing everyone and everyone's business
Drama and gossip spreading like wildfire
From growing up enemies then becoming best friends
I’m from having the same friends and growing with one another
I’m from sports roughing me up on the edges
From being yelled at “You look like an energy bolt rounding those bases”
From coaches treating me like family
But only with giving me tough love since they want the best for me
I’m from broken friendships
Holding onto friends that I should have never made
I’m from fake friends, giving my love, with cruel words in return
From the therapy sessions to try to mend what can’t be fixed
From being torn to keep fighting for them
Or letting the good times rest in my memories

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Memory Postcard
Amy Tellez
Outside of my house, we have a bench that swings. It’s pretty old now. If you
swing too high you could fall off. Before I met Fynn, the only thing that passed through
my mind when I saw the rusted swing was, “I hope my dad takes it down soon. It’s a
hazard.” Apparently, I was very concerned about safety before I met Fynn. Before I fully
emerge into the story about how a broken down, rusty swing became the most
precious, important thing in my life, let me introduce you to Fynn Bailey Mark. I met him
4 years ago at Disneyland. Oddly enough we started talking because we were both left
to wait while our families went on rides. We initially bonded over the fact that roller
coasters are awful. We were both 100% sure that they were made by a physco. We
clicked instantly and we were both a little sad that our family came off the death
machine because then we needed to say bye to each other. As I walked off, Fynn came
up behind me and asked for my Snapchat. I looked over at my mom to make sure it was
okay, she nodded and I happily gave it to him. He became my best friend. It was
another one of those things that was like, “You’re socially awkward? Bro, same!” If I’m
being honest, I’ve never felt like a better match with someone. He was the best person.
We never argued. (If we did it was over what band was better or which celebrity is better
looking. Typical for teens) Skipping forward 2 years to 2016, Fynn came from Florida to
Chicago to surprise me for my birthday. Of course, I was beyond happy. He was the only
person missing from the fantasy of a birthday party that I was conjuring in my head. I
ended up not having a birthday party that year but Fynn still stayed and we just enjoyed
the time that we had together. We went to the different parks and played board games
there, and visited The Bean. We hit every huge spot in Chicago, as well as some of my
personal favorite places in Chicago.
The day before he was supposed to fly back, we sat on the broken down, rusty
swing. Fynn sat first, I remember hearing the swing squeak and Fynn saying, “Is this
safe?” In a joking manner. His face always lit up whenever he laughed or smiled.
Something I’ll never be able to unsee. I sat next to him and we talked, the same way we
always did. (Some offensive jokes, jokes about ourselves, memes, and everything inbetween)
It was complete bliss in that moment. The nice orange sky above us making
the scene seem like we were in a movie. It was the last time Fynn was able to come to
Chicago. We were planning on him coming a year later but one day I noticed Fynn
hadn’t called me all day. Which was unusual. He always called me around 6 or 7. I went
to bed that night full of questions. Was he okay? Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. No, he
always calls me, no matter the mood. The next morning around 8, I received a call
coming from Fynn’s phone. I was at school at that time but I asked to go to the

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 24
bathroom to take the call. As soon as I left the classroom, I immediately picked up and
said “Are you okay.” I heard a heavy breath before I heard a very shallow and raspy
voice. “It’s Venny.” (Fynn’s mother, Vanessa but she insisted on me calling her Venny) I
couldn’t help but think the worst once I heard her voice. She managed to get out these
words, “He’s not okay.” My heart sank. I became isolated in that moment. Everything
around me was turning into blackness. I can’t remember exactly what I said after that.
My brain tried to keep as much of that conversation deep down. After we ended the call
I remember feeling my arm drop like it was dead. I stayed completely still and I sunk to
the floor. I felt the tears drop down to my thighs. I felt completely broken. It’s like grief
was the rock by the ocean shore and I was the wave, continually being pounded into it.
I had stayed in the bathroom for what felt like hours. Eventually, I came back and
I sat down, emotionless. Everyone constantly asking me if I was okay. Same answer, “I’m
fine.” Each “I’m fine” felt like knives in the throat. The school day ended and I crashed
my lifeless body on my bed. Finally letting out the tears that had ached to come out. I
had never felt more hopeless in my life.
January came around and I decided that Fynn wouldn’t want this. He would want
me to still be fighting everyday. Fighting for myself. For him. I was done feeling sorry for
myself. I was done blaming myself. I knew better. Fynn had taught me better. I dusted
off my very old, broken converse and faced the thing that had scared me for 3 months.
Before, I couldn’t bring myself to even go in that area. Afraid of the awful, heart-aching,
memory it brought me. But, I knew if I was trying to feel better. If I was truly trying to fix
myself I needed to face the thing that had terrified me.
The broken-down, rusty swing.
I remember giving myself a huge pep-talk before I left the house to go sit on the
bench. The thing I won’t ever be able to forget is that when I left the house, I felt like
Fynn was right next me. It felt like he was right there holding my hand and telling me,
“Took you long enough” in the usual, sarcastic tone he always gave me when I tried to
face my fears.
The wind was bitterly sweet. I remember hearing leaves crunch from beneath me
every single step I took. I looked long and hard at the bench in front of me. I felt my
tears begin to build but I knew I had my comfort, Fynn. “He’s here.” I remember telling
myself. I eventually got to the bench. I felt the rusted metal and every bump there was.
Remembering the conversation we had on that bench. Remembering seeing Fynn’s very
faint dimple appear on his cheek whenever he smiled huge. I sat down. The tears
couldn’t be held back anymore. It was the closest thing I had to him now. I completely
broke down at that moment. All the fake smiles, the fake “I’m fine” from school all came
down in a crash. I think I cried for 4 hours. I don’t exactly remember. My siblings came
home and tried to comfort me but they noticed I wasn’t getting up anytime soon, they
soon left me there to cry and be wallowed in every emotion I had.

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 25
Something I learned and realized in that moment is that everyone has a breaking
point. Whether it’s a triggering word or a specific item that just causes people to finally
break. And mine was right there. On this broken-down, rusty bench. This is what broke
me, finally.
I got up and my legs felt weaker than ever. I stumbled inside my house and
wiped my eyes. My family was all eating dinner and I simply grabbed a plate and ate my
food. Some people’s appetite would be completely gone but mine always grows bigger
whenever I feel awful. They didn’t ask me anything. They let me eat in silence.
That night, I fell asleep fairly early. I was exhausted. I had rarely gotten any sleep.
People from school even noticed the bags under my eyes and asked me how much
sleep I had gotten the previous night. The answer was always the same, “I fell asleep at
10.” Of course, they knew it was a lie but I think they could tell I wasn’t up for talking
about anything. I was always tired. Emotionally and physically. I woke up and my eyes
were heavy. I slowly got up and went to the mirror to check my eyes. They always get
puffy when I cry and especially, if I cry myself to sleep. It was a Sunday morning and
usually my mom would wake me up so that we could go to church, but today she didn’t.
Guessing she just knew I needed to rest. I moped around all around my house. I sighed
as I saw the bench outside my window. I had decided that once my family comes back,
I’m going to be happy. I’m going to joke around with them again. I’m going to be okay.
And that’s exactly what I did.
Often a little while longer, I started to finally be okay talking about Fynn. I started
to finally tell more people about him and what he meant to me. I became okay with
everything. I wasn’t gonna hide it anymore. I wanted to get better and I did. I learned
that people don’t live forever but what they did for you and your memory of them does.
And that’s something I’ll never forget.

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 26
Out of the Dark
Denise Gomez
Transitions from black and white
Swipes of the color blue are included
You stand there
Slowly you see a light
Bright like a star
The sun or the moon
“Don't let the decisions of today
Affect the decisions of tomorrow
You may take 10 steps today,
But tomorrow you’ll take 3 steps back
That's okay”
You’re almost there
Out of the darkness into the light
You feel happiness
Now you’re smiling running to the light
You give out a sigh of relief
“I made it”
Lonely
Heartbroken
Hurting
You stand there crying
You walk slowly out of the darkness
Careful with every step you take
The tunnel of darkness is
Your past
You’re still ahead.
You'll get out eventually
To change your future you forget
About the past
Although days may be blue
You learned from them

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Before My History Ends
Maximus Castillon
As I lay on my deathbed in old age and grey, Death offers a revelation.
My final breath approaches quickly, but focus slows down time as still as a thick fog.
I stare into his cold dark eyes, then to the stars, traveling the realm of enlightenment.
My whole life has been spent entrusted with the words of my mother.
From birth we are taught the beliefs of our ancestors through archaic stories and texts.
Most accept this fate and travel the fixed path, as did I.
I wish I did not.
Forever encased in a sphere of limited knowledge, I never let myself see
The truth. The truth I never felt the warmth of. Now Death clears the fog.
“Will I ever know the truth?” I ask. “Maybe you are about to find out.”
Somber and unperturbed he speaks. “Unfold the mystery of the ancient past, and you
will discover the roots of all faith lead to the same tree. This is the tree that truly gives
purpose and life itself. Without it, you would be lost. Most follow shattered paths of
religion or science -- some make their own paths.”
I wish I did.
Now I long to go back, to take a different turn. Our secrets are fossils hidden beneath
ash and stone.
I can no longer find them before my history ends. It is too late.
I must leave my final mark on this earth before I venture to the unknown.
“You consider your ancestors ignorant compared to your knowledge -- they were
profound.
They spoke of philosophy.” He looms closer, taunting me. I respond complacently, “We
can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men
are afraid of the light.”
I am not.
I do not shiver, I do not cry. I am not afraid. He is only a shadow of myself.

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 28
I no longer fear him as the light engulfs me. It finally comforts my soul in ways I’ve never
felt before.
It is the beginning of the end -- my ending.
Though I lived a purposeful life in faith, I was blind. Now I can see
I see life, I see art, I see music in this room -- in a room so lifeless and cold I see color
Flowing as does my mind, drifting, fading, just as the beat escapes. I am free.
I am.
Hour of Gold
Brandom Ibarra
And so the challenger arrived.
In the nothingness of nothingness.
In a place that’s forgotten.
Only 2 were there; the contender, and the warrior.
The wind was blowing, from east to west.
The sun was rising, still not at its peak.
The only witness was 2 wooden poles, one with a red ribbon dancing through the wind.
The other empty and straight, standing, waiting, looking.
This place was once a pool, filled with laughter and splashes.
Not it was dry and arid, with hate in the air.
This place was no longer safe, this place had become a battleground.
This place had become… empty, a vast emptiness, a never-ending spiral of nothingness.
This is where they fought, this is where the fighter prepared, where the contender would lose.
This was, the place, the moment, and the time; it’s payback.
Only the dust reigned, for the sun consumed all.
Nothing, nothing at all was left.
It was all lost.
Goodbye,
I’m lost
You win

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 29
Raised by Two Older Brothers
Lauren Geary
I was raised by a
Harry Potter reading
Old soul thinking
Always learning something
“I will teach you”
Kind of brother
A hard-working
Always persevering
Good at listening and helping
“Good try, but maybe do this instead…”
Sorta brother
An advice giving
Rule following
Strength of character
“Let me teach you what is right
and what is wrong”
Type of brother
A look out for you
Always got your back
Take on anyone
Don’t get in my way
“I’ll make sure everything’s okay”
Type of brother
A don’t think just do
Fear of missing out
Willing to try anything
Living in the moment
Partner in crime
“Don’t tell mom!”
Kind of brother

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 30
A smarter than you think
Athlete and a scholar
People pleasing
Joke cracking
“Yeah I know I’m pretty great”
Sorta brother
Two larger than life
Tossing me in the air, but always catching me
Friendship giving
Sometimes annoying, but always loving
“Anything you need, you let me know”
Type of best friends
I was raised by two older brothers

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Guess What
Monique Dirzo
I stood there speechless while his dark brown eyes kept staring right into mine,
and I thought, did I hear him right?
Unaware of what just happened, I asked, “Wait, can you repeat that?”
“Do you like anyone?” Aldo questioned.
I was still trying to process what he just said, as if those words weren’t used in
everyday social life. His eyes… why were they like that? They were filled with passion,
love, and a huge amount of happiness. Additionally, though, his cheeks were blushing
with a luminous red color.
“I….”
* * *
April 27, 2018. I woke up with a feeling of excitement just gushing through my
bones as I jumped out of bed, and I thought to myself today was gonna be a day where
I should just live the moment. Today, the sun's rays shined through the clouds, and a
cool breeze kissed my cheek as I entered the middle school. From a far distance, you
could see me wearing a bright orange T-shirt with the words “CSMS band” on the front.
It was the brightest shirt I owned in my closet, and it was the only shirt that made me
feel like a traffic cone. I started to report to class with excitement building up in my
chest. An assembly was going to take place in the afternoon, and our band had the
opportunity to play a dramatic song during it. In the meantime, I proceeded with my
day, until I came to math class when I noticed Aldo staring at me from the back of the
class. At that time, I was currently playing a complex game of chess, however, knowing
that his glance was on me, made me feel jittery as if I was in a dark room with a light
shining upon me. Finally, I was at my last class, when all of a sudden my palms started
sweating. The intercom had come on and the principal started talking.
“All National Junior Society students should report to the north gym, as well as all
the 8th-grade band students.”
I sprang up from my seat and left, heading straight towards the band room to
pick up my flute. I then proceeded to the gym to help set everything up. Minutes later,
they announced that the rest of the students should head to the gym. By then, our band
was playing and filling the room with music. Just then, the last person entered the gym,
and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
Walking in a steady tempo, Aldo was wearing his blue hoodie, navy blue jeans,
and his white Nike shoes. In that moment, his eyes made contact with mine and a hint
of embarrassment filled my cheeks. I quickly turned my head to get back into the music
I lost track of. Afterward, the announcements came to an end, and I stood up, basically

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 32
stumbling to the center of the gym. I was chosen to demonstrate what some of the field
activities were because the school event that was gonna take place was new to the 6th
graders. Meanwhile, it felt like an hour with all the students' eyes staring me down as I
kicked a soccer ball around with some other girls. I immediately headed back to my seat
once it was over and the band started playing our last song for the afternoon: “How to
Train Your Dragon.” By the time the song ended, I noticed that Aldo was the last person
to leave the gym. I heard a woman in the back yelling, “Hey, you, report back to 9th
period!”
To my surprise, I noticed the tall boy staring at the ground, looking at his shiny,
white, Nike shoes. He was leaning his back against the wall right next to the boys’
restroom.
“Hey, how come you aren’t grabbing your stuff and heading to the bus?” I asked.
Aldo looked up in surprise, “Well... I need to talk to you about something.” Still
trying to keep his voice steady he said, ”Great performance out there.”
I gave him a nod and told him I needed to drop off my instrument first, so we
headed to the band room to drop off my flute. In the distance, I could see him waiting
outside the band room near the drinking fountain. I felt my heart racing with every step
I took as I got closer to him. By the time I was only about a foot away; he quickly pulled
me aside.
“I need to ask you something,” he said shyly, his dark brown eyes not breaking
away from mine. His cheeks looked redder than any other time, like he just came out
from being underneath the burning hot sun.
“Yeah, what's up?” I told him, not taking my eyes off his.
“Do you like someone?” he questioned. At this point, I could sense that this was
leading to something. Opportunities where you needed to take a risk no matter how
difficult it felt. However, there he was… standing with a smile so bright on his face that I
think the sun would be jealous if it ever encountered him.
I didn’t say anything; my mouth failed me that day because words just wouldn’t
come out. The boy I liked was standing right there in front of me, and I know it might
sound stupid because it was a great opportunity to just tell him right there and be done
with it, but my head was just whooshing with thoughts. I’ve known this boy after the
second month into school, and throughout the year I’ve given him my affection in all
different ways; whether it was a poem I wrote, a gift I gave, or just me teasing him. As a
result, out of all the boys in the crowd, I ended up loving his personality, humor,
kindness, and generosity more than anyone else I encountered. However, at the same
time… He gave me signs that told me he didn’t have the same feelings for me.
Today was different, and even better because it wasn’t what I was expecting after
a concert. I didn’t even realize he had started talking again, but at that moment my

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 33
heart just stopped. The next few words that slipped out of his mouth...kept me in
complete silence.
“I like you,” he said with a smile on his face. “I was wondering if you wanted to go
out?”
I blinked, maybe about five times, trying to process those three words, before
saying, “Like a date?”
“Well, as girlfriend and boyfriend, that’s what I meant to say,” he said.
I was speechless… nothing… nada. Not a single word came out of my mouth for a
solid minute. Then I blurted out quietly, “I don’t know.” This boy just took guts coming
up to me in person… IN PERSON, to ask if I wanted to be his girlfriend. You know, it’s
not every day where people can do that; usually, a lot end up asking others over text.
“Should I take that as a no?” he said looking a bit confused. His smile was fading
and his dark brown eyes were now looking at the ground where they seemed to be
more interested, yet upset.
“I don’t know, but can you wait for me by the front entrance in 5 minutes?” I
replied.
At this instant, millions of thoughts were spinning in my head like a car going at a
speed of 100 mph without brakes to stop it. Did I really want to be in a relationship right
now? What would my mom think? Oh gosh, what will my dad think? What if everything
doesn’t turn out okay? What if I end up hurting his feelings somewhere along the road?
Finally, my mind was made up, and I thought, Screw it, this might be the only
opportunity I have and I’m not wasting it on “what ifs."
At the end of the hallway, I spotted him, and I could see that there was a bit of
hope in his eyes.
“Aldo... I don’t want to lose the friendship we have.” I stepped closer. “The truth is
I would love to go out with you,” I said.
“So just to clarify everything; you and I will be boyfriend and girlfriend, and you’re
saying yes to that date?” he asked like he just got whacked with a frying pan and forgot
everything.
Here we go, I thought, and I let out one word which would start a whole new
adventure.
“Yes.”

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 34
Morning Beach
Megan Van Engelehoven
The kitchen is the busiest part of the house.
The kitchen is chaos in the morning.
As the sun is just starting to come out, the first alarm goes off.
Beep beep beep!
It startles you, but it wakes you up.
In the kitchen, the whole family is rushing to get ready.
My sister is rushing to make food;
you can hear my brother showering,
The water crashing to the shower floor.
The morning mist comes in the house whenever the doors are opened.
You can taste the water droplets and feel them all over you.
The dogs bark, the cat runs and plays.
I can smell the scent of everyone’s perfume cologne, you can smell the mint within the
toothpaste and you can smell whatever is being cooked.
The sun begins to peek from behind the clouds.
The smell of why what pushes is picked up by the wind and let into the house.
6:35
Beep beep beep!
Outside, the bus. The sun warms your skin and the bugs around your ears.
6:40
In the distance, a light.
A few seconds later, a big yellow bus greets you, the doors open,
“Good Morning”

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 35
Where I’m From Poem
Ryan McElligott
I am from exploration and adventure
From bike rides and canoe paddles
I am from the gravel paths
and the rocky shorelines
I am from the perseverance
to keep myself going
From steep climbs
to crashing waves
All the challenges that faced me
I’m from the nets and courts
and the excitement of the game my brothers played
I’m from those long days and late nights
the tournaments that keep me inspired
I am from those long nights with friends
underneath the stars
From the train tracks and the fields out back
the places we explored
I’m from those little moments
that make you remember why you love that person
I’m from those road trips with family
that playlist put on repeat
From the music that plays
coming through that mountain pass
The aroma of pine needles sweeping through the open window
I’m from that little hill in the backyard
and the pier on the shore
I’m from those smells, sounds, the warm breeze through my hair
My home, which I belong

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 36
Ignored Blessings
Bryan Horvat
This might be an interesting story all by itself. A young boy growing up never being
able to communicate the thoughts in his head into actual speech. He was barely in
preschool when he was first told he was different. He always loved talking to people and
wanted to make friends but when he tried to communicate this, the words never came out
accurately. Going into preschool he almost couldn’t say any of the phonetic sounds
correctly. He sputtered only sounds rarely making words. To all his classmates and teachers
he sounded incoherent. They might have thought he was foreign, learning the language for
the first time, or they might have thought he was disabled in some way thinking no one can
be this bad at something as simple as just talking. He wasn’t any of these things. He was just
a boy trying to share some of the wild childish thoughts in his head. He grew up into a man
who shares his story in third person to help remind people of the gift they take for granted.
Having a speech impairment makes it so you split into two versions of yourself. The
first being what you thought you said. In your mind, you know what you tried to say and to
you, that's what came out. But the other version of you was what you actually said. The
worst part of talking with a speech impairment was that you didn’t know you said it wrong
until someone said something. Usually along the lines of, “what” or, “say that again” or even
sometimes, “sweetie I just can not understand you”.
I went to speech therapy during school for most of my life with other kids who
usually had trouble with one or two sounds. The common ones being making Rs sound like
Ws or the S sound into an SH sound. I was both of those and many others. We went every
week for these extra lessons. I would try my hardest to improve. Where the other kids would
kinda try. I would try on the reading tests and receive 60% on correct pronunciation. Where
they would take the tests and receive 90% with almost no effort. I would find myself stuck
in speech for another eight years. Always watching that every year other kids “graduated”
out of speech and wouldn’t have to come back for another year. During that time a large
amount of resentfulness built up inside me. Some of it towards the program some towards
myself. I never showed this anger, instead, I used it.
After a couple of years, I was fed up going to speech classes. I was tired of being the
different kid that had to leave class every other day. I was just mad at the situation I was in.
So I talked. I talked to my parents. I talked to my classmates. I talked during presentations. I
talked to anyone and everyone that would listen to me. I talked to myself at times just to
practice. I talked about everything I knew. I talked just to use the language given to me. I
talked for myself but also so eventually others could understand me. The boy that chose to
stay quiet now told other people the correct answers. I was trying to change my life.

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The Pain You Cause
Dylan Pettinato
Darkness and silence
Trapped
In a constant wave of terror
That feeling when all hope is lost
And all you can do is give up
The constant feeling of sadness
Like demos now control your soul
All black
All blue
All signs point to you
I hate you
I hate you
You make me feel so small
You make me feel so weak
You make me drift away
From the person I try to be
You take away my pride
You strip me of my happiness
You demolish everything that makes me unique
I am stronger than ever
I am smarter than you will ever be
I am all things you are not
And yet
Here you are again
I have not won this fight
No matter how hard I try
You always find your way back
One of these days
I will have complete control
But that moment has not come yet

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Final Goodbye
Amanda Langford
2 hours before:
I am terrified of the moment; the moment he would take his last breath.
It could happen at any time now--I am not ready.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to my best friend.
As I hold his hand, I think to myself, “be strong Amanda”.
Streams of tears rush down my face like a waterfall.
My heart is a sinking boat, it falls deeper and deeper as each tear falls down my face.
The smell of departure goes into my body, and infects my soul.
The entire building is so silent, you can hear a pin drop.
No one ever told you that hospice is more disheartening than a hospital.
I can feel the eerie presence of all of the souls who have passed in this room.
I put my head down in despair, to hide my crying face,
My hand squeezes like it’s an empty can.
Papa is telling me to keep my head up--that everything will be okay.
Even if it will be okay, I won’t be.
The years with him flied by,
I’m not ready to let go.
1 hour before:
You watch each breath he takes; fearing that each is his last.
Mom is leading prayer like a pastor would; loud and with a purpose.
The memories start to flood your mind like a hurricane, and you can’t hold back from
tearing up.
As you hear the cries from the other rooms, your anxiety starts to rush faster…
And faster…
And faster.
It’s hard for you to hold back the storm of tears, as you forecast his last breath.
You take a glance of the room, realizing that this is the last place that Papa will see,
And the last time Papa will see you.
You hold on to your cross with your left hand-- trusting God’s path for Papa.
You hold on to Papa’s hand with your right hand-- making sure he knows you are there,
And always will be.

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 39
8:27 P.M:
I suddenly receive the strength to open my eyes.
Everything is blurry at first, like fogged glass.
I see dark shapes, trying to make out who, or what they are.
But then I see them; Jeff, Sue, and Annie.
Jeff keeps telling me that I will be okay,
That I will be with Jason and my mom soon; I will finally see them again.
Susie sits next to me as tears rush down her face, like each tear is racing each other.
She holds my hand, and promises me that everyone will take care of the love of my life;
My beautiful Dorothy.
As the girls switch places, my granddaughter’s tears flow like a river.
I want to express how much I love her, but I physically can’t.
She starts to sob, and grabs my cold hand.
I want to disclose so much, but I can’t.
I’m trying so hard to keep my eyes open, for as long as I can.
My eyelids start to get heavier and heavier, and feel like bricks.
They slowly start to shut as my breathing becomes weaker and weaker.
Annie’s cries start to become louder as she tries to get her last words out.
I’m trying so hard to fight, to keep breathing.
I slowly start to shut down,
Taking shallow breaths,
Until…
They…
Stop...

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Harry Potter and Me
Paige Steiner
This might be an interesting story all by itself. A small, curly haired girl sits at her
desk, her history homework waiting patiently to be completed, but instead she has her
nose in a book. The book may not have been a part of her grades or the death stare that
would surely come her way if not completed; it was just a plain, old book. But not to the
girl. Others saw her as “that girl” who never talked. That girl who would skip gym class
to sit on the bleachers to read The Hobbit. That girl who didn’t have friends. The girl was
told everyday to put the book down, to look around and see the real world. To see the
death, the natural disasters, the politics, and the wrongness of the world she was living
in. But instead she kept her head down, her eyes traveling across the pages as she
traveled to somewhere greater.
Girls my age would gossip with their friends during lunch, they would whisper
about other girls and talk about their boyfriends. While I sat at my lunch table, a book
propped in my hand and my brow furrowed, they glanced in my direction and laughed
at the possibility of them reading more than what was called for. Reading wasn’t
supposed to be fun. It was a requirement. They thought me shy and awkward for it. On
more than one occasion, I have been told that my teachers and students saw me as a
mute. I would mumble my responses and I dreaded small talk. I was afraid to raise my
hand in class. I was afraid to ask to go to the bathroom. I was even afraid to put my
answer sheet on the teacher’s desk after a exam, because I knew they would all look my
way. They already did that enough, so why make it worse and put myself at the center of
attention?
So that is exactly what I did. I decided to use my reading and help me come out
of my shell. I joined a book club at my school. I discuss how much I loved The Hobbit. I
talked about how much of a awesome character Hermione is from Harry Potter. I
expressed my undying love for reading and I wasn’t ashamed about it for once. It felt as
if I was being liberated. I began talking to those people outside of the book club. I may
not have been a fan of small talk, but I was so for having book talks. I found myself
raising my hand in class. I found myself not sitting at the lunch table alone anymore. I
found myself a few of the best friends I still have today. I found myself putting the book
down and doing my History homework! But most importantly, I found myself.

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Hello, Goodbye
Thomas Tyler
I am from book covered walls
Each one holding a new story to be told
I am from writing lessons taught simply:
(The hook is here, the plot goes like this)
I am from creativity,
The barren sheets of paper,
Their emptiness ready to be concealed in colors
I’m from sizzling garlic and the Beatles
‘Hellos’ and ‘Goodbyes’ coming from the radio
I am from hugs and kisses, knowing I am loved
From that special bond, only a twin can share
I’m from “Watch out for your brother” “Love each other”
I’m from the big city of Chicago
I’m from the close-knit neighborhoods of Mundelein
Taped on the side of my dresser is an envelope,
Filled with notes from my past
The bad spelling making me laugh
The sweet words making me reminisce
I am from a place where I am free
There’s nowhere that I’d rather be

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Mindful Garden
Daniela Stepaniouk
Doubt, embarrassment, and cynicism are like
Letting your garden fill with weeds
They are sandbags pulling you
Further towards the bottom
Detach
Let go
Say “fuck it”
If you have to
Plant seeds that will blossom
Into something so beautiful,
Even the man above will be jealous
Water those seeds daily
Water and sunlight are better than
Drought and the dim light of the moon
With time
You Will Blossom

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Missed Connections
Alonso Hurtado
It was a windy day in September. I saw you waiting for the bus on the way to ISU and I
got a little too many butterflies for my stomach to handle. My breath was stolen as your
long blonde hair bobbed and weaved through the crowd. Though I only got a few
glimpses my mind raced and propelled into planning our first date, there would be
green as far as the eye can see and the sky would be a deep yet gentle blue as we stare
up at the stars and talk about our plans for the future. Your pink pouty lips would
spread from cheek to cheek as you’d smile at our silly ideas, your beautiful and genius
ideas. Your warm hazel eyes made my mind fumble as I got closer. As I swam through
the stream of bodies the bus squeaked to a halt and you were gone along with the rest
of the crowd, leaving me dazed and in a rush. And without a seat. If you see this, meet
me at the school café in a week.

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Black and White
Anastasiia Yehorova
Real nightmares
aren’t colorful
Real nightmares
are white and black
Real nightmares
don’t last after you wake up
Black
White
Colors of a sadness
Colors of emptiness
Colors of the life path
Colors that mix together
Fly up and down
Swirl in a mixture of love and hate.
We are blind to the concept of right and wrong
How are we sure?
What is real beauty?
Happiness?
Joy?
What is not?
The point of sadness?
The point of happiness?
If we only know
the world’s perceptions of it
And never manifested our own.
A misconception agreed upon by many.
What is right or wrong?
What is the right path to follow?

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“This is a Photograph of Me”
Colin Nacion
sometimes it feels as though it was just yesterday.
other times it feels like forever ago.
seeing myself in the reflection of the crystal-like body.
how hard it is to hold that cute yet cool pose without grinning,
until i get lost in the beauty of the water.
the wind blows my hair and covers my face synced to the camera’s shutter.
and despite their annoyance,
i can’t help but break character.
it feels as though it was just yesterday.
seeing our smiles in the photo.
the beautiful second attempt.
seeing the gorgeous sunset in the background;
lilac married to a glowing tangerine,
with lines of crimson echoing throughout.
the same crimson that our eyes reflected with pure happiness.
the most fun day ever.
it feels like forever ago.
(then i got that dreaded phone call.
the one i was supposed to be distracting myself from.)
it feels like forever ago,
when the sun finally set and i plunged into darkness.
but when i close my eyes on this bed,
i see a similar light.
Like before the sun had set.
it feels as though it was just yesterday,
when i finally got up,
and walked towards that light.
and the angels took me home.

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Breaking Barriers
Jacky Morales
This might be a compelling story all in itself. A little Mexican American girl learns
the importance of education. She spent her time inside the two bedroom apartment on
the couch reading Rainbow Fish to The Immortal Rules while the other kids pulled out
their Star Wars lightsabers. If she’d forget about education and continued living as a
poor Mexican, she would’ve been considered a good future house wife. But she is living
in a two bedroom apartment with six other people and considered an outcast who
couldn’t be as successful and assertive as any male no matter how much she yearned for
the end of her poverty and the start of a good education. Asking questions and being
curious made others think she was foolish, as if she should’ve known everything. This
filled her with doubt and insecurity for which now she alludes to herself in third-person.
A smart Hispanic woman was considered a daydreamer, generally shamed,
dismissed and reminded she belonged nowhere else but at home doing chores and
cooking to find a future husband after completing high school. I participated in my
classes every day, breaking the Hispanic women stereotype. Hispanic girls feared to
have a voice. They, the girls who feared to have a voice, wanted me to remember my
place in our society when my teachers wanted to get to know each one of us or when
they expected us to participate to show we can do it too. We were expected to be quiet,
get pregnant, or dropout. Most Hispanic women lived up to fulfilling those standards.
They did plan on dropping out because it was too difficult for them to keep up with but
never planned on not satisfying those typical Hispanic women stereotypes. They found
themselves pregnant and fell into drugs but never put the same yearning for something
priceless, their education. They claimed to be independent even though they knew their
parents and society were setting them up to be dependent, fulfilling those stereotypes.
As Hispanic girls, we were expected to be unintelligent and fail. Those who failed their
education were welcomed to a low minimum wage job, a two bedroom apartment with
6 people, and a family who believed you couldn’t be more. Was there a way out?
I refused to be led to a path of stereotypes, specifically made for housewives. I
was resilient. I was stubborn. I was smart enough to pass. I stayed up late at night
finishing homework. I stayed after school to get help from teachers. I stayed after school
to get involved in clubs like Temas Latinos, Robotics club, and tutoring. I spent days and
nights studying for tests and finished homework after working 6 hour shifts at Subway
and cleaning offices with my mother after school every day except for Wednesday’s. I
asked my teachers “How can I improve on my grade for this class?”. I asked my teachers
“How does this lesson relate to life or benefit mine?” I constantly threw questions to all
my teachers to get further into depth of the topics I learned in their classes. I took my

V o i c e s 2 0 2 0 | 47
time to reflect on what might have happened if my mother went to college and my
father didn’t dropout in the third grade, thinking of all the food that could’ve filled my
fridge and stomach while I starved. I dreamed of having an actual bed set, but we lived
check by check. I let my curiosity run wild whether it was into the topics I learned at
school, life, or reading SlaughterHouse 5 as a freshman. I told my parents I was going to
college whether they liked it or not. I was trying to break the Hispanic women
stereotype.
Grandma's house
Ryan Lange
The sweet smell of pie.
The aroma wandered around the house
like a lost child.
The squeaking of the floor as I walked on it.
My cousins giggling and playing in the warmth of grandma's house.
The smell of the cherry wine the adults drink
And the children ready to dine.

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Losing a Friend
Charley Tovar
Something bad has happened
All night I have been wandering
Through this endless night
Of dark clouds and crashing rain
Like a stray dog aimlessly walking empty streets
My mind has been consumed with guilt and despair
For the life that fell before me
His scared, helpless face etched into my head
My pounding heart keeping my muscles from moving
I was frozen
What more could I have done?
As the night grows restless
The clouds become darker and the rain falls faster
I cannot let my mind fall into the black abyss of deep sorrow
Otherwise my life will fall to
I’m in a tunnel
Deep in the long cavern of darkness
But I see a light up ahead
I must move on
I will miss him deeply
I will never forget him
But I must move on