Ellis Island

Recently my friend and I visited the Statue of Liberty. On the ferry ride back to Manhattan my friend said, "My dad had his name engraved at Ellis Island when he immigrated here. He keeps telling me to go and see it, but how am I supposed to find his name among all of those on the wall?" The irony bubbled in my throat and I pushed down a laugh. Something her father had done in order to set himself apart had rendered him one of the many, his effort to be remembered earning him a single speck amongst the forgotten masses. Almost every immigration story is unique, and yet they follow the same skeleton of a plotline: Hope of a better. My parents story certainly followed it, as did those of my friends' parents. Although each carries its own unique twists and turns, wars, visa errors, misplaced birthdates, separated family members, and names misspelled, at the core of it, everyone immigrates looking for a better. A better life, a better tomorrow, better opportunities, safety, belonging, home. People immigrate in order to become someone with the potential to be remembered, but far to often this country reneges on its promises, pushing them down into oblivion until they're nothing but another faceless name haphazardly etched into a wall.

-EB

Get Away and Come Back

There is something absolutely empowering about black and white photographs. I don't know what it is about them that I love, but I do. I find a significant amount of romanticism in the simplicity of black and white; and I know this because I stood all weekend, in bed watching black and white Audrey Hepburn, and Cary Grant, and Fitzgerald inspired films. I don’t know if its the raw quality or un-modernism of it all, but I can’t seem to get enough of it. 

I dont pretend to know what this photograph is about. All I do know is that in the midst of all this woman empowerment and marches and Trump chaos, this photo says a lot. I only see men. Not at all happy. Not at all interesting. But men. I don't know what exactly to write about this, what exactly to say. A writer, I suppose, does not need any context in order to write, because a good writer makes a context of their own. Now I don't know if its just me, but the winter time gives me the writer blues. I admit, I’ve had writers block. I have been relying solely on the given rather than the making, and in times like this, that isn't hard to do at all. It’s not hard to just go on by with the frenzy of media and twitter, and consume whats been given. The claims, the counterclaims, the ideas, the analyses. It isn't hard to just watch it all happen in front of you. Back then, it wasn't that simple. Everything was physical. Front and center. I suppose you had the pressures of human interaction to influence you into creating, too. Whether that was history, trouble, or in most cases, both. 

Anyways, in regards to the photo, I hate it. I don't know if it’s the hitler look a like in the back or if its the ugly Abraham Lincoln looking one in the front but its utterly soul-less and substance-less. The only thing I could focus on in hopes to correlate the beauty of black and white would be the luggage, being that they’re getting away or coming back. Two phenomena that I intend to fully engulf in. Its all a person could hope for in this world. To get away and come back.  

                                                           -Vanessa Hernandez

“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.” Napoleon Bonaparte

Death is so feared that people can’t even talk about how insignificant it is without comparing it to itself. In “Death, be not proud,” John Donne declares that “even death shall die.” Death comes full circle. It’s like using a word in its own definition; meaningless. No matter how brave and comfortable one is with their own mortality, death is still the ultimate, omega, end. This exercise of trying to erase the eraser is meaningless. It’s like “biting your own teeth.” It’s an ouroboros that only reveals how fragile we are. Death is what it is. I’m going to die. So are you. We may not capable of being be okay with it, but that doesn’t matter.

This nihilist view comes off as dark and indicative of a mental defect. I once made the mistake of sharing some of these ideas with my mother and her evident concern swiftly ended that exercise. Whether or not I actually suffer from a neurochemical problem is beside the point, but I find a lot of comfort in my understanding of death. When faced with the riddle of comprehending the end of my corporeal existence, my personal solution was a peaceful acceptance that leaves my emotional capacity much freer for other pursuits, like maintaining relationships, developing my art, or simply focusing on getting through each day. Maybe I’m a short sighted hypocrite, but at least I’m living. 

- Mikayla ᎡᎶᎯ Hodge

Death Means A Lot

Prompt:  “Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.” 


Death isn’t just nothing at all. Death denies life. Nabokov wrote, “Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.” When our time runs out, there comes the end of everything. It isn’t just about nothingness. There won’t even be the idea of nothingness and darkness. There will be no perceiver to observe and perceive death. There will be no pain, no joy, no anything in death, since the conscious is gone.
 
Everything in our life vanishes. Who we were, what we did, what we gained and lost, everything stops mattering anymore. Living gloriously like Napoleon Bonaparte or spending the whole life in banality are just the same. We are all going to die and lose everything. What we felt about our life, the glory and fame will all disappear along with us. Death ultimately denies life.
Still, people may choose to live however they want. After recognizing the truth that how they live doesn’t really make a difference, people are free to make their choice. They can try their best to live a glorious life, which may succeed or may not. On the other hand, they can also enjoy an ordinary life and walk calmly towards death.
 
In the end, like Rafa said, “You have your life. I have mine.” Many people like Rafa and Pura are just doing whatever they can to survive, which is the essence of living. Their life may be judged by Napoleon Bonaparte to be a defeated and inglorious one, but they are also fighting their own wars against all the difficulties in life. Their life is burning in the ugliest swamp.

--Leon Liao

Death of a Bystander

                                         “Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.” 

I am no fan of Junot Diaz; I’ve been saying it since my English teacher back in High School would force us all to read him; her very different, accented, troubled, color kids. I’ve always thought that you don't need color to be colored, that its something you carry inside too; the lifestyle, the oppression, the defeat and ingloriousness… Anyways, she made us read Diaz all the time. I guess he bothers me because I understand him probably more than anyone ever could. I understand his slang and jokes, his issues, and lack of sensitivity… I understand it. & I guess I hate reading Diaz because understanding him says a lot about me, too. 

Back to this quote, I suppose. Death was always something that I loved to write about. As a writer, it is one of those obscure topics that you never know exactly how to digest or express; but it was always fun to. In the short story, Yunior watched his brother live defeated and inglorious day by day. One could argue that the brother, Rafa, was dying daily. But as a girl who knows this story all too well, the story of the bystander watching, with human incompetency seeping through your pores, I know that it was Yunior and the mother, dying every single day. A wise psychologist once said that it hurts a whole lot more to witness and watch suffering than to experience it yourself.

I agree, Bonaparte. I was really good with history yet I can’t quite put my finger on the contextual pretense through which he says this. All I do know for sure is that I agree. Death is easy. Dying everyday is not. In hopes to sensationalize the phenomenon, I believe we have the ability to die every day, as we do to live. Such as staying in that god awful French class passed the Add/Drop period, or staying in college once you lose the sight of your objective. We die when we lose ourselves in the midst of all this political chaos and we die when we become too comfortable with mediocrity and defeat. 

                                                         -Vanessa Hernandez