LATINX LITERARY MAGAZINE

spring ‘23
volume XIII • issue II
 Dear Reader, Team, and Monik,

Katie Williams ‘25 Kate Alvarez ‘23 Monik Rodríguez ‘25 Nikita Baregala Lopez ‘23 David Felipe ‘26
As we put together this magazine, themes of family, migration, and home
Manager Manager Co-Editor-in-Chief Co-Editor-in-Chief Publicity Manager arose. Shifts, changes, and newness seemed central to several pieces. We invite
you to sit with the heaviness and beauty that comes with these themes within
our community.
I write this letter in sadness and joy as a conclusion to my time with SO-
MOS Latinx Literary Magazine. Over the past several years I have had the privi-
lege of serving as an editor and then co-editor in chief of the magazine. Holding
our community’s art close to my heart has been a treasure and one that I hope
to have shared with you over the past several editions of this magazine.
I encourage you all to consider the wonder of our art and stories that are
Luca Suarez ‘26 Alvaro Uribe ‘26 Miriam Rice-Rodríguez ‘23 Anila Lopez Marks ‘26
conveyed throughout these pages. How do we honor our families and ances-
Design Editor Design Editor Lead Design Editor Design Editor tors? How do our histories shape our communities? Whose voices are heard and
whose must be amplified? These are questions I hope our magazine attempts to
answer through our art.
This magazine and the space we have created would not be possible
without the dedication, perspectives, and mindfulness of our amazing team. I
thank our members, past and present, for welcoming me into this role and al-
lowing me to share our art with you all. The home I have found in this magazine
has come together because of each of you: artists, team, and community.
Sabrina Sanclemente ‘25 Camila Murillo ‘26 Alexia Camila Sánchez Contreras ‘26 Laurie Tamayo ‘25 Wendy Amador ‘26
I hope this space continues to reflect the anger, frustration, sadness, love,
Lead Spanish Editor Spanish Editor Spanish Editor Spanish Editor Spanish Editor joy, care, diversity, and hope of our community. And, as sad as I am to leave, I
am confident that our future leaders and members will continue to foster the
legacy of SOMOS. We are a team of Latinx students with the goal of amplifying
Latinx art, but we are also a combination of voices, laughs, and smiles that will
continue to share our community’s stories.

Un fuerte abrazo,
Nikita

Josué Morales ‘26 Yandelyn Patricio ‘26 Doren Hsiao-Wecksler ‘26 Meilyn Farina ‘26
English Editor English Editor Lead English Editor English Editor
 In writing you 1 Naomi Gutierrez
Boricua 2 Mateo Ríos
Love is Root 3 Mateo Ríos
TERMINOLOGY 4 Monik Rodríguez
Mom’s Love 5 Clarissa Guzmán
Mother 6 Argent Martínez
5 Microaggressions 8 Mariela Flores
Ser Mujer en Esta Casa 9 Mariela Flores
no me quites mi luz 10 Mia Mira
Voces: Journeys 11 Alexia Sanchez Contreras
Love is all we got 12 Britney Garibay
Content Warning Palto 14 Alex Celedon
The Great South American Adventure 15 Caín Yépez
This magazine includes sensitive topics, such as generational trauma, racialized
El Poema de Paraíso Tropical 16 Fior de la Cruz
language, violence, migration, and diaspora. We ask that you navigate with this
El Río Sagrado 18 Melany Veliz
semester’s issue with care, sensitivity, and at the pace that feels most comfortable
Ojos llenos, corazón contento 19 Sebasstian Adriano
Día en la Playa 20 Shelly Nieto
Young at Heart 21 Miriam Rice-Rodríguez
Silk 22 Fiona Killian
David 23 Jules Silva
La persona que no soy 24 Diego Silva
Un Besito Para Ti 26 Astrid Larson
Adentro | Within 27 Jael Uribe
Si Dios lo manda 28 Alexa De La Fuente
Deus Ex Machina 30 Luca Suarez
God Forbid, I am myself 31 Melanie Ortiz Alvarez de la Campa
Finding Refuge 32 Dominick Cocozza
Orgullo Mexicano 33 Johanna Benitez
El Cornejo 34 Mateo Ríos
Abuela’s Garden 35 Miriam Rice-Rodríguez
Lo Perdido y Encontrado 36 Britney Garibay

*cover and close-ups designed by Britney Garibay

**titles and team portraits designed by Miriam Rice-Rodríguez,
Anila Lopez Marks, Luca Suarez, and Alvaro Uribe
Naomi Gutierrez, Brown ‘24

8/16 Maybe because I feel I have to fully

I care so much know you
to tell your story so well Your past
Very Present and
Very Future.
Well. Know you before I string you together.
Before I
Perfectly Add adjectives,
Because you deserve it. Imagery,
And write those
You deserve to be seen, people I
Heard, have never met.
Praised for all that you are.
But, I keep failing Know you before I put you on
I get wrapped up in Display.
a
Tiny detail. Or maybe,
Many tiny details. I am afraid to say I have finally known
all of you
In the way you say that word, To say I have written the full story of
How your eyes light up when you talk you
about this person, Because to me, you’ll
Or in that one time you..... Always

I fail to wrap it all up. (Never stop)

In my head,
On paper. Living on
and
Transforming.
SOMOS 1
Boricua Love is the root
Mateo Rios, MD-ScM ’26 Mateo Ríos, Brown MD-ScM ‘26
Silk Screen on Stonehenge Silk Screen on Stonehenge paper

2 SOMOS SOMOS 3
 Mom’s Love
Clarissa Guzmán, RISD’ 26
Monik Rodríguez, Brown ‘25 charcoal on cardboard

4 SOMOS SOMOS 5
Argent Martínez, Brown ‘25
Creation (a creation…)
My great-grandmother died the morning after celebrating
my great-grandfather’s nose being handed to my mother.My
mother likes to say my great-grandmother must’ve found
other ways to me too.
In a small body of water. My head submerged, in a reservoir. Tears that wouldn’t
join the water, held back. I call it static apnea. Discipline is the curl of words,
flipping of pages, and La Paz del Señor. I never wrestled with the mean-
ing of sitting in Church. I understood servility was dunking money into a wo-
ven basket. I knew following creases along the wall and glissading my in-
dex finger between mortar joints were my first encounters with meditation.

La Concordia, Guerrero, Mexico, is a village with three Where do bodies go. Mirrors, mattresses above our heads, windowsills, drains,
hundred forty-six inhabitants gnats, white moths, the wind whispering a relevant message for you and only
centuries-old livelihoods you. La oración es solo una forma de pedir bendiciones, pero creemos firme-
lost to me. mente en Abuela, Abuelo, y más, Tia, y Tio, y los Perros, y el Pájaro. Están con
Nosotros1. And we’re allowed to make demands on those who didn’t appreciate
I’d say nobody existed before my great-grandfather. our love. We’re too allowed to weep and laugh at their mistakes, and whenever
something suspicious happens in the house, like a radio turning on or some-
There’s a movie about a man visiting the mountains thing crashing in the upstairs attic, a place lacking in movement, or so we’d like
where mom recollects, he cuts where I subtract to think. That’s when we know we are not alone. Tarot and crystals are minimal
her pain thru in communicating with the ancestors who have been propelling us across the
border, into colleges, into the workforce, into this poem. They love to grab our
he snips flowers shoulders and place visuals and sounds when and where we need them most.
a woman named Mary knew The back of our necks, to the front of us, to the ground below, to the sky above.
My mother has dreamt of the passing of relatives, and it’ll happen. Seen her
lay in the dry peaks. grandmother’s messages from the other side. Talk about Manuel, her father,
who did shit for her as a child, and did shit for her as an adult. I’m telling you.
So when He’s out there. Even when your body isn’t here but there, even from the after-
through New York; life. Rectifying and turning the wheel on our destinies cause she asks him to.

held

days when my mom

stared off at mountains

Prayer is just a way of asking for blessings, but we firmly believe in Abuela,
1

living in my memories too. Abuelo, y más, Tia, y Tio, and los Perros, y el Pájaro. They are with us.

6 SOMOS SOMOS 7
Mariela Flores, Providence College ‘23

ONE
“Maria”
You are so lazy.
My name is one more syllable at the end Mariela Flores, Providence College ‘23
a sound I know you know well---”uh”
Use your tongue, don’t you dare cheat. You ask and I serve. You chew, you swallow, you don’t
I take out the plate that is yours. thank.
TWO I satiate you with carne, arroz, tortillas,
“Where are you really from?” frijoles– Instead, you wait.
Where do you think? todo echo por mano. Por manos. Por
I want you to say it loud, tell me who you think I am ella.
tell my why. Do not veil your ignorance with curiosity. For me, for my mamá, for my hermana,
You have not earned the right to innocence. I place it on the mantel. For my tia, for my prima, for my abuel-
ita.
THREE
“We wanted to make sure the grammar was right” I take out your fork, your knife––
Of my Spanish. A language you do not know. A language I know intimately. whatever you may need. To fulfill their duty as
My Spanish loves me more than your English. What a thing you did colonizing I ensure you are armored
a language that has already colonized to be fed. Mujer en esta casa.
thousands. You hold a boldness in your hands, it is heavy, and it bleeds---
you are hungry for power. Stop touching what is not yours. You ask and I pour. You ask. You ask. We answer.
I take out your cup filling it
FOUR con jugo de jamaica, careful
“Why are you so loud?” not to spill and not to stain you red.
You hate that someone like me could take up
space from someone like you. Do you hate it when my words touch you? I do what I was born to do
All I have are words. I will use them, plunge them deep
into (For you).
your
skin I
into the marrows of your bones until you hear me. pour,
I
FIVE pour.
“You people”
We are people. Yes, we are people. You wish we were nothing You ask and I feed.
but dust and memories. Do we scare you? We people are going to “steal” your I blow on the broth and cut the meat
jobs. into tiny pieces
We are going to earn everything you think you were born deserving. so your tongue does not burn.
We take it back for ourselves, lather in the goodness of our time, you will get I put the spoon in your mouth.
nothing.
8 SOMOS SOMOS 9
no me quites mi luz
Mia Mira, Brown ‘25
Acrylic on canvas

Alexia Sanchez Contreras, Brown ‘26

Lo último que ella escuchó antes de partir fue el resonar de la campana del culto
al que asiste su madre. A como ella me contó, aún en estos días, a pasos cortos
que se alargan y con arrugas que se engarrotan al hueso, su madre atiende cada
domingo sin falta. El chevy al que se subió era azul ferroso. La pintura se desval-
agada a la caricia del viento como copos de nieve reclamados por el aire. Con un
rugido agreste el chevy se detuvo y ella se bajó. Para cuando recordó, el coyote
la tenía arriba de un flotador y atravesaban el río. El flotador se comenzó a desin-
flar y el pánico fue instantáneo, asfixiante. En la distancia distinguió oficiales de
migración. Se sintió asustada. Creyó moriría ahogada, nunca aprendió a nadar.
Creyó la migra la detendría, nunca fue una corredora veloz. Aun así, cruzó al otro
lado. Era mediodía y su madre seguía en el culto “yo siempre pido por ti, mija.”

“This style of art takes on techniques used by Salvadoran artists to create post-war political cartoons fol-
lowing the civil war that began in 1979 and was meant to highlight the extent to which violence affect-
ed working class groups. This piece, specifically, is meant to demonstrate the power of governments
in extinguishing lives to quell the truth as a means of preserving their self-proclaimed righteousness.”

10 SOMOS SOMOS 11
Love is all we got
Britney Garibay, RISD ‘25
Acrylic on board, hot glue, foam, and wire

12 SOMOS SOMOS 13
 [TITLE]
Sample Art Blurb [Title] The Great South American Adventure
[Name], Affiliation Cain Yepez, Brown ’23
material(s) 35 mm film, photography

Name, Affiliation (i.e Class, Year [‘2X])

Alex Celedon, Brown ’23

I assume trees are like hourglasses

Photos buried
Insert text in :)shoeboxes
here
Worn out leather on car seats
Lost names engraved in golden necklaces
To the roots
Uneven
Comfortable in the dirt
The roots find themselves further in the earth
They journey down

The sand falls to the bottom of the hourglass.

You are asking the wrong question

It is the roots that cause earthquakes
Shift the earth as they grow
Intertwine with fault lines
Spread acrossw a tectonic plate
A fool tried to uproot them
Tectonic plates stricken
Fractured
Fault lines shift
They change the walls of my memory
Bring them down
Crumbled
Photos don’t exist of them and now I can’t recall what they look like

14 SOMOS SOMOS 15
 El Poema Tropical
Fior de la Cruz, Providence Artist
Black light acrylic on canvas
Melany Veliz, Brown ‘25 Sebasstian Adriano, Brown ‘25

Soy el agua que te corre por las venas y la arena entre tu cabello. Cuando el agua del río se agota
Mi corriente es tu voz y mis crecidas tus lagrimas. y las gotas regresan al mar,
Yo soy el rio por donde pasan los viajeros que traen lena. yo me siento a observar el vacío
Y donde habitan los espiritus perdidos del pasado. y el dolor lo comienzo a extrañar.

Soy los tipujos frescos de la posa y las rocas lisas de la quebrada. Yo prefiero sentir el rechazo,
Mis arboles son tus manos y los capulines que de ellos caen, tu comida el flechazo certero y mortal,
Yo soy el rio que jala las hojas desechadas a traves de sus aguas. porque mientras me muero yo siento
Y mis vientos son los abrazos que tanto te consuelan. y agradezco que puedo llorar.

Soy las burbujas de jabon que dejan las ninas cuando lavan sus ropas.
Mi sangre es el fluido que llena los cantaros de las madres.
Yo soy la fuente de vida de cien aldeas.
Yo soy la funete de vida de cien aldeas.
Y sacio la sed de mil bocas.

Misterioso e impredecible, pero aqui estoy.

Me mantengo entre violento y calmado, pero al menos se que soy:
El Rio Sagrado que aun recuerdas hoy.

18 SOMOS SOMOS 19
Dia en la Playa
Shelly Nieto, RISD Textiles ‘24
collage

Miriam Rice-Rodríguez, Brown ‘23

My heart’s hopes lay fragile, like leaves alongside the sidewalk. Fragile like my
body when I laid in your bed the last morning. The last morning that comes
again and again. Relentless as winter winds. The morning when you make me
coffee one last time. We sit in silence at the kitchen table, feeling the daylight
pour in from the window. We take in one another like skin takes in sun, and I
want you to mark my flesh with a ray of your warmth, so I might carry you with
me like a freckle.

But then the car arrives, and the bags are stowed, along with the love that was
so verdant. You kiss me, the last kiss, and it reminds me of autumn. Of children
playing in leaves, and how we jumped into love trusting our fall would be cush-
ioned. The last morning comes and goes, as everybody comes and goes—or so
I’m told—and I am once again in my solitude. I walk these sidewalks alone, re-
membering the coffee, the sun, your kiss, and I collect my heart’s fragile hopes. I
pile them high and jump, daring to dream a child’s dream. Daring to stay young
at heart.

SOMOS 21
 David
Jules Silva, Brown ’26
Acrylic on canvas

Fiona Killian, Brown ’24

The sunshine pokes through lace curtains

as my face rests on silk sheets.
But the delicate silk cannot compare to your touch,
and these sheets feel cold without you.
Outside, the leaves dance into the arms of the damp soil
and their crackle mocks the static of the records
that spun, upon that player.
I remember our beloved melodies.
I remember slow dancing.
The cold hardwood floorboards
firmly pressing against my bare feet,
as I pressed you against my chest.
I remember you-
I long for you.
I live for you.
And I am jealous of every cup from which you drink,
for their rims can still feel your lips.
And I am jealous of your steering wheel,
for your hands still gently hold it; guide it.
But mostly I am jealous of your mirror,
for it always sees the face I miss so dearly.
But in my dreams you live on-
so I shall sleep in these sheets of silk,
though they will never be enough.

22 SOMOS SOMOS 23
 Extrano las risas desfiguradas en melancolia cuando veo un reflejo que no que-
rio reconocer.

Ahora solo me queda hacer parafernalias de mis tristezas,

Diego Silva, Universidad Jesuita de Guadalajara ‘23
Anochecer o atardecer,
Ya no se que sea,
Vivo muy anestesiado en esta hora sin nombre.
Deshilar mis paranoias salpicando sangre de mis venas,
Para despertar de esta pesadilla llamada:
La persona que no soy.
La esperanza es una ilusion por sonar despierto.
El amor es una infeccion de transmision sexual.
Nunca he sido primera opcion de nadie
A veces tampoco seria ni mi ultima opcion

Tanta soledad me tiene delirante,

Confundiendo amor por amabilidad.

Autoviolencias termodirigidas,
Disipan mi ser,
Pero no calman mi sed de lastimar(me)

A donde voy me hago rumbo

Siendo un extrano en mi propia piel,
Desollado, asolado, acicalado.

Soy cenizas de nebulosa para voces oxidadas,

Me siento bien cuando me utilizan,
Pero no cuando tomo conciencia de ello.

Sutilmente me voy
A deschacerme en mis silencios.
Me voy quedando sordo
Mientras me lleva la verga.

Mas procesado que nada

Mas fragmentado que nunca

24 SOMOS SOMOS 25
Un Besito Para Ti
Astrid Larson, University of San Francisco ‘26
Digital

Jael Uribe

Soy la semilla que crece hacia adentro. Ramifico en mí y soy mar de raíces profundas.
Camino la ola que renace en tu orilla donde todos me llaman árbol, siendo roca. Donde
todos me arrojan piezas que no son de mí. Viene el viento y me congela en tu sombra,
viene la ira acariciando llanto pero no perece la risa que me ahoga, no muere el eco
rampante que permuta en mi voz. A veces solo el dolor conoce mi verdadero nombre
entonces, llega el abismo a comerse mi canto, regurgitando mis notas como si fueran
yo. Pero yo, soy otra clase de lamento. Soy la semilla que se abre en otro sol.

Soy una semilla que crece hacia adentro. Soy mi propio árbol. Ese Norte irreconocible
en las palabras, esa aguja partida en dos abrazos. Por eso, cuando me hundo vuelvo,
por eso cuando vuelvo estoy en casa y en sus raíces, soy.

Soy una casa de paredes verdes. Soy mi propia luz, mi propio Dios.

—————-

I am the seed that grows within. I branch inside myself and I’m an ocean with deeper
roots. I walk the wave born on your shore, where everyone mistakes me for a tree, but
I’m a rock. Where everyone throws pieces at me that aren’t my own. The wind comes
and freezes me to your shadow, anger comes, caressing my tears but the laughter that
drowns me does not perish, the widespread echo sleeping in my voice dies not. Some-
times only pain knows my real name, then abysses come to swallow my song, vomiting
notes as if they were mine. But I, I’m a different kind of lamentation. I’m the seed that
opens in another sun.

I am a seed that grows within. I am my own tree. The unrecognizable North in my

words, the needle broken in two hugs. That’s why, when I sink I come back. That’s why
when I come back, I’m at home and in its roots, I find own my voice.

I am a big house with green walls. I am my own light, my own God.

26 SOMOS SOMOS 27

Alexa De La Fuente, Brown ‘23
Si Dios los manda
I will get through this flight
and the next one
and the next one on.
Or so my buelita says
I want to believe her
So I take her hand where
calluses meet cuts
I squeeze tight before
heading through the
security point as she
must have done in a
different context and manner
leaving cities and a country,
reasons unknown
I don’t look back because
I almost believed her
the way a child believes
everything will always be the same,
their parents’ omniscience
their taste buds, height
favorite toys, but
Childhood is not always bliss
Some know too much too soon
Maybe that’s why I can’t
fully believe you,
I was never a child
28 SOMOS
Si Dios lo manda
I can get through
the pain. or so
my buelita says
I can cross towards the
delicate glow of sunlight
away from nights of
shivering aches
piercing my body where
memory has pummeled
and bruised baby skin
Purples, blues
and blushes of red
if not for the painter.
I can be steady.
End to the tremble
of my hands and voice
always rushing
to my next phase,
my metamorphosis
Oh wouldn’t it be great to
shed this old skin?
These purples, blues,
and blushes of red
just a memory husk
My past no longer sticking
to my body like taffy on teeth
Scraping out the gunk with the
strength afforded to me
by His manda
His manda, His manda, His manda
In trying to ease my pain
You distance yourself
away from yours
I would never dare speak truth
To farce when it comes to you
But how much longer
Must we hide behind phrases?
Cold hand over blasphemous mouth
Muffling opposition
Can we live this way?
I don’t want to live this way
Si Dios lo manda
I can forgive.
Or so my buelita says
She doesn’t look my way
and I imagine grabbing her hand,
seeping in her warmth
Bridging us through this
old skin of ours
never letting go
Telling her we can feel
unforgivable together
Oscillating in this uncertainty
Something we know can’t be
fixed through words...
But I’m already on the flight.
I whisper to myself,
“Si Dios lo manda”
As I promise myself that
I’ll call when I land.
SOMOS 29
Deus Ex Machina
Luca Suarez, Brown ’26
Digital, Photograph

Melanie Ortiz Alvarez de la Campa, Brown 2nd Year PhD

God forbid, I am myself

In God forbid, I turn out human
That ultimate sin of being loud
in a world led by relics
In a state of silence and silenced
From a tarnished golden age
God forbid, I am ethnic
In the stained, crooked conveyor belt
Of the American Dream

God forbid, I am unique

That dirty word heavy with the tears
Of my overstimulated senses

God forbid, I am soulful

So full of ancient rhythms
Played on long buried drums

God forbid, I am passionate

With hands dancing by my chest
But not locked in prayer

God forbid, I am kind

In a way that doesn’t require filling
The diezmo after a hymnal

30 SOMOS SOMOS 31
Finding Refuge
Dominick Cocozza, RISD ‘24 Orgullo Mexicano
Oil and wax on canvas Johanna Benitez, MassArt ‘26
Mixed media collage, oil pastels, pen, marker, photographs

“This piece is inspired by the American Gilded Age and in locating my own Guatemalan-American Adoptee
& Latinx heritage. The central figure is a traditional Guatemalan worry doll that I have held onto since my
adoption in 2002. The figure searches for refuge while complicating the gilded interior with the addition of “This piece was created during my first year away from home as a dedication to my family who thanks to
his own body and textiles (the rug) and by finding power in physically taking up space. My paintings discuss them I never forgot my Mexican heritage. I included pictures of the Chicano movement from the 70s, a per-
the similarities of displacement and emplacement, subverting mainstream sociopolitical ideas of home. I sonal letter from me to my parents, and a linoleum print of the moon I created for the piece based on the
encourage viewers to explore their positionality concerning current and future surroundings; where environ- game “Loteria.”
ment meets body.”

32 SOMOS SOMOS 33
 Abuela’s Garden
Miriam Rice-Rodríguez, Brown ‘23
Watercolor and micron pen on vellum and digital collage

Mateo Ríos, Brown MD-ScM ‘26

& she said (words a falling blossom),

pink and pure.

to nurture is burden / gift / blessing:

your hands are like mine--tattered silk.
but not unlike your (Father’s): calloused and aged.

if you wish to grow it (sweety), you can; however,
creation is ephemeral, you understand?

In her delicate hands lies a seed--alone & grimacing.

do you
understand?

to live is to learn, so eager to bring life.
Hands together--a prayer--you kneel into the sodden earth,
that which bears (humanity’s) transgressions,
but ask for
one thing,
pink and pure.
“This greenhouse is a space I return to whenever I feel homesick— its heat and humidity remind me of the
A relishing sprout cracks the seed, tropics and comfort me in the chill of New England winters. Many of its plants (the ones featured in the
drawing) remind me of my abuelos’ garden in Panamá— aloe, plátanos, jengibre, orquídeas, papos y piña.
the nutrients & blessings it Sometimes, sitting beneath the shade of a plátano, or stroking the petal of a papo, I feel that even though
was given (taken) seeping my family is far away, a fragment of them is physically with me. I like to think that maybe, at the same mo-
ment I am with these plants, mi abuelo está regando las matas y mi abuela está haciendo un té con jengibre,
drop by drop. curcuma y raspadura, and in that moment, they don’t feel so far away.”
until the well runs dry.
prayer. Hands together. Eyes closed. Mouth pursed.
You pray.

Crezca (grow).
Please.

34 SOMOS SOMOS 35
Lo Perdido y Encontrado
Britney Garibay, RISD ‘25
Colored pencils and soft pastels on toned paper

“This series focuses on Mexican ribbon braids and the weight and sacredness that hair holds emotionally The introduction of green symbolizes independence, as it does on the Mexican flag. In this interpretation of
and culturally. The placement of the braids in Mexican culture traditionally represents marital status. Both hair and color, I show myself losing, searching, and finding new qualities of life; cutting my old hair to cut ties
braids in the back represent looking for something, one in front represents the process, and both in front with my past self and everything I used to represent.”
represent having found.

36 SOMOS SOMOS 37
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