Non-Fiction

It’s late October and the Barcelona sun beats down on me with the sort of intensity I’d only thought was possible in late July. After nearly three months of living in Copenhagen, the coastal heat is a welcome change from the cool Scandinavian autumn.

Five-story apartment complexes line either side of the narrow street of Carrer Gran de Gràcia. All built in a single breathless row, they almost appear as one long building, if it weren’t for the changing colored tiles on the buildings’ facade. About every fifty feet, the buildings’ tiles change from pale blue floral to beige swirls to yellow geometric patterns, as if they are wallpaper.

Sprouting out from these tiled buildings are symmetrical rows of black wrought iron balconies, all uniform in appearance. When I look up, I notice the red and yellow striped Catalonian flag hanging proudly from a handful of them. These flags, along with signs reading “Free Catalan Prisoners” and “LLIBERTAT PRESOS POLÍTICS,” are the only remaining evidence of the previous week’s violent protests that transformed this now bright and sunny city into what, from news clips alone, looked like an anarchic dystopia.

Walking down this now abandoned street, I can’t believe this was the same city I had watched go up in flames on nearly every news station. The photos and videos of mobs of protestors hurling glass bottles and rocks at police through the fire barrier the demonstrators had lit in the street, made me question if I should even come to the city I’d always dreamt of visiting.  In my four-and-a-half months of living in Europe, this was my one week free from classes, and despite my hesitations, the voice in my head wouldn’t let me forget that fact. From my little room in the heart of Copenhagen, I packed my bags and left.

Although the recent protests came as a shock to me, the truth is that these latest demonstrations tie into the tense, multi-century history between the Spanish government and the semi-autonomous region of Catalonia in north-east Spain. The region is home to about 7.5 million people who share a language, flag, and anthem, all of which are distinct from those of Spain. This unique history and culture has led to a rise in Catalonian nationalism since the 19th century and more recently, a move for complete independence that has been gaining momentum over the past decade.

In 2010, pro-independence sentiment resurfaced with Spain’s Constitutional Court ruling denying the recognition of Catalonia as an autonomous nation within Spain. Seven years later, in October 2017, Catalonian voters held an illegal independence referendum, to which the Spanish central government responded with direct rule over the region.

Fast forward to current day, October 2019, when nine Catalan independence leaders are found guilty of sedition regarding the failed 2017 referendum, receiving prison sentences anywhere from nine to thirteen years, sparking protests throughout Catalonia, and most notably, the region’s capital city, Barcelona.

Now, only a week after the October 14 sentencing and subsequent demonstrations, there are hardly any indications that anything ever happened. As I turn onto La Rambla and into the city center, I am immediately thrown back into the hustle and bustle of tourism. Thousands of people swarm the mile long street like ants to neglected food. They each walk sporadically towards one of the dozens of beige tent-covered shops that line either side of the street.

People walk past me from all different directions carrying their new “I heart Barcelona” souvenirs, but only a few days ago, La Rambla was flooded with 80,000 protestors waving Catalonian flags and pro-independence signs in the air. The shops that are still visible now, even through the crowds of tourists, were completely swallowed by the demonstrators. Now, it seems as though the fast paced and unsympathetic force of tourism has completely buried any indication that conflict was present. Although visitors are eager to ignore the conflict that happened beneath their feet, I soon learned that this amnesia is not felt by Barcelona’s residents.

“Just three days ago, this street was filled with people,” says Maribel, motioning towards the now empty street in front of us. “Hundreds of people with flags and signs chanting ‘freedom for political prisoners.”

A woman in her early fifties, Maribel sits next to me on a bench outside of a small music shop. Though, as a Catalonian native, she is used to the intense sun, ringlets of her dark brown baby hairs still stick to her forehead, while the rest of her short untamed hair wisps around her head. Escaping the humidity is impossible, but Maribel and I are able to get some relief beneath the shadows of the tiled buildings.

Though we have just met, she speaks to me as she would an old friend. Growing up in the neighboring town of Sant Cugat, Maribel is familiar with the long history of Catalonia, a history I’ve only experienced from the desk of a high school Spanish classroom in Illinois.

“I was maybe thirteen or fourteen when Catalonia became recognized as a nationality. I remember it because it was around that time we started having elections and a president.”

What Maribel is referring to is the 1979 statute of autonomy, which recognized Catalonia as a distinct national community within Spain, and Catalan as an official language of the region along with Spanish. Prior to this process of regionalization, the region faced a suppression of Catalonian autonomy under the dictatorship of Francisco Franco.

Maribel continues on, seldom making eye contact. Instead, she looks somewhere over my shoulder as if the memories of her childhood are playing out on a screen behind me.

“I don’t really remember too much. I was a kid so I didn’t really pay much attention. To me it was all the same. I was Catalonian. I spoke Catalan as well as Spanish. I didn’t understand why we needed someone else to tell us what we already knew…But to my parents it was probably a bigger deal because they grew up while Franco was in power and remember it.”

She broke out of her trance and looked away from the imaginary screen over my shoulder and looked back at me, chuckling, “I guess that’s what happens when you’re a kid. You don’t want to be told what to do because you think you know everything.”

Although Maribel didn’t recall having strong feelings about the region’s autonomy when she was younger, that sentiment changed as she grew older.

“When I got older and started to understand more about our culture and history I realized that there are a lot of things shared between Spain and Catalonia’s history, but there are a lot of differences, too,” she explains with a confident cadence that is only achieved with age. “For me, it is not about money or politics. It is about identity. To have autonomy means we are recognized as a culture different from Spain’s. I don’t think that means we need complete independence, just recognition and respect from the Spanish government would be enough. But, if the choice is full independence or nothing at all, I choose independence.”

Maribel shrugs her shoulders as though the ultimatum holds no weight, but the sincerity in her eyes tells me that this is a stance she takes on with a quiet passion.

Other than the whirring cars and the occasional clusters of passersby, the street in front of us is rather quiet, a trait that Maribel finds to be quite a contrast to recent days.

“It was like everywhere I went people were all over the place. Here, there, everywhere,” she says about the recent protests, motioning her arms around her as if her hands were paintbrushes and the air was her canvas. This time, rather than looking off into the distance past my shoulder, Maribel describes what she saw with wide vibrant eyes.

“They would march down the street and twenty minutes later, I would look again and they’d still be there.”

Despite believing in Catalonian autonomy, Maribel did not participate in the protests, nor did she approve of the violence that came from them. Although the demonstrations she witnessed were peaceful, many, especially those in the city center, were not.

“I did not see any fires or violence but I know they were there and I don’t agree with it, but I understand why. You cannot ignore the fires.”

Yet, one week later, here we are, looking out into the deserted street, and I can’t help thinking that Maribel is right. Nobody could ignore the fires. The fires made the world listen, but now that they are gone, the world has gone back to forgetting.

The shadows of the buildings have now stretched out to touch the edge of the road. It is time for Maribel and I to part ways. She lights a cigarette as I gather my things. I walk back towards the main sidewalk leading back to the city center. Before I turn the corner, I glance back to the bench next to the music shop. As the puff of smoke from Maribel’s cigarette dissipates, I notice something I hadn’t noticed before. Above the music shop door, a little piece of paper hangs from its door frame that reads “Freedom for Catalan Prisoners.” It’s size is no match for the flags that hang from the balconies above it, but it is a reminder that the fight for independence continues on, even in the shadows.

 

 

Gabrielle is an English-Writing major at Illinois Wesleyan University, graduating in May 2021. She’s written for her local newspaper and magazine, and is currently a features writer for her university newspaper. Most recently, the Illinois College Press Association awarded Gabrielle with second place for her features writing. Gabrielle also enjoys creative nonfiction writing and is working on a piece about identity inspired by her multi-cultural upbringing. To learn more about Gabrielle, check out her website at https://gabrielleghaderi.wixsite.com/mysite.

Have you ever been asked a question so many times that you feel like you should carry around a business card to hand out that contains the answers? Mine would look a bit like;

Hi! My name is Miles and I’m anorexic. Yes, boys can have eating disorders too. No, I can’t just eat something. I’m aware that I don’t look skinny enough to have an eating disorder. Please do not ask me for advice on how to lose weight, I will not answer.

Having gone through this introduction process hundreds of times you start to memorize the interactions. They’ll try to give you advice, tell you that eating is easy, shame you for not caring enough to fuel your body, comment on your weight, all acting as if they’re a doctor and as if they clearly know what’s best for you. What they fail to realize is anorexia is an addiction. Anorexia is an addiction I have battled since I was ten years old. I became addicted to the feeling of feeling empty, addicted to the way I can’t sleep at night because of hunger pains, addicted to the comments friends and family make about me finally losing weight, addicted to knowing I’m the only one cold in a warm room as my body trembles and, vision blacks out when I stand.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried getting help. Talking to counselors and doctors proves to be as effective as talking to a brick wall that just nods and takes notes. The doctors tell me that I’m not skinny enough to be a concern but don’t worry they’ll keep an eye on it so that way when I completely destroy my body, they’ll be there to bill me for the hospitalization. The counselors try to wrap their minds around how I could be sick if my grades are fine. They give me videos to watch and books to read hoping I’ll use those stories as a warning. I’ve watched the videos but instead of listening to their warnings I use them as a guide. Studying their techniques for burning off  fifty calories after eating an apple, or how to mask the feeling of hunger during a fast.

Despite the years of struggling and starvation I’ve finally begun my road to recovery. I no longer idolize the images and media I once used as inspiration, I no longer force myself to burn calories after a meal, I no longer get joy from my addiction because I finally see it for what it is. Yes, there are times where I miss being sick. I miss having that feeling of control over my body and my life. Even though I consider myself recovered, I still have to face the possibility of relapse every time I walk into my kitchen. I know that this is just something I have to live with because while I can’t ever fully recover from anorexia, I can choose to not let it define who I am. I can finally change that business card;

Hi! My name is Miles and I’m a writer. I enjoy music and spoken poetry. My favorite color is green. I love acting and performing. Please feel free to ask me about video games, I could ramble on for hours. Last but not least, the fear of consumption no longer consumes me.

 

Miles Ortiz is a sixteen-year-old high school student from northwest Arkansas. He never once thought he would start writing, but after some persuasion from his teachers he decided to share his work. Miles took a creative writing course at his high school which is where he wrote his short essay for a final project. This essay, “The Fear of Consumption No Longer Consumes Me”, is based on Miles’ experiences growing up with anorexia. Though it is not ultimately Miles’ goal to become a writer, he appreciates the opportunity to share his story with others.

“Go back to your own country or we will get you deported!” a voice shouted from the stands. There was shouting and screaming everywhere, and I felt dizzy for a moment.

“Stand up for the national anthem or get the hell out of here!” Trying to keep my composure, I kept my head down and closed my eyes. I could feel everyone staring at my team, who were all kneeling in a line as the national anthem played in the background: land of the free and the home of the brave…

It was my first varsity volleyball game of the season. We were playing in an area known to be quite conservative, and I thought I was prepared for the hate when my team decided to kneel during the national anthem before the game. I was sure I had already heard everything. It was always “you don’t belong here” or “go back to your own country”, but this was a totally different level. After taking home a win after the first game, our team was silent the entire bus ride home. Even though it was a victory, it didn’t feel like one. We did not regret out decision to kneel, but there were young girls on the freshman and JV team who were terrified.

The next morning, our phones exploded with rude, racist, and disgusting comments about us. Observers at the game had “reviewed” us on the Google Review page of our school, remarking that we were “a disappointment to the country” and “extremely uneducated and dumb”. At the same time, we had an immense amount of support and kindness towards us as well. Students from our school and even other schools took their time to message me and the girls on team, thanking us for our bravery and courage. Even they understood that our silent protest was very controversial and dangerous, but I still feel like it was necessary.

The very next week, the varsity coaches had quit, leaving the team shocked and hurt. One of the teams we had played made the theme of their home game “America”. I’m guessing this was to harass and intimidate us. Every time we had walked into someone else’s gym, there were Trump supporters wearing their shirts plastered with hurtful words. It was upsetting to realize that a school board consecutively made a decision to allow spectators to belittle 14- to 17-year-old girls at a game and gave them the perfect opportunity to execute whatever they had planned.

If people gave us a chance to explain the reason behind why we kneeled, I would have clarified in the most civil way possible. But because I did not get a chance to, here is my explanation: I am kneeling for Breonna Taylor, Daniel Prude, George Floyd, Rayshard Brooks, Elijah McClain, and all the black people in this country who were killed under police brutality and an unjust law system. I am kneeling for all the people of color in this country who are treated unfairly on a day-to-day basis because of their race, ethnicity, and skin color. I am kneeling not to disrespect those who have laid down their lives for this country but to respect the fact that they did not sacrifice their life for a prejudiced America. True Americans are the people who care about the future of this country…they are people who will not let racial inequality and racism continue in the United States of America.

Our silent protest should make a statement to those who do not understand: we respect our country so much that we are fighting to make the phrase “land of the free and home of the brave” reality. We will not stand until that statement is true. When will real people stop becoming hashtags? When will our neighbors decide to sit down and listen to the other side of the conversation? Even though I am an Asian, I will never ever understand the inequality and injustice that black people face every single day. So as someone who will never experience nor understand, it is my duty to do everything I can to educate myself. Over these past couple months, I have learned so much about culture, respect, and kindness than I have learned in my entire lifetime.

I have read books, watched videos, and initiated conversations about race. This entire experience left me feeling empowered and desperate for change in this country. I truly believe that our country can make progress regarding racial equality and justice, but it takes both sides to compromise to make that advance. We have to learn to love one another and be willing to listen to those who have suffered from these events and experiences. This year has been a turmoil for all of us, but we have the ability to make it slightly easier for our neighbors by just listening. In the words of Malcolm X, “You can’t separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.”

 

ZiQing Kuang is a high school sophomore from Chandler, Arizona. She has worked with multiple magazines, including Girls’ Life Magazine. During her free time, ZiQing enjoys playing volleyball, reading, and watching her favorite shows on Netflix.

Some prisoners doing life without parole have obviously conceptualized breaking out. However, life isn’t a prison break series and Michael Scofield just never shows up. If he did, I’d be free from this concealed jail.

I stare at the ceiling in my room from dusk till dawn ,and I’ve learned a solitary life isn’t so bad once it becomes quotidian.Going to visit a friend or taking a stroll is not a bad idea, howbeit, owning only two pants and sweatshirts from five years ago as well as using my mums phone draws me back. Also, being around friends in varsity escalates my anxiety and college topics are all greek to me. Dreadlocks and casual look subjects are my specialty on the other hand. But maybe if I had money, I wouldn’t be so casual. I’d toss my buggy sweatshirt and trainers in the air and surprise my body with a corporate look, people would hear my heels clack from miles away like Alicia in her song,”One step at a time,”plus my family would have enough food to cobble dogs with.

Every girl dreams of the day her father will walk her down the aisle, but in my dream,He chases me like Freddy Krueger and it’s a nightmare on elm street. His love for alcohol more than family has left us helpless and pariahs in our community.He curses us, throws away our food and extends his savagery to the neighbours ,who as a result, want nothing to do with us.It has been like this since time immemorial. Memories of calling out for help while he dangled by a rope trying to commit suicide, as well as my sister hiding all the knives replay in my head.This childhood terror has left me battling with trauma based disorders and he’s the reason my life has more holes than Swiss cheese.

My mum, siblings and I bake to sustain ourselves, even so, a dollar a day doesn’t go a long way.Maybe one day he will change ,when pigs fly of course. Maybe one day I will let go, nonetheless, little Natasha will forever be stuck in a terrifying childhood and will never know how being taught how to ride a bike by her father feels like. This explains why adult Natasha cannot ride a bike.

I’ve thought of leaving many times but what about my mum and siblings? Plus, I just have nowhere to go. Saying my father has caused us great pain is an understatement, and like a bull chasing a matador, I am exhausted.

But as ridiculous as this may sound, my locks taught me to never relinquish my dreams. When I started my dreadlock journey, every day was disheartening as my hair just never locked. People with long thick locks were my role models, so I always asked them how they achieved this. I was told,” The time taken for hair to lock varies from person to person due to different hair textures. However,it all eventually locks.Keep on retwisting and never give up.” After heeding what I was told, my hair eventually locked seven months later. I now feel like Bob Marley’s niece but my Jamaican accent in the mirror isn’t so good though.What was meant for hair is what I see life through.

Every person goes through different struggles(hair texture),but if one keeps on trying(retwisting),their life eventually changes(locks).See why I said dreadlock topics are my specialty?

I believe that one day my history will be rewritten. Hope is what keeps me going and rekindles every flame that my tears put out. I am an eager beaver who stays up all night to write in English which is not my native language and someday somehow,I will write my way out. I’ve shared my story because it is not a cock and bull story, but my reality which I know will change.This is a place where I can turn every emotion into words.I don’t live with it, here I leave it, it’s my therapy. Maybe writing about adventure would have been more fun than this and I would show my mum. But how can I write something I don’t know? Every person has a story, this is mine.

Furthermore, I wrote to reach out to even just that one person who will find a reason not to give up if they read this.For if I’ve not given up, then nobody should.I still hold on to hope and people need hope.

If something good comes out of my writing, then people are gonna know how powerful one’s gift can be,this will make them search within themselves for that one thing they can use to change their lives. If more and more persons come out to share their stories,—solutions will form and healing will take place.

Like Andra Days song which got me an earworm: I’ll rise up, in spite of the ache and I’ll do it a thousand times again.

 

Natasha Mofia writes from Lusaka, Zambia.

The Zoom call makes Papaw’s face look redder than usual, and he’s shaved clean, which isn’t usual for November. All throughout the year, Papaw keeps clean shaven, but in November up until New Year’s, Nana allows any sort of facial hair he desires. By far the most popular among the grandchildren is the Santa beard. He can grow his white beard out into a jolly triangle and, with his rosy red cheeks and German nose, all he has to do is throw on a red T-shirt and take off his USAF ball cap and he’s Santa.

Not this year. Maybe Aunt Kissy read somewhere that COVID likes bearded men.

#

“Don Henley and I used to play a game,” Papaw begins. “With the others.”

He means Don Henley the future Eagles drummer; “others” refers to Freddy Neese his third cousin, Jerry Surratt who would die in a car accident after signing a deal with Kenny Rogers, and Richard Bowen who was “just there”. The “others” and Don Henley were two years ahead of Papaw at Linden-Kildare High School. They still invited him along, even though his success at football directly contrasted Don Henley’s own failure at the sport, which led him to music. At night, a game was played, and it involved Highway 59.

 

As a small town resident myself, I understand how a highway can quickly morph from a means of transportation into an opportunity for entertainment. A weekend activity for Linden teenagers involved drag racing, dirt biking, or just watching the cars pass their monotonous way.

Sometimes, they played tricks on eighteen-wheelers.

From what I can gather, it was just those five; the whole of Linden did not indulge in such dangerous behaviors. Just those five would visit a closed gas station at two in the morning, where old tires were wrapped in brightly colored cellophane to make them look brand new, like oversized candies. Just those five stole an old tire (Orange, Papaw thinks) and rolled it to the highway’s edge, where they arranged it so a passing trucker, who would be barely awake and not thinking straight at two in the morning, would think it had fallen out of a tire-supplier’s truck bed. Just those five knew the allure of a brand new tire to poor truckers, who would slam on the brakes (It takes eighteen-wheelers a long time to stop, Papaw reminds us) and run out of the truck to find the tire. Just those five rolled the tire into the woods by then, leaving a bewildered trucker standing at the empty side of the highway, wondering what medication would make him stop seeing ditched cellophane-wrapped luck turned sour.

Papaw can’t even remember how many times they did it. They transported the tire to the highway in Don Henley’s senior gift: a four-thousand-pound Chevy Cutlass that blended into the night. It never got old, and it helped take their minds off college, missed opportunities, and what could come next.

There was one trucker who stopped faster than the others. Papaw and Don Henley bent to roll the tire into the woods, shuffling feet against asphalt; they were too slow. The trucker, eyes bleary from the road, squinted to the promised orange treasure and saw high school punks trundling it away, giggling like babies. Perhaps he roared in anger. Papaw only remembers that the trucker bolted back to the cab of his truck, gunned the engine, and chased the five troublemakers down a one-lane dirt road not meant for eighteen-wheelers at all. The boys, barefoot, ran harder than they ever had before, the headlights bearing down on them and hot panic making them forget that Cass County famously had rattlesnakes hiding in the sand. The boys were terrified the trucker wouldn’t stop, not only because anger was a stronger fuel than diesel, but because the road was so thin, he had no choice. So, they ran and he drove because that was all either party could do. The tire had been tossed into the woods — abandoned — at first sign of the chase. Eventually, the boys outmaneuvered the mechanical behemoth and disappeared into the dirt bike paths under quiet pine trees.

 

That’s the last time I saw Don Henley, Papaw tells us. He went to college after that. I heard about the band and the girlfriend when I got out of the military.

We sit in silence, wishing the Eagles were here to laugh with us about when everything was simple and impossible and real. And I want to give Papaw a hug, a Santa-sized one – to thank him for running fast enough, back to Bear Creek where his mother waited – but he’s in Houston, and my neck is cramped from staring at the screen.

#

We wave goodbye and the screen goes dark. I study my face in the aftermath. Would I have ever taunted eighteen-wheelers at two in the morning with future Eagles, if I’d had the chance?

Probably not. Too many rattlesnakes.

Maybe Papaw could have been a Rockstar, but rockstars need to know more than three songs.

 

 

 

Emma Hill is a published author of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. She has appeared in the literary journals HUMID, The Bell Tower, and Route 7 Review and received recognition from various local chapbook competitions. When not writing furiously, she is enjoying her final year in Stephen F. Austin State University’s Creative Writing undergraduate program. She also edits essays for SFASU’s Academic Assistance and Resource Center, often with her not-so-helpful cat batting at the keyboard.