by  Michael Ferrin

I call “shotgun” as soon as I step into the early evening. The others groan, but they know the rules: everyone has to be outside, you have to see the car, no early declarations. Dad chuckles and herds us towards his red Chevy Blazer. He carefully balances a cardboard drink holder—three smalls, one large, all sweating in the humidity—and fishes his car keys out of his pocket. We clutch our Happy Meals, eager with anticipation. It’s a road trip weekend. We are headed to the Wisconsin Dells. Three days of water slides and delicious draft root beer. Three days of tiny hotel soaps and breakfast buffets. Dad manages to unlock the car and we scramble in, my brother and sister in the back and me seated up front, safe from the violence of sibling slug bugs. We were only inside the McDonald’s for twenty minutes or so, but the car is uncomfortable, and my legs stick to the upholstery. Dad turns the ignition and the engine roars to life. The A/C thrums; its sound provides relief before the cool air does. A small black box blinks on the dashboard. Dad calls it a fuzz buster. I have no idea what fuzz is or why it needs busting, but Dad slows down whenever the thing makes any noise. We pull out of the lot and get back on the highway. I pass out the sodas. In the backseat, my brother is already playing with his Happy Meal toy, his nuggets forgotten. Beside him, my sister takes small, careful bites of her hamburger—”No pickles, please!”—perfectly rationing her French fries. I haven’t started eating. Coming from the stereo is the Faustian bluegrass masterpiece, The Devil Went Down to Georgia. We sing along with every word. The eclectic fiddle of Charlie Daniels is a perfect accompaniment to us racing up the interstate. Tail lights twinkle ahead as the Devil starts his show. We’ve heard the song a million times before; as far as we know, Dad only has one mixtape. In the end, Johnny saves his soul. He outduels the Devil and wins a golden fiddle in the process. Dad turns the volume down for a split second, a failed attempt to protect us from hearing a curse word. It’s the last track on the side. The tape ends and out it pops. I waste no time flipping the cassette and reinserting it into the stereo. I finally dig into my Happy Meal as the next song begins, the reflections of the road in rhythm with Jimmy Buffett’s Cheeseburger in Paradise.

Born and raised on Chicago’s Southside, Mike Ferrin has thoroughly enjoyed his return to undergraduate study. He is on track to graduate from LaGuardia Community College in December of 2022; from there he will be pursuing a BA in Creative Writing & Literature and eventually an MFA. The plan is to be an English professor someday. When he’s not studying or writing, Mike works as managing editor of a literary magazine called 86 Logic. 86 Logic is building a platform for artists in the service industry (bars, restaurants, hotels, etc.) to be heard creatively. He lives in the Bronx with his wonderfully supportive partner, Elizabeth; they are expecting their first child in August.

Image credit: “Road,” Yoann Jezequel. Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

by Özgür Peksen-Saccone

The sounds of my footsteps were mixing with my luggage wheel’s sound in the airport. The first colors of the day were playing with my shadow in the long corridors I had to fit my 33 years of living in one suitcase. Excitement, fear, hope of freedom, the sacrificing of my career and leaving it behind. 2016 was the year that I last heard familiar voices, sounds of my city, my language, my mum. I didn’t know who would be able to say my name correctly from this point on. When I saw my awakened face reflected in the plane window, New York was slowly welcoming me. The smells, sounds, languages and faces already appeared to change. Nina Simone was singing in my mind and my heart beats were fast. Was it real that I was in New York?

Finally, handing my documents to the border police was my first exam in English. It was a mistake to think that I knew English at that time. A different, fast-speaking and angry voice was asking me questions but I was far from understanding. Suddenly I was a child in elementary school and my teacher was angrily staring at me. Short silences, looking at each other. My legs were shaking. My teacher finally gave up and let me go.

The first months in New York—how chaotic they were! Streets, trains, the energy of the city—I was the one trying to find my way around without knowing anything. I was a little alien walking around. Asking people things turned out not to be helpful when my hearing gave me different words than what they said. “Union Square” was turning into “Onion Square”; all of the words, announcements and peoples’ voices were spinning in my mind. What an irony it was! Language was my life. Sentences and words were my points of strength. They helped me to be a good lawyer and free my clients, get them out of jail and help my female divorce clients declare their independence. My voice was quieter now while I was struggling to understand this new world with my 200 words of English.

Was working in a restaurant really helping me to improve my English language skills? 

“White egg omelet, did you understand me? Can you really speak English? Repeat after me now! Answer me!” I was silently tucking these words away into the pocket of my waitress’ apron and  consoling myself: ‘It will be okay, you will be okay.’

I was the one giving up buying water after repeating myself five times when the cashier could not understand my “w” sound. It was not enjoyable anymore to buy sesame bagels after people would laugh at my accent. I was the one calling it a night after eating two pieces of sushi because I did not know how to use chopsticks and could not remember the word “utensils” in order to ask. I was the one asking for “pepper” but being given paper instead. I was also the one belittled by five people after them listening to my excited and long-winded talk about world politics, by them asking me “Where is your broken accent coming from??” I was the one who had to hear the accusation of a woman on the phone asking me: “Are you sure you are legal here? Are you sure you do not need a translator?” When they heard that I was a foreigner, the game changed. Was my accent or my lack of the English language the problem or was it other peoples’ mentality?  Or rather, was it perhaps my bad luck in meeting these people?

While I am sitting and writing about my last five years, I feel a lot has changed. Language, challenges, reading and studying into the late hours, as well as my wife’s and my sister’s support have taught me a lot. Focusing on the English language during these 5 years at school increased my English language skills and my confidence. I took all of my negative experiences and created a sense of humor. Peoples’ judgmental questions about my accent became more of a curiosity. I feel that I have become this language. I feel like I have started to exist and become more visible in the English language, in the English speaking world.

I can understand and connect with the writer Amy Tan, who wrote about her mother’s struggles in a different world due to the English language. Amy Tan tells about her mother who immigrated from China to the USA in her essay “Mother Tongue.” She tells us about her mother’s difficulties of being a foreigner, an immigrant, a mother in another world, another country with another language. She talks about how her mother was discriminated against because of her lack of the English language and yet still was able to speak a really simple, clear and direct version of her own “broken English.” Amy Tan blends all the different kinds of English which she learned, heard and used in her life and she builds a style of writing which allows her mother to read her own book easily. When her mother reads her book easily Amy Tan reaches her goal as a writer. 

I can feel and understand Amy Tan’s mother.. She is near me now. We are silently sitting side by side, watching and listening to New York City. A warm breeze is touching our faces.. When our eyes catch each other I ask her “How is life now?” She smiles, and whispers, ”So easy to read.”

Özgür Peksen-Saccone was born in Turkey. Now New York based, she is a current pre-clinical health student at LaGuardia Community College. During high-school in Turkey, her short stories were published in local newspapers. She studied music before continuing on to study law at Marmara University in Istanbul, after which she practiced family and criminal law for 13 years. She came to New York City in 2016 to improve her English but later decided to stay. She completed the ESL and TOEFL courses before applying to LaGuardia hoping to enter the college OTA program in order to add another profession to her resume. She is an activist and a member of the LGBTQ+ community. She likes to express herself through music and painting, as well as recently rediscovering her love of writing, now in her second language English!

Image credit: “Suitcases,” Mrs Teepot. Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

by Samantha Morgan 

I can’t take my eyes off your body. I don’t mean to stare, but you look so… dead. And you are, but I’m still learning this. This is all very new to me, knowing you this way and not the other way–ya know, alive. It was only a week ago you left me that voicemail, the one where you said, “Hey Sami, I want to make up. I don’t want to fight with you, but you owe me an apology.” I did. I keep this voicemail for a number of years as a way to haunt myself, until one day I lose it by upgrading to a new phone, and just like that–it’s gone. Things come and go so quickly no matter how you try to hold onto them. I’m lucky I got to see you just the other day. That won’t be a thing that eats away at me, that I never got to say sorry or make things right. 

A shiver runs down my spine at how still death makes you. The lifelessness of your body makes me hyper aware that I am still an upright, walking, thinking one. I let out a jump as a hand gently places itself on my shoulder. “Are you Sam?” My gaze travels up the arm of a woman with light, teary eyes. Her dark hair is pulled out of her mascara run face, she’s tall just like you.

Eerily I say, “Yes.” 

“Awww honey, you should know…” there is a deafening pause as she stares intently into my eyes. 

My heart beats a little faster wondering what’s going to come out of her mouth next, I bet she can smell the alcohol on me. 

“Nichole really, really loved you,” she finally says. 

Any amount of control I was trying desperately to keep starts slipping away from me like blood leaving the body. 

“I’m so so sorry I have to meet you like this,” I say as I melt into the arms of the tall woman–your mother. I cry, my head pressed tightly onto her chest. Her body is warm and she smells of a perfume I know of but cannot name. Where have I smelled this before? Maybe it was on you. 

I stay for some time in this embrace, until your mourning mother releases me. She gives me a wink and a smile before making her way into the small sea of people gathering in this open yet suffocating room. How is it that she smiled? All of the voices are murmuring in hushed whispers, and the scent is of those flowers that smell overpoweringly strong. They smell like death, really. I turn back to your body and stare. It doesn’t move no matter how much I ask it to with my mind. I keep thinking maybe you’ll wake up, like you will suddenly wink at me and say, “It’s all a charade!” You liked your little pranks. But I won’t forgive you for this one. 

What am I supposed to do now? My tears are stinging my eyes like little needles forcing their way out of me. No really, what am I supposed to do now? I notice myself gripping your coffin and wonder if that’s appropriate. I shove my hands into fists at my side. When I told my dad that you died, he sounded so sorry. He said, “I’m so sorry, sweetie.” That’s what people say when people die, I’m learning. A line of bodies is forming to my right. I swallow a burning lump of something down my throat. Feelings I’ve never felt before maybe. Our time is coming to a close. Each person in this room loves you and wants to see your dead body. I guess this is normal at funerals. I guess this is it then. This is the last time I’ll see your face, and I wish it wasn’t this one. You still have the best smile. I want to kiss you but I have no clue what the etiquette is for kissing corpses. I haven’t seen anyone else do it. All I want to do is scream but I keep swallowing the burning lump. I wipe my eyes and tell you I’m sorry, because I still am. 

I sit somewhere next to someone, it doesn’t really matter. I’m in a daze. It’s so strange to notice you were here and gone all in the same year. It’s 2009 and you’re dead. A lot can change in a year–a day–a second. There will now be a divide, a before and after, a when you were alive and since you’ve been dead. Nothing will change this fact, I’m learning. Not your mother who is now petting your head as she speaks to you, and not your father sitting a few seats ahead of me moaning–a sound unlike anything I’ve heard from a human before. 

Many major things will happen this year. We will announce our first African American president. Bitcoin will be created. And later a global pandemic will sweep the nation, which I will know nothing about and have no recollection of. You will miss all of these things. These things that feel both big and small, somehow, knowing you won’t ever know them. But for now, I am here in a room with your lifeless body wondering how I am here in a room with your lifeless body. This doesn’t just feel permanent, it is. You’re gone from this Earth and I have to live with it. My own life feels very close to me and like it could slip away in the blink of an eye. I am 20 years old at my best friend’s funeral, and suddenly I wonder if this is the purpose of death–to remember I am alive.

Samantha Morgan is a thinker, a writer, and an aspiring mortal. She is currently studying philosophy at LaGuardia Community College with the hopes of furthermore exploring her passion of writing and self-expression so she may continue on the winding path of opening her heart and mind to the world.

Image credit: “Embrace,” Catherine MacBride. Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.