NMYAA Youth Cuentistas
These youth pieces tell the stories of our community through ekphrastic narratives depicting their dreams, their visions for our world, and their view from the windows of adolescence.
Our Youth Cuentistas
Julianna
La Amarosa Familia by Julianna Castillo, age 18
I am from the shiny sharp forks, from the hard uncomfortable brown couch and the naked creaky stairs. I am from the big two story house that is filled with the comforting warmth of my large family that is always quiet. I am from the deadly, spiky rose whose thin veins spread across deep within the land's soil, that helps cultures and families thrive. I am from the laughter and joy that is spread across my grandmother's house during games we play throughout Christmas Eve and the dark brown eyes that turn to a warm golden caramel when the sunlight hits it just right. From Castillo. From Cortes. I’m from the tensed up shoulders and the loud outbursts when it is too quiet, from legs that bounce when nervous or anxious. I am from the awkward hugs I give when being comforted, from thin veins spread deep within the land's soil that helps cultures and families thrive. I'm from be kind to others and respect is not earned and make sure to keep my opinions to myself when speaking to my elders. I'm from Albuquerque or where we call it Burque, the city full of police sirens at 3am, cracked roads, but still overflowing with beauty and culture. I'm from spicy tamales, delicious caldo and the warm, soft homemade tortillas my grandma makes in her loving home. From my tia who is beautiful inside and out who carries a heart brimming with compassion and care. La amorosa familia que se originó con mis abuelos, mis tías y tíos y mis 13 primos, todo en una imagen que brilla con sonrisas llenas de alegría.
Tobias
An Unfinished World by Tobias Morrison Sanchez, age 14
I live in a world full of things, objects, and gadgets made by a man who himself did not belong in this existence that you call your reality. He would make things to fill the world that he created. For years, he was trapped in this lousy existence, filled with debris and junk, conflict and pain, trying to make another exciting, and artistic world. The art that he made from our inanimate bones, we were discarded and rejected and sat there in a heap of trash. He gave us another chance. One day, he tried to take the easy way to find his new world. He was given an erroneous promise of happiness, but instead, he hurt himself. He felt cheated out of his place in this reality, and angry. As years passed, his mind could not conjure an idea, or an image, and his hands could not make the things that gave him peace. For a long time he continued on this lonely and sad path of trying to forget his past, a nepenthe that left him with more sorrow. He could not see his world, and he was left full of pain, conflict and junk, junk he could not make into art anymore. He had ruined what he once had with one choice. After many years he slowly regained his strength, and he would build his world, better than ever. He created more of us and his world grew and grew. With love. And he shared that world with the people he loved. It is left unfinished. This is his unfinished world.
Cisco
The Grandchild by Cisco Quintana, age 19
My grandpa is the reason I play guitar. I never got to hear him play, but I still hear his chords talking to me in my sleep. I have only sung for the grandchild of the man who he sang for. The grandchildren are rowdy and rambunctious, always doing something late at night when they should be sleeping. Then rising early and going to work and school. The grandchild who I make music with usually doesn't get home till 9 most days then still stays up playing games. He’s always doing something… school in the mornings, then work in the afternoon. But occasionally, he gets some time in between and that's where we get to play. And the grandchild even gave me a new voice. He learns from his elders, that were able to hear his and my grandfather play, and his melodies are just like the chords of my dreams. We don’t need a pencil or a pick to make our music. The grandchild just plays and sometimes it's not the best, but when it is…. It's mystical, and bombastic, and it feels like the humming in my heart that I miss in my memories.
Aspen
Foolhardy by Aspen Keith, age 16
I walk backwards, daring the concrete to introduce itself. I spear a glance at you’re quiet disappointment, What have I done now? Does your heart rate pick up? As you watch me dance around my untied shoelace? I’m familiar with the bruising on the conscience of us. The ultracrepidarian My tongue is inconsolable It vibrates with the grief of too much said My heart is an angry beast, and my ribs it’s prison bars. The fan trembles on the ceiling, a quiet rattle is the only sign of its building anxiety as it watches us fight over who will lead in this two step dance. I’m familiar with the scratch of my chapped lips against my palm. As I scrub the tiered off my face, a mushroom cloud escapes my mouth as the only evidence of the eruption within. I walk backwards, eyes fixed on where I've already been. Obsessing over the past, I'm surprised every time I crash into the present.
Judeah
Memories and Dreams by Judeah Piro, age 17
I am from the seedlings of a strawberry plant Sitting, staring out the kitchen window. From my brother's beat-up car that caught fire while working on it at late hours of the night, from the old old wooden panel fence which has sat there for as long as I can remember. The gorgeous pink flowers that get watered daily by the hands of my grandma and me. I am from the majestic oak tree, whose long limbs I remember building a treehouse in. I remember drilling long screws until my own limbs grew weary. I am from the giant, delicious dinners, and long, dark nights. From Gonzales and Piro. I am from eating a lot of delicious food and late afternoon playing with younger cousins. From the old cherry tree which fell over during a rough wind storm. Whose snapped off limbs I remember as my own. I am from “son, work smarter not harder”. From, “make the right friends who treat you respectfully”; “love the ones who have passed” and “help accomplish what they dreamt of as well”. I am from Albuquerque, New Mexico. I am from the delicious tamales that my neighbor makes, and from hot posole I eat as fast as I can. From steaming green chile stew and beans everyone enjoys. I am from the strength my family has built over the years to all the tragedies my family has conquered. I am from the wonderful friends I made and have lost, from living out the memories I’ve made, and accomplishing dreams. I am from great days and nights yet to come I am from me
Alicia
Fragile But Hardcore by Alicia Lopez, age 19
Fragile But Hardcore by Alicia Lopez, age 19 The gentle damaged hands enveloped around the cold, solid, gray metal shaving down the edges slightly, just enough to make a pointed angled edge. With that, they’ll be able to cut through weeds like a Samurai sword. And dig like a curious dog. Like Joan of Arc’s armor, my helmet is my sallet, strong reflective metal. My sweater is my sheath. My hammer as my sword. The 48 inch long blade sharp like a kitchen knife cutting paper. My battle brings metal sculptures to life. I am fragile. I am hardcore.
NyTawni
The Trundle Bed by NyTawni Kay, age 18
She opened the trundle bed. Most people see a mess. When asked who made it, you’ll find an 18-year-old girl sitting amongst the supposed chaos. In the middle, hands against her head contemplating which objects are priceless and which worth keeping, which could be thrown in the trash without a second glance. Most people see a mess but it is a story of a girl ripping back years of feelings and memories. She must decide which memories she’s going to choose to hold on to, and which feelings she’ll let go of. When all is said and done, she’ll close the trundle bed and hide the mess. In reality, you’ll never know how messy a person’s head is until they decide to reveal it to you, and at any moment they could close it back up again, just like a messy trundle bed.
Shanna
Light in the dark by Shanna Orona, age 17
In a room full of dark, a soul can be the only light, it guides you home. On a path filled with sadness, sometimes it's better to take a detour; time will heal the broken parts of your soul Although the pain makes you feel like turning around and going back, pushing through with strength in your heart is the best decision you can make. Finding even the dimmest of lights Can be just enough to get you to that safe place within yourself.
Tori
I am From by Victoria Quintana, age 12
I am from a dog barking, from a cat meowing and a loud speaker coming from the car. I am from the scary house where you see kids running around and lights flickering. I am from the half-dead, but still thriving, plant named Fred. The ailing rose bush whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own. I am from decorating the tree on Thanksgiving and sleeping in on Easter. I am from my wise Great Grandma and my trickster musician Great Grandpa. I am from listening to music while we are working, and cleaning for holidays; from opening our presents on Christmas Eve, and watching Polar Express on Christmas Day. I am from “quit having fun” and “take it easy” and the song Closer. I am from tamales on Christmas Eve. I am from Santa Fe, New Mexico and my Grandma who was born in Germany. I am from posole. From my baby sister falling off of a two story balcony trying to catch bubbles,and having to run to get my uncle and grandma. My mom keeps a gatorade bottle on a black bookshelf.she haves in her room. I am from… A fun but crazy family
Nathalia
Carved In Stone by Nathalia Otero, age 17
I am from laughing
and crying
and waiting
and trying
Will you ever be okay?
From getting the cold shoulder
from you’re bipolar
in this everlasting rage.
My mind never takes a break
In an endless storm, my spirit stings.
“Smell the roses and blow out the flame” words whispered to hide the pain.
I am from grandma taking us in at a young age
we were all lost in a maze
our mom’s love has always been a crave
I'm looking upon the stars wondering how you are
From caring for my brother, a mother’s role, praying he won’t lose his way, keeping him whole.
Hope you won't stray, causing further ache.
I am from trying to feed your addiction
why am i having to step up in the kitchen
you’re always on a mission
From nodding and falling, hiding from sight,
Don’t dare to see, escape with me we are breaking free, Under the stars, just you and me.
I am from consistent addiction, tearing us apart
when will family ever be the same
I am from growing too quick, beyond my age,
Mind rushing forward, turning the page.
I rise above, carve my own future, in my own way.
This storm won’t ever go away, god please help with our ways
I am now from the roots of my long black hair, i'll break away
I will no longer sit in despair
From sitting here writing this poem
Im now here to show em’
How I was raised to be
and what I will set free
I am from what I will not be,
this is me
rejecting the legacy set for me
cristian
Ancestors Sitting at the Bench by Cristian Mercado, age 16
Decaying leaves falling from trees, waiting for winter to come. Snow like angels from marshmallow clouds, drop down onto the earth's grassy, but rough ground. Covering the streets of Burque, As people come out to see the white delicate silk, They find a magical sight to behold. Many people have sat at this bench. She has heard many stories, and held so many in her embrace. Some of the stories told are, mothers telling kids to be careful on the playground. “Don't jump off anything, you will get hurt”, “do not talk to strangers” and “I'll watch you from here while you play with your brother”. So many mothers’ words to their kids. Families and birthday parties, uncles and grandparents, cousins and long lost loves. Ancestors sitting at the bench.
Mikey
They Call Me Mikey by Mikey Montoya, age 17
I am from pajamas and bracelets From clowning around having a good time and just making sound I am from laughter and giggles my own harmony From jumping with joy and just being me From contaminating a room full of blue And turning it into something fun and new I am from the colorful streaks of my paintbrush that flow with such ease like a cool breeze From wasting my time on making memories I am from painting for hours and sketching for days From trying to rewrite that silly little phrase I watch the moon phase from place to place Leaving a shadow on half its face I am from being loud making noise without a care From spreading jokes all through the air With the laugh that echos far and wide Creating this joyful side To the tears of joy from those who see This is who I choose to be This is me They call me Mikey
Shaine
Every Vibration by Shaine Bechdol, age 17
The plateau with water and life, has been here since before the land knew time. As they sit feeling every vibration, the sagebrush that surrounds them, whispers about the families that pass through here everyday. The water, always rushing past as the day moves on like stories told. As the sun sets, the spirits rest. With their whispers disappearing as the moon awakens and the nocturnal rises from the day of slumber, the sun kisses the canyon's rugged face each morning. Gentle mists rise from the river, embracing the land like a lover's touch. At dawn, when the world is being painted in shades of blue and gold, the river's serpentine path’s eyes, encounter brush adorned with vibrant blossoms. Its fragrant perfume fills the air with sweet aromas. A family of deer grazes on tender grasses, as a majestic eagle soars effortlessly on the blue canvas of the sky. A lifetime of resources for spectators, animals, and people to enjoy.
Ella
peach tree and joy by Ella Sanchez, age 7
I am from my peachtree, that we dug a hole and put my placenta under. How I grew. I am from Bing-Bong-Bell and Luna Agua. I am from my baba, Tobi, who makes me laugh. I am from “reading is my superpower!” and “I love animals!”. I am from my dog, Sully, who I snuggle with and dig holes in the flowerbed with. From my chickens, Shadow, who pecks at me but also loves to be picked up. Tiny, who is tiny and whose nickname is Penguin and likes to be held like a baby. Joy, my sweet orange, yellow and black rooster, who liked to be read to as a chick. I am from my dad, who is funny and teaches me to play guitar and sings with me, “over the rainbow…” From my mom who bakes with me: cookies, bread shaped like flowers and snails, tortillas, “if you play with the masa too much , you will make a cracker.” I am from Ella and Mercedes, my great grandmas. I am from New Mexico: roadrunners who nestle in the cactus, adobe houses, our fence made by my Papo, wild rose bushes and blue mountains.
Ella
The Wild By Ella Mercedes Sanchez, age 7
A flower is like a big kitchen,
for an ant
or for a chicken.
A leaf is like a cozy bed,
for a ladybug
or a spider’s head.
A tree is like a wild city,
for a bird
or for a kitty.
Aspen
The Pink Door by Aspen Keith, age 16
I am from the pink door. From dingy but resilient tack clad drywall. I am from restless bodies the grew wheels and drove away, our wild hearts can never be confined to one place for long, so we drive. We get carsick in our bedrooms as we scavenge all 50 states in search of something with enough weight to keep us tethered to the ground. I think I’ve found it, but I can’t be sure. Tied down by freedom, these wide open spaces are holding me captive. I am from the pearly white of a firm trunk, from finicky leaves. From the attentive black eyes of a mountain dweller with interwoven roots, from bipolar music and bleeding hearts. I am from Keith and Montoya, my DNA is fickle and unsure, torn in two. I am from Flamenco dresses and plaid kilts, Irish and Spanish, French, native and German and God knows what else. They call me mutt, I call myself well crafted. Calloused hands and gentle touches, I am from unrestrained spouts of ignorance and gently murmured wisdom, volume has always been a struggle. I am from orange clay and white brick, from baby blue trimmings and scraped knees. My little brother, palms full of gravel and blood, “I’m like Jesus, mom! I’m like Jesus!”. I am from my overdramatic tearful eyes, “It’s a fate worse than death! It’s a fate worse than death! Laddie won’t sing with me!!!!!”. I am from volume, from picture frames rattling on the walls.“Speak up!” I am from growing pains, from trying to run past the horizon, from untangling spiderwebs of letters, from climbing mountains, blue horizon mountains. My love for you, my chain and ball. I am from dandelions in vases. I am from the sound of nothing, from learning that admitting you don’t know is everything, from a brother with all the light of a firefly at midnight. I am from Thanksgiving, beans and enchiladas. But most of all, I am from the Sunday morning culture, from deep love and holy sacrifice. I am from another world, and the unity among those that have the mutual wish to go back there. And I am from that pink door.
Aspen
Under the Overpass by Aspen Keith, age 16
Under the overpass, the first thing you notice is an expression. The way a mouth tilts up or down may be the difference between being whole and having a crack. The swinging in the hips or the curve in the back may tell you whether or not you have discretion. When you look at her, her mouth is straight, back is hunched like she’s carrying the world's weight. I see her pacing under the overpass, car horns honk and their tanks slush with gas. Here the earth is hard and the plants have thorns. ABQ has no grass. It has only our hot air balloon fiesta on cobble stone and pavement, shaded by the Sandias. It has crumbling adobe with graffiti tattooing its walls, and hungry children craving applause. It has shadows of humans wandering with cardboard signs that say, “I swear I wasn’t always this charred, and this tent home wasn’t always mine.” There are children with vapes who drop gum on the streets that stick to my shoe better than tape. There are plastic bags that blow in the breeze among the tumbleweeds and the smell of dry seas. But don’t look at me, It’s not my responsibility. It is however, George Lucas’s inspiration for the line: “You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy” But hey, the food does have flavor, along with people with smiles that waver. None of which can save her. Her hair is matted and tangled, neck is thin and voice sounds strangled; she’s wearing purple. I remember learning that in ancient times how rare the color was. It was made from snail slime and meant only for the esteemed. Oh, how ironic on her battered frame it now seemed. She’s screaming at nothing, but doing it with all her might. I see her at 5 years old, she’s hiding under her own bed, hands covering her face and knees on either side of her head. There are people screaming downstairs, their cries going in her ears and out her eyes. I see her at 14 years, too old to be sucking her own thumb, surrounded by friends who will do anything anyone tells them to, no matter how dumb. I see her when peer pressure overtakes her. I see her taking her first hit and another and another until she is in a boxing arena. I see her when red and blue lights appear between the shadows of passersby who are so wrapped up in their own world that they are simply annoyed by the traffic. I see her take blow after blow until finally it is taken too far, until finally she can only take one more hit, and this one from a bumper of the next passing car. I see her clothes flying in the wind, but they can’t compare to the speed in which her arms are flying in. I can tell how her thoughts are just ripping her apart, and hear how they ask that she not complain when she has to carry them in her heart. Her mind is just too loud, it cannot handle the accompaniment of the highway sound. Another automobile honks as it makes its way by. She’s so close, how easy it’d be just to die. My mother’s Subaru Outback curves around the ABQ racetrack. Windows are down as we make our way under the overpass. Music is playing, we’re just having a blast. My brother and I are singing Unaware of the heart that is stinging.
Tobias
Mountains and Matanzas, by Tobias Sanchez age 14
I am from waking up on a bright New Mexico morning to my dad’s ranchera music ba bom ba bom ba bom playing in the living room, as smoke filters in through the kitchen from my mom’s tortillas on a warm Sunday morning. I am from carving wood planks into guns for movie props, sawdust floating in the air, relieved when the sun is covered by clouds for a moment of relief before it reemerges, beating on my shoulders. From my grandmothers and grandfathers who are Pueblo, Apache, Seminole, Scotch-Irish and Spanish. I am from filming movies with my friends in the day, and late night editing. I am from cold misty cloudless winters and hot sunny and fun filled summers. I am from late-night, be quiet Ella is sleeping, popcorn making king, slapstick Jared Hess films and horror turn all the lights on on my way to the bathroom “dad are you still there” movies. I am from walking down the dusty street in dirty and ripped up summer jeans to Smiths with my friends, getting some sour candy and root beer. I am from visits to the pueblo that touches the sun from a book that was my favorite when I was less than two feet tall. I am from “Habeas Destineus!”, and the yellow fire hydrant that I climbed upon and shouted my destiny! I am from the winter lily that has been passed on for generations of grandmothers. I am from the white walls that shed pebbles and white paint as my hands run across it. I am from red chile enchiladas and tortillas with beans, rice, chile and avocado. I am from the yearly matanzas, smoke and steam rize in the air like a chimney, t he sun heating the gravel beneath my feet, people laughing, eating and talking, not a cloud in the sky to give the ground a break from the beating sun, chicharones sizzling in a pot of iron, “Are they done yet?”. I am from Albuquerque, and it's dangerous and honest streets and kaleidoscopic people. I am from Belen, and the stories my mom, dad, and papo have told me, from driving past the grassy open fields, not a single weed trimmed for years, as we turned the corner to the yellow house that meant so much to me. I am from New Mexico, my favorite place on this planet. I never want to leave, take me back home to New Mexico where I feel connected to its mountains, adobe houses and furious sun. This is where I am from.
Julianna
The Mystic by Julianna Castillo, age 18
The Mystic by Julianna Castillo, age 18 As the church bells echo across “La Ruca”, the dark eager bird watches over the mestizo and mestiza. The old and youthful souls of Burque, paint the town with ancient roots and song. Come the time to finally rest from soaring across New Mexico's blue shale skies. Carrying the messages that were so heavy even for the heart to hold. Bringing the connection among those who are struggling in their harshest times and healing those who’ve lost hope.
Tobias
The Wish by Tobias Morrison Sanchez, age 14
It felt a lonely street, with no kids to play with. Even tree lined and daisy flower pots and colorfully painted benches do not distract from the empty and abandoned feeling being the only kid in the neighborhood. Watching, the gravel blowing up to your shoes, the cold wind hitting your face, the cruel gray sky staring down upon you. It is the worst fate for a kid. I wished. Years passed and on a day like any other, my parents told me, I would have a little sister. Now the only burden on my shoulders was waiting. So, I waited, and waited, Until, The house smelled of different. I crept down the hallway, the floorboards creaking under my feet. My grandmother in my parent’s bed, I was confused. 7am. Excited, feet kicking the floor, my head raised up high so I could see how close we were, lights buzzing, my stomach turning from excitement, Up the elevator, up, up, up, down the stairs to the left, into the room, and there she was. My sister. My friend. Forever, Ella.
Alicia
The Rose by Alicia Lopez, age 17
A timid woman with red cheeks and pale skin, a silky red dress that could nearly touch the floor. That's how low she felt. Heavy like water on a sprouting flower, everything was just a blur. How can she grow when she is silently drowning in her own tears of grief? After all the salty tears of rain, she found herself, acceptance in the light of the sun. How beautiful it shines down on us. As she blooms and spreads her vibrant petals, realizing how valuable she is.
Cisco
GUNS THAT SING by Cisco Quintana, age 19
In the summer of 2023 some special students from RFK did something magical. They weren't at home playing games or getting into trouble. Instead, they were taking chopped up gun parts and turning them into masterpieces. One specifically seems to stand out far above the rest, the xylophone. It is made entirely of the parts that they got from the gun buyback, where the New Mexicans to prevent gun violence give out gift cards to anyone who brings in a gun to be chopped up. This xylophone represents the beauty we can make with these guns. They do not need to be just another unwanted firearm that can be stolen and used to kill. Instead, we chop them up and turn them into something inspiring and beautiful. We are not all criminals. Most of us just want to wake up to a new tomorrow. So I hope our work on this project inspires people to lead, because we didn’t have any blueprints on how to make a xylophone from these gun parts. We had to lead our own path and make our own way. There were times it was too much work and we didn’t know if it would be worth the effort. We never stopped and now after all this work and seeing it put together, it is truly breathtaking. Every bead, every spark, and every mold has come to life. All the effort has come together for everyone to see. There is something so surreal about taking gun parts and making a musical instrument out of them. Maybe it is the beauty in the message maybe it is the peace in knowing someone is doing something. Our school lost two students to gun violence this year, which is what sparked this movement. Their death sparked the students to do something. Now, we can point to this xylophone and say “we did something”.
NyTawni
We Are Art by NyTawni Kay, age 18
You call us ghetto because we have less, that does not make us incapable. You pick anything to pick apart to criticize and label our styles were too different, we are too outspoken, nails too long, lashes sagging, tattoos and piercings. You call it ghetto, it is our culture. They call it ghetto, we call it art. Running away to your best friend's house and staying up late with the homies; going out with the girls. They call it ghetto, we call it family. You’ll never know what you will find when you pull back the curtains. The girl being made fun of for her shoes, her mom has cancer. The teacher being screamed at for standing up for her students is in financial debt. The mother being frowned upon for being overbearing lost one of her children last fall. You never know what someone is going through, and yet we have all been through something and all judged someone based on circumstances out of their control. When our friends and family are dying to guns and violence, or incarcerated and locked up,schools that have closed campuses, where students are like inmates, parents are afraid to let their children walk out the front door. Populations on the streets are outweighing the populations with a door seal, drugs are taking over the city, members in the community choosing fentanyl over food. Teenagers working doubles to afford rent, grandparents taking care of grandchildren. They call us ghetto, this is our reality, this is our future. Or is it? We could comply with the system that has told us we have already failed. But, we were told we had failed before we had a chance to begin. We have been painted to be less than we are, but have worked with less. We don’t have money, we have culture. We start at the bottom and will make it to the top. Understanding what it feels like to be in gravel will help us stay in the stars. What if we didn’t comply? What if we did everything in our power to prove them all wrong? What if we use their criticism to fuel the fire of discipline? We are the future. We shape the world of tomorrow. We decide whether our trauma makes us or breaks us. We ultimately decide our fate. They call us ghetto. We Are Art.