California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Angel Ibarra is a first-generation college student who experienced traveling and studying abroad for the first time. Journaling from a self-perspective, Ibarra narrates the found feelings and struggles that foreigners face in a place that is not theirs. The experience leads Ibarra to discover a new piece of himself, reinvigorating his desire for life. If only he weren\u27t trapped in obligation, he would stay. It seems as though Paris has claimed another

Ibarra, Angel

Angel Ibarra
California State University, Los Angeles
Hachiko Syndrome
Volume 4 | Number 1 | Fall 2024
Abstract
Angel Ibarra is a first-generation college student who experienced traveling and studying 
abroad for the first time. Journaling from a self-perspective, Ibarra narrates the found 
feelings and struggles that foreigners face in a place that is not theirs. The experience 
leads Ibarra to discover a new piece of  himself, reinvigorating his desire for life. If  only he 
weren’t trapped in obligation, he would stay. It seems as though Paris has claimed another.
Building Bridges
Recommended Citation
Ibarra, Angel. “Hachiko Syndrome.” Text & Type, vol. 4, no. 1, 2024. CSU Open Journals. 
Available at: https://journals.calstate.edu/textandtype/issue/view/451
Articles printed in Text & Type are published by CSU Open Journals under a Creative Commons (CC) copyright 
license. Authors retain ownership of  all rights under copyright in all versions of  the article. Specifically, the journal 
uses a CC BY-NC-SA license. This license allows reusers to distribute, remix, adapt, and build upon the material 
in any medium or format for noncommercial purposes only, and only so long as attribution is given to the creator. 
If  you remix, adapt, or build upon the material, you must license the modified material under identical terms.
California State University, Los Angeles
Department of  English
1 
 
______________________________________________________________________________________ 
 
ANGEL IBARRA 
______________________________________________________________________________________ 
 
Hachiko Syndrome 
 
I am still waiting; I don’t know if I can stand here for much longer. The security officer 
is looking at me weirdly, and I can’t help but feel obligated to move—the worst part being 
that I don’t know French.  The only words that come out of my mouth with a faint, but 
permanent accent is bonjour, bonsoir, avoir, merci, and parlez-vous Anglais (Do you speak English)?   
I never thought I would be here despite the many months of planning and excitement. 
It all felt like fantasy, like something that was never going to leave that room. I was not even 
supposed to end up in Paris. Originally, it was supposed to be two short weeks in the English 
countryside, but I ended up getting an additional two weeks added to my trip by my dad. He 
said he wanted to get rid of me for as long as possible.  
Traveling alone is weird, especially since you are not there to do the touristy things: 
experience the nightlife or go to the Olympics. Instead, you imagine what your life would be 
like if you lived here. I had always done that; imagine what my life would be like if I lived there. 
Sometimes, I would go somewhere, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to 
return and stay. That was Paris for me. It was the first of four long, exhausting, beautiful weeks 
I will never forget. It was my favorite place out of all the places I have ever wanted to live. 
The champion of champions, the city of love that I do love, Gay Parie, and trust me, I was 
Gay in Paire.   
The subway lines were magical; I could get from one end of the city to the other in 
minutes, and they came every three. Beautiful buildings that had lived longer than their tenants 
and the plethora of art in which the city was just dripping in—it was as if Paris went to go fill 
its pails and had slipped in, emerging just soaked in beauty and culture. The way that you could 
throw a rock and just know that wherever it landed, it was beautiful, and the one time I was 
not made to feel different, because I did not look like a certain type of American. But the best 
part that I still think of today, and every day since that day, is the Seine (despite its disturbing 
color). The way it would look in the setting sun, a simple background to French life. It felt like 
home.   
I think that is what I have been doing for years: whenever I traveled outside of my 
little bubble, all I wanted was to get away. I grew up feeling like a monster because sometimes 
I would come off as rude or condescending, but the French have a stereotype of being just 
that. I dreamed of good public transit, and the French gave me that. I dreamed of a place 
where I could be by water (a strange but comforting thing); the French built their capital city 
around a river. It seemed like for everything I wanted or felt insecure about, the French 
comforted me.   
Have you ever chased after a dream for so long, not even fully aware of what exactly 
that dream was, until you achieved it? A dream that makes you question whether your other 
dreams are still your dreams, or if they have become fantasies—embellished versions of 
themselves that have grown ten feet tall, covered in pixie dust glued on, with pieces of fabric 
2 
 
that are not even draped right. A dream that makes you question everything you have built 
thus far, and yet makes you happier than ever?   
I went to Paris for the first time (it will not be the last), and I kick myself for not doing 
more. For experiencing the city the way I was supposed to: for only going to tourist places, 
getting drunk with people who possibly did not know my language, and becoming friends with 
two random people I met in a bar. No, what I was doing was a moment in which I still cry 
over. I was taking a long stroll along the Seine. I crossed this bridge to get back toward my 
hotel, and I was walking through this park right next to the river where they had these little 
theaters that would go down to little stages surrounded by stairs/seats on one side and the 
seine on the other. A person played music from a boombox that looked like a set piece from 
an 80s movie. It was playing music that people could slow-dance to, and they were. All I could 
remember was the faces of the people judging me for looking at them, thinking I was judging 
them, but all I wanted was someone to slowly dance with.   
At that moment, I thought about the life that I would eventually have in this found 
home. I would be gray and old, coming from the market with my old, gray French lover I had 
married decades ago. We would be walking along the water because I demanded to have an 
apartment overlooking the Seine. We would have a little dog named Simone, named after a 
dog I saw in my favorite show, trying to keep up with its little legs and getting us to feed it 
more of the bread that we just got from the market. We would hear this music, and he would 
grab my arm, and we would slow-dance, too.  
When I got home after a few days of rest, I wanted to book my return flight to Paris. 
I wanted to learn French to get to know the people you need to fight with before they become 
sweet. I wanted to try my darndest to justify living there despite my dreams that might as well 
be set in stone. The thing is, I am in another life. Gosh, how exhausted I am from saying, “In 
another life.” Constantly having to talk myself off that ledge and return to where I am expected 
to be. How much I wish I could just be like everyone else.  
I am tired of waiting. I’m tired of saying “in another life.” What about this one? I’m 
tired of feeling trapped in my dreams, and waiting for when I get to take a break from them 
and return. I’m tired of constantly holding myself to this higher standard that I and everyone 
around me have created. Why do I have to work so hard while others get to have fun and have 
their cheeky little fantasies come to reality? Or worse, blame their life circumstances on 
everyone around them except themselves.   
But no, I must be ambitious. I have to aspire to greatness because I have been told 
since I was young “If there is anyone who is capable of doing anything, it’s you.” Because I'm 
still waiting for that praise, that validation—the sign of a good job done. I told myself for years 
to wait for them to come around, for an escape, a savior, or for the window to open itself. I’m 
tired of waiting for that day. It doesn’t matter if it’s a door, a train station, or an envelope in 
the mail. Standing solid and tall, I am sick and tired of being compared to the tower. Why am 
I waiting for something that is not guaranteed to arrive? I see all of these versions of me 
walking around: the one who stayed, the one who ran away, and the one who fell in love. All 
I ever do is wait.   
It will never arrive, will it? That dumb train carrying all my hopes and dreams that 
whisk me away so I can finally have my filmic ending, which makes us feel good but grow up 
believing in a fantasy. I don’t care if I look manic in this train station anymore. I don’t want to 
care anymore, but I do. I still show up every morning with the same underlying hope of a 
3 
 
result, finding ways to pass the time, find comfort, and move up the line. But it doesn’t matter. 
I could change everything I do but still arrive at the same result. Cause I am waiting. I am still 
waiting.  
  
Do I even have a ticket? Am I supposed to even get on that train? 
  
I’m not saying I want to run away; I simply wish I had the option. So it won’t feel an 
immense heartbreak every time I have to say to something I want now: “in another life.” The 
only person to blame for my heartbreak appears to be myself, covered in my blood. I’m the 
one who is supposed to get out. The golden child, the brat who got everything and yet still 
finds something to complain about. Am I still compared to that damned tower, tethered to it, 
and I am in some way waiting in it? If so, I guess I’m waiting for me to save me. Still wanting 
that good boy even though he will never come.   
There was so much pressure, so many expectations, and for once, I felt them all melt 
away. A trip across the pond and eight hours ahead fully made me feel independent and free. 
Something changed in me over there; I don’t know if it’s some foreign bug; let’s hope not. But 
it’s changed the way that I want my life to look. I still want the same things, but I want them 
differently.   
The web is like a city. I don’t know if I fell prey to its whimsy or simply found another 
home; regardless, I found comfort and peace in it. Instead of dying there, something was born 
there. There with the view of the tower, the train, and the river. It’s still there, and I must 
remind myself it will always be. It will only be a connection through the city of stars, a transfer 
to a red eye with an elbow in your side, and a short cab ride away. It will be there standing tall 
waiting for me, not me waiting for it.  
 
La pauvre petite créature allait à la gare tous les jours. Pour eux, c’était un nouveau jour, mais c’était aussi 
un autre jour perdu. En attendant le jour où ils reviendront en espérant que ce sera bientôt. Voulant que ce 
soit bientôt.  
 


English

Hachiko Syndrome

As Karina Mora, a first-gen Chicana, wraps up her first year in college, she reflects on her experiences through the lens of her ethnic intersectionality and first-gen struggles in and out of the academic setting. She acknowledges the challenges many first-generation students have to overcome while honoring all the sacrifices made on all parts to get her to where she is today. Celebrating the silver linings of her first-gen study abroad experience, Karina hopes this is just the first of many adventures she will voyage on

Mora, Karina

Karina Mora
California State University, Los Angeles
Amongst the Roses
Volume 4 | Number 1 | Fall 2024
Abstract
As Karina Mora, a first-gen Chicana, wraps up her first year in college, she reflects on 
her experiences through the lens of  her ethnic intersectionality and first-gen struggles in 
and out of  the academic setting. She acknowledges the challenges many first-generation 
students have to overcome while honoring the sacrifices made on all parts to get her to 
where she is today. Celebrating the silver linings of  her first-gen study abroad experience, 
Karina hopes this is just the first of  many adventures she will voyage on. 
Building Bridges
Recommended Citation
Mora, Karina. “Amongst the Roses.” Text & Type, vol. 4, no. 1, 2024. CSU Open Journals. 
Available at: https://journals.calstate.edu/textandtype/issue/view/451
Articles printed in Text & Type are published by CSU Open Journals under a Creative Commons (CC) copyright 
license. Authors retain ownership of  all rights under copyright in all versions of  the article. Specifically, the journal 
uses a CC BY-NC-SA license. This license allows reusers to distribute, remix, adapt, and build upon the material 
in any medium or format for noncommercial purposes only, and only so long as attribution is given to the creator. 
If  you remix, adapt, or build upon the material, you must license the modified material under identical terms.
California State University, Los Angeles
Department of  English
1 
 
______________________________________________________________________________________ 
 
KARINA MORA 
______________________________________________________________________________________ 
 
Amongst the Roses 
 
“Make a wish!” a phrase spread across our childhood every time we crossed paths with 
a dandelion. Under other circumstances, I might have gotten myself to wish for the newest 
toy or for my family to miraculously afford a Disneyland Resort weekend trip. However, as 
the daughter of immigrant parents, I recognized from a tender age the lack of privilege I had 
compared to my peers. Not born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I took matters into my 
own hands, and for every birthday candle, every penny thrown into a fountain, every wishing 
star, and every dandelion, I made a wish with my family in mind. I always believed my wishful 
thinking would give my family more financial and social security, allowing us to grow old with 
survival mode turned off. Enduring so many adversities as an immigrant household, we were 
constantly living in a state of fight or flight.   
Putting family first may come as second nature to a first-gen Latina. The importance 
of family is a value instilled in many Hispanic households generation after generation. No 
matter how many silly childhood aspirations we chase, we must do it near home and our familia. 
Like myself, many first-gen students are met with demands and responsibilities to fulfill for 
their families, sometimes even leaving some sons and daughters torn between family 
obligations and pursuing an education. Choosing the latter didn’t guarantee me a break from 
the former. As part of a minority community, we have the short end of the stick, and I am still 
left living on the edge, constantly walking on eggshells. I have taken every step with my family 
in mind and never fathomed the idea of what it would be like to not be by their side. With this 
in mind, something like traveling abroad was never on my radar.   
Family isn’t the only fundamental value in my life; friendship has always been equally 
important. The most memorable friendship I’ve had involves one of my favorite people: 
Kaylee Zhen. Kaylee was the best I could ever ask out of a friend, and I fear that nobody came 
close after her. We met in elementary school, two timid girls, each struggling to learn English. 
When we met, I knew her as Ying and always called her my Ying Ying. I never spoke her native 
language, but I always did my best to help translate big teacher talk into something she would 
understand. Over time, we grew closer, and my Ying Ying kept getting placed in my classes. 
We spent endless hours drawing, coloring, and making origami during recess. We were 
inseparable. One day, she broke the news that she would be leaving for New York. We were 
both devastated to part ways but determined to send her off as best we could. I had one task 
on her final day: to bring tape. Kaylee's last day came along, and she showed up with paper. 
We taped the sheets together and made the most enormous origami basket we had ever laid 
eyes on, filled with origami roses.  
It took me years to recover from losing my best friend, and in that time, I would keep 
replicating every fold she taught me, afraid to lose the craft that brought us together. Amidst 
grieving our lost friendship, I couldn't imagine building my life and, from one day to another, 
adjusting to a new environment. Seeing the state her absence left me in, I realized I could 
never do that to my own family and friends. I thought back to my family’s expectation always 
2 
 
to stick together, and maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. The idea of being away from them now 
seemed too daunting to imagine. It was supposed to be Karina and Kaylee forever, until she 
hopped on a plane and I never heard from her again. Unbeknownst to me, a decade later, it 
would be my turn to hop on a plane, once again part of a Karina and Kaylee duo, on a trip I 
would hold close to my heart forever.    
Who knew replying to an email would set me on board a flight to England six months 
later? Despite my hyper-independence as the oldest daughter, I never imagined leaving my 
family’s side during college, especially not in my first year here. But after receiving that flyer 
advertising a study abroad program in Durham, England, I took the leap and enrolled in the 
class. Soon I had made a new friend (a new Kaylee!), and we were about to embark on an 
unforgettable trip. Contrary to the college life you see in the media, it wasn’t all sunshine and 
rainbows. There seemed to be a common denominator between my journey in college and my 
experience studying abroad: imposter syndrome. I soon came to recognize that it sprawled all 
over my school journey, overseas and at home. Even standing in front of a castle or 
overlooking city from the the Eiffel Tower, I kept asking myself if my hard work got me here 
or just suerte. What exactly made me qualified in a room full of English majors who seemed to 
know what they were doing? Was it the right moment, right time kind of situation?   
After the most enriching two weeks of studying abroad, it was time for Kaylee and I 
to hit the road to London and Paris—even typing that out just now was astonishing to me. 
What seemed inconceivable was now just a train ride away. Next stop: culture shock. It was 
now Kaylee and I against the world, together challenging the cultural stigma of leaving behind 
our families. Even though I knew the U.K. and Europe would be different than the U.S., I 
was not prepared for the lack of representation I experienced while traveling. As we looked 
around the packed airport and busy streets, we seemed to be the only brown Latinas around. 
Although my language was nothing new to London, I didn’t feel the same connection to 
hearing Spaniards speak Spanish on the streets as I would hearing others at home. As a matter 
of fact, speaking Spanish around the Spanish was intimidating. What if my accent sounded 
funny to them? Overall, there were a lot of “shocks” to get used to in England: the abundant 
greenery, sheep, and roundabouts, for example. However, my culture shock also involved both 
the absence and presence of my own culture.    
Amidst the overwhelming change of scenery, I was surprised to find traces of home 
at times: for instance, getting a sense of family as I played UNO with my new friends, 
surrounded by the nostalgic sounds of bachata in the background. Listening to a bachata 
playlist from one of my Durham friends, who is not a native Spanish speaker, was not on my 
bingo card when I left home, but it was comforting. Then there was stepping foot into the 
Parisian boulangeries and getting a taste of my panaderías back home. Somehow, the most 
refreshing moment was hearing someone speak in Spanish. As Kaylee explored the markets 
around London, I was on my own mission, determined to see the changing of the guards. I 
managed to navigate the tube alone and marveled at the surreal moment I found myself in: 
walking alone around London, staring up at Buckingham Palace, the epitome of my newly 
gained independence. I was scouting around the flower beds for a good picture spot when I 
heard giggling next to me. It was a little girl laughing as she was taking pictures of her mom 
from all sorts of angles. I smiled, and her mother turned to me, asking, "Nos tomas una foto?" 
It was subtle but I had recognized it, español latinoamericano, mi raza. We made small talk and 
3 
 
hearing them speak in my accent made me feel like my mom had scooped me up after being 
lost at a shopping center.   
Seeing that mother with her daughter was a bittersweet moment. I had traversed 
through many obstacles, but how wonderful it would have been to share the sight of 
Buckingham Palace with my own family. I saw my brother and mother reflected in them, and 
I couldn’t help but grapple with guilt. Enjoying this trip without my family suddenly felt like I 
was abandoning them. I thought of how I could have helped out my family a little more. Not 
only had I left my dad a day before Father's Day, but my mother contracted COVID after 
leaving me at the airport. I was absent at times when they may have needed me present. With 
my siblings not in school for the summer, I could only think about how much help my mom 
would need to take care of my younger siblings and the two kittens I cared for back home.  
In the weeks following my trip, I felt like a chasm had opened between me and my 
friends and family back at home. When I shared my experience, I was no longer relatable to 
my friends, and my extended family made me feel like a presumida, a show-off. While I thought 
I was changing for the better, perhaps I had changed too much. There was now an 
uncomfortable disparity between me and my social circle. They didn’t see this opportunity as 
an enriching and transformative study-abroad experience but rather a vacation for me to 
escape from my responsibilities at home. When I returned, I was expected to pick up right 
where I left off.   
For me, studying abroad has been one of the most transformative experiences of my 
life. I met new people, gained insight into new cultures, and, most importantly, gained a new 
understanding of myself and reflected on my life experiences. It’s an opportunity that has 
broadened my horizons and will only continue to do so. Going forth, I know embracing the 
new knowledge and experiences I gained while abroad is not betraying my persona or the 
expectations my culture has for me, but rather intertwined with my experience as a first-
generation college student, and I should celebrate it for the milestone that it is.   
When it comes to Chicanos, the education system is not the first time we may not feel 
competent enough in a setting. Between the patriotism of both our cultures, we are in a 
constant battle to fit both standards. In the search for a better future, we have tolerated 
injustices, microaggressions, and being ostracized, all in the name of “the hustle.” As a 
Chicana, it’s hard to keep up with white standards and be accepted when I don’t fit Eurocentric 
beauty standards or make an effort to erase my accent along with other aspects of who I am. 
While this kind of assimilation may feel like the minimum for Americans, for my family in 
Mexico, I was being white-washed and letting the States get to my head. There’s no winning; 
every time you try to please one side, you must disappoint the other. I wrote a poem that 
speaks to the struggle intertwined in our history as immigrants, having to endure so much 
while doing our best to assimilate to American standards. I seek to not just speak to our first-
gen college experience but to all my gente who have been trampled over and forced to remain 
complacent and silent, succumbing to the power the roses hold over them.  
 
Mayan Dandelion   
 
On a journey my parents embarked  
As they followed the great monarch   
¡vuela, mariposa, vuela!  
4 
 
Their frail wings beating against all odds   
While praying to the gods   
For strength and peace of mind   
They left everything behind,   
Photos, a home and familia,   
All to migrate with the butterflies  
For their dream truly never dies   
A future for their children,  
To them would suffice   
  
And now, here I lie   
Amidst a bed, a strange bed; a flower bed   
I’m a dandelion in a sea of red   
Roses with a richness hard to achieve   
A rich red and vibrant green down to their leaves   
Adored by the people, for the people   
Alas, I cannot have what she has  
I, too, bloom  
I, too, grow in the same green as her   
Yet, when people come near, they trample all over me   
And for her, they flow right around her, as if she were a rock in a stream   
The only green is no longer the grass surrounding me but rather the green in my eyes   
All I can do is wither in the sun’s blazing beam  
As dandelions are pulled, wishing upon the American dream   
  
Nonetheless, I sleep in a different bed  
I am dirty and impure   
I am invasive and foreign  
I am a weed   
And that's everything I seem to be   
Sprayed and drowned in herbicide and pesticides   
Ashamed, my brothers and sisters let it slide   
Surely, this will be our demise   
All this just to keep the roses clean and pristine  
Even to the colibrís I am unseen   
My gente, my coibrí, fly right past me   
As they search for the bright colors  
The colors that keep them alive    
The nectar that gives them a drive  
  
I don't wear the red that the colibrí sees  
Nobody hesitates, not even the bees  
Ni de aquí, ni de allá  
I am merely but a dandelion   
But to be amongst the roses/  
5 
 
This is the price  
I’m no rose garden, filling mansions and white houses   
But nothing compares to my people’s flowers and palaces   
Today, they try to pull me out and have their wishes granted  
But my roots?   
My roots are planted  
 


Amongst the Roses

Hinchman, Edward

Essence of Pastoral 
Like a lunatic somewhere are b l i nking 
The fam ished lawns. The spr inklers s i lver 
Are churn ing. The earnest grass 
M eanwhi le-but not u ngraciously-guzzles and drop, 
The seasons are turni n g; summer 
P lumps in the suburbs. Look, 0 look to the sky! 
But the oar-d inghies mann ing the sky 
S ink  l i ke sunspots of somebody b l i nki ng. 
The future, the past, the summer, 
This b l i nki ng,-that special someth ing s i lver 
Is heir to b ut precedes,-al l  th is drops 
Down to, nestles i n, transf igures, pol itely, the grass. 
But is it anythi ng, real ly, to the grass? 
Are these saffron devices of sky 
More than mere m instrelsy, than drops 
Of rai n or m u n it ions, h owever wel l  boxed? The b l inkin! 
Stems from the sting ing, which grows to a s i lver 
Suffering at the root of summer. 
0 for society polite as summer! 
The Social Graces themselves shal l  weave these stalks 
grass 
And weed through the weft of a s i lver 
Loom, l unatic fates! And the sky, 
Descending, u pended, ever shal l  be b l i nking 
Del icious d u m b  desuetude as it drops. 
Standing and standing I drop, it  drops 
My attention. It is the same every s u mmer. 
No use to be b l i nki ng and b l i n ki ng: 
I t  is a lways the same. Th is grass, 
The fence, the one tree, the dog-star,-dead; the sky 
M erely m irrors my puddle, its putrid greyish-si lver. 
1 0  I Edward Hinchman 
Where are the songs of s u m mer, the si lver 
Li n ings, the shin ings, the golden d rops 
of cider, l ightsome on the tongue? A sky 
somewhere is peal ing, a s u m mer 
Is kneel ing, root-broken, in  its g rass, 
And here I go b l ind ly b l inking . . .  
I n  a silver of blinking, 
A sky, a sum mer, 
Rustled, wind less, sti l l  d rops i n  the restive g rass. 
Edward Hinchman I 11 


Essence of Pastoral

Allen-Kee, Deanna

Untitled

Lawson, Mike

Two Poems: "Grandma Turns 93" "Fade Out"

Bienert, Keith

Keith Bienert 
22 
beast fable 
(future memories of the swamp) 
two beasts 
one with a single eye 
fight beyond the clearing 
in the alkaloid rain 
tips of spires 
rise from the swamp 
beast battle thick in mud 
that floats on sunken rooftops 
of manhattan banks 
and the thousand eyed beast 
can not make a single picture 
in its ancient mind 
twisting suction cups 
vice the one eyed sapien 
down into the salty mud 
serpent twisting eyes spinning 
moaning to overcome with sheer force 
while the cyclops beast 
holds its breath beneath the surface 
knowing it will live forever 
0 


Beast Fable: (Future Memories of the Swamp)

Memmer, Scott

Scott Memmer 
The Spring 
Home is the place where, when you have to go 
there, 
They have to take you in. 
-Robert Frost 
Joshua Kirk pulled his workgloves off and held them in his 
hands; not much else needed to be done. Already the stalks 
had been cut, gathered and bound-the bundles tied, the 
fields plowed to a deep, rich brown, the beans frozen, the 
berries canned. Then the three of them, he and his two sons, 
had mended the fences, going carefully along the perimeters 
of the fields, straightening posts and stringing wire, digging 
postholes and generally setting the land to rights-until they 
stood together in a hollow and watched a caterpillar spin her 
silk amid the twigs of a broken milkweed. Such were the rites 
of Autumn. 
Josh watched the thinness of morning hint across the sky 
to the east. "Here, Boss-boss- boss!" he called as he opened 
the gate and let the cattle out of the pen. Then he climbed, 
grunting, onto the top of the fence, removed his coat, cap and 
glasses, and set them, along with his gloves, on the post to his 
right He placed his hands on the upper-most rail and snuck 
the heels of his boots through the lower slats of the fence. "Go 
on, yuh old bovine," he muttered to one of the cows. "Go git 
yuhself fat." 
He let his eyes wander to the farmhouse, then back again 
to his seat by the barn. He steadied himself on the rail and 
looked again at the house. 
At this time of year, for what little good it would do him 
regret was almost like a game to him. He counted over and 
over in his mind, in regulated disappointment, the fourteen 
eggs he'd found cracked and spoiled in the chicken coop the 
day before, considered the paucity of the year's soybean crop, 
the scant weight of a new calf, then weighed the possibility of 
rain. The land, tilled, drear and naked as it was, would be 
particularly susceptible to erosion, he felt Maybe they 
shouldn't have cleared it so_ early; maybe they should've 
waited a few weeks. But the dog days of August had been so 
hot and dry, so windless and aromatic, that the corn had 
grown faster than he'd ever seen it-so fast you could hear it 
creak and moan at night, recovering. So they'd cut it early and 
let it sit at that 
"Go git on!" he called to the cattle. He grabbed his cap and 
glasses, leaving his jacket and workgloves there on the post 
behind him, and slid his spectacles onto the bridge of his 
nose. He brushed his hair back with his left hand, pulled his 
cap forward with his right, and tugged the bill across his brow, 
then watched the headlights of a pickup pass along the road. 
Sixty years. 
He rubbed his chin and traced the lights of the pickup 
until they vanished behind some willows. 
Was he really sixty years old? 
Somewhere in the dark a freight passed. Josh walked 
across the barnyard, crossing at the edge of the lawn, and saw 
his wife and sons sitting at the kitchen table. Suddenly the 
horn of the freight sounded long and low, filling the air with a 
sonorous, plaintive cry; then, as quickly as it had come, it 
faded and was gone. "Git on, Boss-git on! " Josh cried, this 
time striking the rump of a nearby bull. The bull snorted and 
sprang into a trot, and Josh returned to the barn as the last of 
the kine plodded from the pen; he shut the gate and bolted it 
securely behind them. 
On the far side of the field dawn poked its nose like a mole 
amid the clumps of hoarfrost weeds. Josh gazed over the trees 
and located in the distance the shadows of the steelmill 
smokestacks. It wasn't as if he minded steelmills, he told 
himself, he just wished thery weren't so close to his farm. But 
they were, and there wasn't much else he could say about it. 
He leaned against the gate and ran his fingers over the 
corrugated aluminum. 
Gazing d own the cattlepath, past the silos and the empty 
propane tanks and the rusted harrows, he thought of the 
56 
spring. He could almost see himself kneeling in the leaves 
before the pooL could almost taste the water, the way it ran 
down his chin, how cool it felt on his lips. It'd been a long time 
since he drank there, and suddenly he was very thirsty. The 
water would be sparking and pellucid, flowing up through 
ferns and clay and granite, and when he leant over to drink 
the blood would rush to his face and his toes would curl in his 
boots. The water would startle him, for it stung with an 
unaccustomed abruptness (it was quite cold), and the excess 
would dribble down his chin and onto the front of his shirt 
Opening his eyes, Josh found himself standing on the 
ground beside the pen. Gradually the sun had drawn away 
the curtain of night so that now the land, though still ill­
defined and disproportionate, had begun to realize itself 
through the initial etchings of dawn. The stars had dissipated 
somewhat, while the moon, sinking, had grown more and 
more yellow. 
Josh scuffed the toe of his boot through some straw and 
glanced at the farmhouse. 
"Oh, helL ther's scarce a sliver 'a light in the sky," he said; 
"they'll be in there a quarter of an hour if a minute . . .  " 
He stepped across the yard, past the fenceposts and the 
gate, and in the half-light found the trail. The cowbells 
sounded in the shadows as he followed their tolling. First 
light teased the horizol\ while squirrels and chipmunks, their 
feet moving swifter than their hearts, scurried ahead to hide 
themselves amid fallen leaves or behind rocks. Josh felt his 
feet compress the ground; he watched the last stars flare out 
briefly, then dissolve. Over to his left a stream murmured in 
its unquiet bed. He stepped through a pile of leaves, crackling 
them, snapping a branch beneath his foot, and looking down 
to see the dew gathering on the tips of his boots, noted that 
with the motion of his walking the moisture would bead and 
fall away. Before him, wavering dimly, the shadows of the 
cattle trudged outward in a line. He passed one or two of 
them, whacking their rumps as he went by. 
Off to the east daylight further began to invade the dark 
The trees set themselves against the sky like crowds of great, 
bent tooth-picks. Josh noted the latticework of oak, sycamore 
57 
and bramble, the fine line of earth and sky, the furrowed and 
stilled cornfields, the rows of barbed· wire fences, the few 
distant, flickering porchlamps. The factory smoke would rise 
from the stacks in a matter of minutes, there where if you 
were lucky the wind would blow it back to the city, there 
where it was all smoke anyway. 
The path widened to a road after a time and ran beside a 
row of elms until it came to an aluminum gate marked, NO 
TRESPASSING! Josh unlocked the lock here, slipped the 
rope over the top of the post (he had to secure his land to keep 
the millworkers from hunting on it) , shoved the gate with his 
body, slid in and walked it back into position. He fastened the 
gate with the r ope and kicked it once for good measure. 
"If I ever catch one of those bastards on my land again, " he 
muttered, "I'll kill 'urn and use 'urn for fertilizer. " 
He crossed the field, his feet tracing minutely the stiff 
furrows, the uneven roll of the land, where there was no path 
now and where pebbles, branches, rocks and cowflop con­
tested for his balance. He thrust his boots through the mulch 
and saw the darker forest ahead. "If those bastards ever piss in 
my spring, I'll string 'urn up by their ballsr " he said, entering 
the f orest, feeling the warmth of the maples and their dryness 
beneath, walking several hundred yards until he was well 
into the depth of the trees, then stopping. For no apparent 
reason he thought of his childhood then. He remembered the 
trees he'd climbed as a boy-the branches and the sky and the 
aphids that crawled all over his arms and legs; he remem­
bered the white farmhouse where he lived with his parents, 
the algeaic horse trough behind the barn, the frogs in the 
horse trough in summer; he thought of his old dog Felix. Here 
beneath the trees the earth smelled musty and damp, here it 
was not cold. Josh turned about and looked where he had 
come. It seemed far, so very far .. . he judged it to be about 
sixty years. He noted the fences which separated the fields 
into fallow and fecund. Someday he would be on the other 
side of the fence. It came upon him then-a sudden, cogent 
realization-that the light of the last stars always seemed to 
find the sorrow of the earth, its salty toil, it fields and barren 
wastes. 
58 
Morning was breaking. Josh felt his chest rise and falL rise 
and falL and heard his expirations unsettle the air with a hush. 
Slowly he knelt himself on the ground, bending himself at the 
waist, and buried his face in the leaves. "Don't take it from 
me," he whispered into the soil. He dug his fingernails deeply 
into the leaves, pressing his forehead into the humus beneath. 
"Don't take it from me," he repeated. He arose silently on his 
knees then, rubbing the leaves over his eyelids, down his face 
and across his throat, and felt the moisture seep into his skin. 
He stood, brushed himself off, and walked deeper into the 
forest 
He found the stream and followed it until he came to a hill. 
Here, on the other side of this hilL next to a small rectangular 
plot about the size of two men lying side by side on the 
ground, was the spring. 
Josh followed the stream around and, arriving at the spot, 
removed his cap and glasses, setting them on a log nearby, 
stepped out of the streambed and up the incline, and knelt 
himself before the pool He inched forward on his knees until 
he overlooked the water. Looking down, the first thing he saw 
was his own face. How strange his eyes looked! were those 
really his eyes? No ,matter, he looked past them and studied 
the pebbles at the bottom of the pooL the black earth beneath 
the pebbles, and the decaying bodies of the leaves along the 
floor and sides of the pool. Three or four discarded crayfish 
shells hovered uncertainly in the water on the other side of 
the spring, and above and behind Josh, just coming into full 
light now and reflecting off the surface of the poolin a sudden 
display of blue and gold, was the morning sky. The light came 
new upon the land, shocking the air with a crystalline, a 
prismatic, presence. ' 
Here where it was good. Here where it was not cold. 
Josh drank long and hard, cupping his hands together 
before him and taking the water down his throat in hungry 
gulps. The excess dribbled down his chin and into the pool. 
"If one of those bastards ever sets foot on my land-" he 
started to say, but something inside him in a shape remotely 
human held up its hand (didn't he know this face?) and spoke 
to him in a firm voice, saying" Silence!" It was his own voice-
59 
and he was silent 
The sunlight then-like a hobo in search of a trashheap 
bottle-thumbed through the branches above, and plumes of 
breath-smoke (his own) mounted further into the sky. The 
earth smelled new and raw and crisp and fragrant-the 
fragrance of autumnal surrender-and something solid in his 
heart urged him homeward. "Pa!" he heard his eldest son 
shout into the gully; "Pa!" 
He would sit in his chair tonight and tell his wife how 
good the water had tasted. She always listened, always said, 
. "Yas, yas . . .  " 
Josh stepped down the embankment, retrieved his cap 
and glasses, followed the stream for a quarter-mile or so, then 
broke for the open field. He marched out defiantly beneath 
the bare trees, kicking his heels high. his knees too, and 
walked swiftly, purposefully across the meadow to the gate. 
He kicked the gate once, hollared, "Yah, Boss!" -then, feeling 
young and perhaps even a little reckless, scaled the gate like a 
child and jumped down the other side. 
He called to his sons at the end of the road. "Hey you!" he 
shouted. They looked up momentarily, then went back to 
their work. 
He stopped once to check a fencepost, another time to 
remove a log from the road, a third to slip his hands into his 
rear pockets, lean back and watch the sun rise,-to look out for 
a moment over the steelmill smokestacks and then turn away 
from them forever. 
For a while longer he would have his farm. then he would 
go off somewhere and die. But not even death could take it 
away from him. Josh saw his wife standing on the backporch 
step and felt a clump of soil crumble beneath his foot. Even 
from here he could see that she was waving him in for 
breakfast. 
60 


The Spring

Comenas, Cathy

Class Notes: an Introduction 
to Physical Anthropology 
-for Karla 
Cathy Comenas 
I .  
Her wri n k l es are n ot e l ephant skin 
they are the ocean 
She's a river in my rocky dreams 
Her german face su n soaked 
Wind-blown hair 
Dru n ken hips sway 
Speaking cal m ,  som etimes 
a child when a student 
answers a question right 
Drawing b lanks as she thinks of 
an english term, it comes, ro l ls 
off her tongue f l ows through 
the air 
I f  she backs u p  any further she' l l  
ru n straight into the chalkboard 
I I . 
She's dancing with th€ natives again 
A face l ighted go l d  
Her own canvas tent 
among straw huts 
Cross-legged by the fire 
eating wild pig 
22 
Comenas!Class Notes 
I ll. 
Sitting barefoot 
in white sand 
arms fo lded against her breasts 
brown back a spear as hard 
as rock 
Behind this Samoan chief 
b l ue desert of water 
I stand at her sid 
a thir ty d og 
IV. 
I was clim bing with you 
up Mount Everest 
held together by a l ong 
strong rope 
Your body bold and polished 
I floated over dirt and rocks 
watc hing 
23 
• 


Class Notes: an Introduction to Physical Anthropology: for Karla

Kendrick, Larry

I Caught You in the Park 
Larry Kendrick 
The shade seems gentle as you I ie there, 
its tide rising and falling up the hill 
lapping at your auburn hair, 
s plashing the white bareness of your neck 
with cool green 
The sun reaches 
across your calves 
like a 
'
sil k  slip, playfully sliding through 
the over l ong grass between your 
eased thin ankles .. . 
The sun has been hanging at four o'clock 
for hours now. 
The shade is harsh on my eyes. 
And the sun im pairs my hearing; 
25 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
The wind is,at my back 
a l ow early autum n  breeze 
lightly combs through the soft b l ond 
hairs of your arm, a wisp of fragrance 
teasingly drawn up and away. 
And I've caught you like a bad cold,  
I'm caught, caged and he l pl ess, hopelessly caught reaching 
and not touching you 
as you roll away crum p ling the heart 
in your hip pocket, 
You handed me a bal l ed up 
I asked for it back. 
Jui cy Fruit wrapper, and I wrote you these words, 
and you hand me a toothy smile, 
a mocking cock of the head 
and the sun 
casua l l y  stum b l es across the thin go ld 
thread that binds your frail white ankle 
to someone e lse. 
2 6  


I Caught You in the Park

Verduzco, Alexis

 
 
Moscow to the End of the Line Review 
Alexis Verduzco 
 The book Moscow to the End of the Line is a novel written by the famous author, and even 
more renown drunk, Venedikt Erofeev. This book was initially published in 1970 through samizdat, 
which was the underground publication network that was prevalent throughout the Eastern Bloc 
countries of the Soviet Union during the Cold War era, until it was eventually smuggled out of 
Russia to Israel and published there in 1973. It was published later again in Paris and eventually 
got an official release in Russia in 1989 after being on the banned book list for almost two decades 
due to its portrayal of the Soviet man and life in the Soviet Union. This essay argues that the themes 
in this book of the dangers of alcoholism, disillusionment with society, and the parody of the 
“Hero’s Journey” which are portrayed by the main character Venichka, are the antithesis to the 
views of the Soviet Union at the time. It was also these views that prevented publication in Russia, 
as the government at the time decreed that this work did not align with the requirements of socialist 
realism that was meant to portray the country at the time, and it was not until after the Brezhnev 
era that it would receive proper recognition at home. 
 Moscow to the End of the Line is a story told from the perspective of Venichka, an alcoholic 
intellectual who can’t seem to do anything right even though he possesses the intelligence to do 
so. After being fired from his job as foreman of a cable-laying crew for drawing charts that showed 
the amount of alcohol he and his colleagues were consuming before and during work hours, his 
objective becomes to ride the train from Moscow to a picturesque town named Petushki to visit 
the “woman of his dreams and his child.”1 At the beginning of the story, Venichka wakes up in a 
 
1 Venedikt Erofeev, Moscow to the End of the Line (Evasnton: Northwestern University Press, 1994); 
Gregory Freeze, Russia A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 38-40. 
 
 
 
stairwell after a night of heavy drinking, after which he quickly takes a mental inventory of the 
beverages consumed the night before. Once he gets his affairs in order, he decides to spend the rest 
of his money on more alcohol and some food for the long trip to Petushki to see his “loved ones.” 
After acquiring provisions for the upcoming journey, he drunkenly makes his way onto the train 
and begins what is either going to be his journey of a lifetime or just another drunken weekend.  
 On his trip to Petushki, Venichka continues drinking copious amounts of alcohol while 
engaging in a series of conversations with both real people and some others that are very clearly 
alcohol fueled figments of his imagination. These conversations span a wide variety of topics like 
music, authors and their works, alcohol and its production/consumption, love, and even some 
philosophy here and there. As the trip goes on and various stops are reached, he lapses in and out 
of sleeping (or unconsciousness, it’s hard to tell sometimes) and has disturbing dreams and alcohol 
fueled hallucinations. During one of these scenes, after arguing with the devil and a sphinx, he 
somehow boards a train going back to Moscow right as he was going to reach Petushki.2 Although 
he questions whether he was indeed still heading to Petushki, he decides to go against his gut 
feeling and continues his merry way back “home” to Moscow, hallucinations and all. After arriving 
and walking through city streets at night, Venichka realizes that he is indeed back in Moscow. He 
is then confronted by a group of men who then proceed to “attack” him, he attempts to take refuge 
in a stairwell but is quickly found. As he attempts to flee up some stairs he catches sight of the 
Kremlin, a structure he claimed throughout the novel to never have seen in all his years living in 
Moscow.3 The men catch up to him at this moment and end up “killing” him. 
 One of the main themes to this novel that I noticed was the “hero’s journey” home, or in 
this book’s case a parody of the hero’s journey. As mentioned earlier, Venichka set out from 
 
2 Erofeev, 138-142. 
3 Erofeev, 160-61. 
 
 
Moscow in his attempt to return to the “picturesque” town of Petushki to visit his supposed family. 
It’s hard to take Venichka’s description of this “idyllic paradise” seriously when the USSR was 
suffering through the “Years of Stagnation” under the Brezhnev regime at the time of original 
publication. This story can instead be seen as a parody of Homer’s Odyssey, in which Odysseus, 
the king of Ithaca, set out on his journey home after the Trojan War. While both Venichka and 
Odysseus experience their share of perils on their respective journeys, with one arguing against 
imaginary creatures and gods while the other battled mythical creatures and gods, only one 
manages to make it to his destination, albeit 10 years after starting his journey home. Another 
addition to this point would be the cyclical nature of Venichka’s journey. Unlike Odysseus, 
Venichka begins and ends his journey in a stairwell in Moscow, which shows that his entire journey 
was a fruitless endeavor at the end of the story.4  
 While on his journey home, we can see how our “hero” Venichka lost his way. Normally, 
the hero of the story is driven by a noble cause to either complete an objective that they set for 
themselves, or to accomplish something for the “greater good.” For Venichka, although his primary 
objective of getting home to Petushki is a noble one, he goes about attempting and ultimately 
failing to complete this by constantly making the wrong choice, in his case nonstop drinking. 
Venichka is meant to be seen as a sympathetic anti-hero to the reader and as someone they can 
relate to. You can’t help but to feel bad for a man who just wants to go home and see his family 
(that may or may not exist) after running into issues at work. There are some out there that can 
also relate to having a drink or two after a tough day at work (which unfortunately in Venichka’s 
case is always one drink too many). This depiction of the “typical” Soviet resonated with some 
people who lived a similar lifestyle to Venichka, as a Moscow local named Zhenya states that 
 
4 Erofeev, 13-14, 163-64. 
 
 
Erofeev’s book “was the best description of Soviet reality he knows” in the documentary made 
about said book.5 Venichka was also meant to be seen as the new version of the “superfluous man” 
archetype. This literary archetype was common in 19th century Russian literature like in Alexander 
Pushkin’s famous novel, Eugene Onegin. To put it in simple terms, the superfluous man is usually 
an intellectual or some other well-off man who instead of using their talents to help others and 
contribute to society, waste said talents seeking self-gratification and comfort. As shown 
throughout different points in the story, Erofeev’s Venichka is quite well-read and can have rather 
eloquent conversations with various people both on the train and in his mind. And although he 
seemingly lacked a formal education and was constantly plastered, he referenced several works of 
literature, history, philosophy, and the arts. One more thing that makes Venichka stand apart from 
the typical superfluous man was his willingness to share both his knowledge and his drinks with 
those around him, which stood in stark contrast to the general selfishness and isolationist behavior 
that those like Eugene Onegin exhibit in their respective novels. Erofeev’s new interpretation of 
the superfluous man would have resonated with Soviet people at the time, who decried the political 
and economic stagnation of the Brezhnev years.6 
 It should come as no surprise that the Soviet government would censor a book like this, 
which seemed to mock the Soviet socialist realist views that have been in place since the beginning 
of the Stalin years. These views were a collection of beliefs that soviet media had to adhere to in 
which media had to be socialist in content and realist in form. The media had to be pro-Socialist 
in message and had to depict hidden enemies of the state being defeated by the power of socialism. 
The media also had to depict conditions in their ideal state rather than their true state. Based on 
the contents of the book, we can see how Venichka was not a new “Soviet Man,” but a broken man 
 
5 Pawel Pawlikowski, “From Moscow to Pietushki” BBC, 1990, 42:22. 
6 Gregory Freeze, Russia A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 446-447. 
 
 
who was a victim of a broken system. He laments the brokenness of the Soviet Union through his 
drunken rantings, as well as condemns Soviet leaders going back to Lenin. He and other train 
passengers lament the broken promises of socialism as well as the futility of daily life while they 
drank their sorrows away. Like I mentioned before, Venichka’s views of the Soviet Union were 
not unique to him, hence why the party banned the novel. They feared that the drunken rantings of 
Erofeev would lend an unwanted voice to the discontented citizens of the Soviet Union.  
 Just because the book was officially banned did not mean that it was silenced forever. 
Erofeev’s novel saw a large success as a samizdat (hand published) work, where it was passed 
through underground circles, as well as to nations beyond the Soviet Union. Although the book 
was eventually published outside of the USSR, the samizdat was the only way for citizens in Soviet 
territories to get a hold of it. In a sense, the books continued popularity despite its banning justified 
the government’s decision to ban the book in the first place, as too many people were finding 
common ground with the messaging that was in the book. The book eventually got an official 
release in the USSR in 1989, but only after the country moved past the Brezhnev era and 
Gorbachev instituted Glasnost, which allowed more openness to criticism of the Soviet State.  
 In conclusion, Erofeev’s parody of the “Soviet Man” of the Brezhnev era, with his 
depictions of alcoholism and Soviet disillusionment, were some of the main themes in this book. 
It was because of this portrayal that the book saw such a turbulent release. This parody was also 
the reason that the book saw great success outside of the Soviet Union. While Venichka was not 
the “ideal man” that the Soviet censors wanted as representation, he nonetheless became 
synonymous with the reality of the USSR at the time. The reality was that much like Venichka, the 
USSR and its citizens were trapped in a hazy cycle of stagnation and self-destruction. A vicious 
 
 
cycle that appeared to have no end in sight at the time. It was a shame that it took until 1989 for 
Moscow to the End of the Line to be recognized at home for the great work of art that it was.  
 


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