The Thirteenth Issue of The Cat 5 Review

(Cover image by Kelly Gutierrez)

The Cat 5 Review is a publication of literature and the arts composed by students at Lone Star College-North Harris.

Volume 8, Issue 1
Spring 2024

Gemini Wahhaj, Executive Editor
D.W. Puller, Editor

Personal Narrative by Patrick Fraser

Lost Sense of Belonging in Nooran Hamad

My Mom’s Smile by Jennifer Garza

Where the Smoke Leads by Noble Rhyne

Torn Connection by Anonymous Heartbroken

Multicultural Action Plan by Kelly Gutierrez

Personal Conflict by Erick Gomez

Endurance in the Home and the Workplace: Two very different works of Fiction, Jennifer Martiza McCauley’s When Trying to Return Home and Please Be Advised by Christine Sneed, Explore the Workplace and the Home as Sites of Psychological Trauma by Siakor Gbawar

When Trying to Return Home: The Journey of Diverse Identities by Isidro Donoso

Why Am I Bound? by Maria Reyes

The World is Divided into Two Kinds of People in Chaitali Sen’s Stories–Book Review of A New Race of Men from Heaven by Alexis Escobar

The Wealthy vs. Poor: Different Perspectives of the Same Country in Oindrila Mukherjee’s Debut Novel the Dream Builders by Nooran Hamad

The Outsiders and Insiders of a Glitzy City in Oindrila Mukherjee’s Novel The Dream Builders by Nooran Hamad

Personal Narrative by Patrick Fraser

In July 2006, I enlisted in the United States Army as a heavy-wheeled vehicle operator. Choosing the military wasn’t my first option. Initially, I wanted to go to school to become a mechanic. I enjoyed working on vehicles. With my poor academic background, I lacked the confidence to return to school. Just the sheer thought made my body tremble. Unsure of what path to take. The military seemed to be a more suitable option. Firstly, I wanted to enlist as an infantryman, working my way into Special Forces. I thought the hell with it. I’m going to go in and become a badass. My mother wasn’t thrilled with that idea. She convinced me to pick a skill I could use outside the military. The experience that I will attain would transfer over to civilian life.

 Rethinking my approach to the path that I was going to take, I realized what my mom said didn’t sound like a bad idea. I studied like crazy for the ASVAB test, still struggling with my test anxiety. I had to take it three times until I scored high enough to get a job as a truck driver. A couple weeks later, with my bags packed, I shipped out to Ft Jackson, South Carolina, where I would embark on my journey into the world. Boot camp is nine grueling weeks of intensive, basic combat training. Upon graduating from basic training, the Army sent me to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where I would attend my AIT training for my chosen job. Learning to operate some of the military’s trucks was not as easy as I thought, it gave me a whole new level of challenges. Learning how to articulate the trailers, on which way to turn the wheels to make the trailer go left or right. Little did I know at the time I needed to learn this. Getting out of my comfort zone was the only way I could grow. If I hadn’t, I never would have learned how to back a trailer or drive these massive machines down a highway. Forced to fight against my own self-doubts like forces of nature with such authority. Finally, I realized the drill instructors weren’t trying to break us down. They were trying to get us to stop holding ourselves back and learn to tap into new and unexplored potential.

After graduation, I was given orders to report to my first duty station at Ft Richardson, Alaska. Wow, this is a beautiful place despite it being the middle of winter. I remember getting off the plane; the temperature outside was minus 18 degrees. This being a dry cold, it froze all moisture that came in contact with it. Little did I know my training in boot camp was a walk in the park compared to the training I was about to endure in this new, exciting place? My unit was placed on orders to Operation Iraqi Freedom.

 In 2008, we deployed to Al Asad Airbase, Iraq, where we lived for the next 15 months. Driving over hostile territories delivering supplies and fuel. Now and then, we would encounter the enemy forces. They would pop off with some rounds. We were not too concerned with it because they rarely hit us. The primary threat was the IED “Improvised Explosive Device”. We thought to ourselves, this is where our training will be put to the test. What we didn’t count on was the reality check. The true test was reacting without hesitation in the heat of the moment. In the last three months, we encountered more assaults. I remember driving a recovery truck through Taji to Baghdad International. An IED hit the gun truck in front of me. The truck commander I had with me told the convoy commander what had happened over the radio. We made efforts trying to reach the disabled vehicle. Unable to make contact and with permission from the convoy commander, we proceeded on foot with another gun truck’s assistance to assess the severity of the three soldiers inside. I ran with my combat life savers bag to the truck’s door. Yelling out friendly so the occupant’s inside understood help has arrived. The door unlocked, and as I opened it, nothing could have prepared me for the nightmarish sight. I paused, taking a deep breath, and went to work. I attended to the gunner first; him being unresponsive and more severely injured but alive. I placed two tourniquets on each leg to control the bleeding. Pack gauze around each wound and then wrap it with an Israeli bandage. Then, I ran an IV to get a better reading on his pulse. Talking with the driver and Truck Commander to assess their injuries. Fortunately, they had a few lacerations due to the shrapnel and were concussed by the blast. The other truck let us know there was a medevac en route. That day, a soldier’s life dramatically changed into a double amputee. Later on, we learned his fiancé was in that convoy. Having to hear everything over the radio. She held herself together very well until we made it to base. The training we go through is designed to prepare us for the rigors of combat to defend and save lives. It doesn’t prepare us for the mental anguish we would endure after returning to the United States.

 Subconsciously, we brought back the war within ourselves. Every soldier deals with a similar battle. Fighting it in their way. The families felt the brunt of it. Husbands, wives, daughters, brothers, mothers, and fathers. Now we all are dealing with a new conflict buried deep within the soul. Most would drink excessive amounts of alcohol to try and numb the pain. This would only cause the subconscious battlefield to burn hotter and roar like a volcano. Erupting in unstable chaos throughout the mind and body. This leading to unexpected physical and emotional changes. My wife had to watch me go through these unpleasant experiences. I was a changed man. We all were. Nothing would ever be the same. I started having intense panic attacks shortly after. Evolving into a deep state of depression. I didn’t like what was happening. Swallowing my pride, I accepted the fact that I needed help. I told my chain of command what was going on. I discovered I wasn’t alone, and others were experiencing the same problem. I felt a little relief. They told me it’s widespread. My squad leader took me to a behavioral health clinic so I could talk with a psychologist. She told me I had all the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder characteristics. Not all scars are on the outside. This was the beginning of what was months to years of therapy. I still had years left in the military contract and another deployment on approach. I wondered if this fight would ever end. All I knew was I wasn’t going to back down. I would eventually overcome this obstacle. Not all wounds are visible. Some of the deepest cuts are internal, and people dealing with anxiety, depression, and PTSD don’t have to fight alone.

Lost Sense of Belonging in Nooran Hamad

Amidst the soft hums of conversation and gentle clicking of porcelain, my thoughts wandered as I sat in the café. Living in a bustling city made me curious about what my life could have been if I had been normal. Ever since I was born, my roots have never been put down. Born from immigrant parents themselves, I have never learned what having a permanent home meant.

My story started two generations before me. My grandparents were exiled from their homes during the Nakba catastrophe of 1948. Having to flee Palestine overnight, they sought refuge in any country that would accept them. They had to build themselves up from nothing, away from the home they loved so dearly. The hope of returning to their land encouraged them to continue fighting for a life for themselves and the future generations to come. In search of a better life, they moved from place to place. Fast forward, my dad was born in Saudi Arabia, and my mom was born in Kuwait. Like me, they would never grow up to visit their ancestors’ home. Like me, they never got to experience life on the land of olive trees, green hills, and magical oceanic views. Instead, after their marriage, they lived in the U.S. for twelve years until they moved to Jordan, where my grandparents currently live. There, I was born.

 As a baby, everyone around me spoke Arabic until kindergarten, when my family moved yet again. This time, it was to Saudi Arabia. When I found out we were moving, I remember feeling excited at the prospect of exploring a different part of the world. To immerse myself in a new culture and traditions. But little did I know, the sense of belonging I longed for would remain elusive. From first grade to twelfth, I attended an American school filled with students from every corner of the globe. Living amongst foreigners with diverse backgrounds became the norm. Every friend I made had their own culture, religion, and language. But one thing united us all, being kids with no belonging. Visiting Jordan, I felt like a foreigner, coming back to Saudi, I was an expat. My first language developed into a mixture of two, English and Arabic. I did not know how to communicate with my Arabic-speaking family in Jordan. I never felt like I belonged with them. I felt more comfortable in Saudi even though I will always be referred to as a foreigner there.

Now, I have graduated from high school and moved to the U.S. to pursue a degree. Even though I am a citizen, I feel so out of place, like a fish out of water desperately gasping for familiarity in an alien environment. Although the U.S. is supposed to be a country of immigrants, celebrating a blend of cultures, it has not always felt that way for me. Wherever I go, I sense sets of eyes staggering at me like a thousand laser beams. Each piercing glance carries an abundance of judgment and perhaps, even hostility. Instantly, I want to hide from the world, feeling as if everyone is analyzing me like a book. “What is that on top of her head?” they would wonder, unable to look beyond a piece of cloth. I do not mind the curiosity, but what stings are the stereotypes that are brought up when I am in a room. Instead of studying the cover of the book, I wish people would take the time to open it, read its pages, and get to know me before forming opinions. In a country that is meant to be welcoming, I often find myself feeling stuck in an endless loop of biases.

Throughout my life, the colors of my identity always seemed to blend and blur. I yearned for a place of belonging, a home. Feeling alone in this vast world makes me feel like a lone star lost in the boundless night sky, its tiny twinkle drowned by the immensity of the universe. However, the people I have encountered on my journey have provided me with a taste, a sliver, of the warmth a home bestows. That feeling of love and comfort. I am incredibly fortunate to have found shelter from life’s storms, a blanket of reassurance woven by my friends and family. I have come to understand that my sense of belonging does not need to be tied to a place but can exist and thrive through the relationships I build with people.

 Sitting in this café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reminded me of all my previous years. Whether it was Jordan, Saudi Arabia, or the U.S., the smell of coffee remained the same, transcending throughout cultures and languages. It was a scent that could be found anywhere, yet always felt like home.

 “Isn’t there something magical about the smell of coffee in this place?” my friend Sarah asked from across the table.

 “Absolutely, like a warm hug that seeps deep,” I replied.

My Mom’s Smile by Jennifer Garza

There was a time in my life where my mom wanted the best for me. She had high hopes for me; she wanted me to achieve everything and anything. She would smile so big I almost saw all her teeth when she got my report card hoping for all A’s. Suddenly that big smile turned into nothingness. It always made me feel bad like I was constantly disappointing her because I couldn’t be the daughter she dreamed of.

 This was when my depression was at an all-time high. I would always feel tired and my face was expressionless; I was a dead soul walking in a body. I stopped going to school, mostly because I couldn’t wake myself up to get there on time. I tried so hard for my mom, but the better my grades were the worse my health got. I knew I couldn’t let my mom down, but I was losing myself in the process. So that’s what I did, I lost myself. No one really noticed. Friends and family didn’t even care. I became someone who I still can’t recognize til this day, I would tell you about her, but I can’t remember, almost like my brain was trying to protect me in a way. She was strong and she kept pushing on… until I hit my breaking point.

I finally gathered enough courage to talk to my mother. When I tried, nothing but tears came out. My mother didn’t hear a single word from me, yet she still understood everything. She could see the dullness in my eyes, the tone of my voice, she knew that wasn’t the daughter she wanted. My mom wanted a beautiful daughter who was happy and healthy, and no number or letter was worth her daughter’s happiness.      

After that,  my relationship with my mother grew stronger. We’ve been more connected than ever before. With that pressure off my chest, I was able to graduate and I got to see that smile on her face. I am still living with my depression, but now I know my mom has my back to help.

Where the Smoke Leads by Noble Rhyne

The old and rotting wood creaks under my feet as I approach the edge of the dock. The
cool lake breeze washes past, loosing feathers from my back. Thousands of fish leap
from beneath the rippling waves, their scales glinting like a galaxy of stars as the sun
grins down on them. I take a seat, letting my feet dangle over the blue water. I let myself
enjoy this momentary respite, knowing it will soon be over, knowing that I can’t run
from my duties forever. I sit, watching over the lake until the sun grins no more, and the
sleepy moon takes over its place in the sky.

An incessant ringing calls out to me from the depths of my pocket. I take out the
rickety thing that’s making all the noise, an old flip phone that an equally old friend
gifted to me. It’s missing several buttons, and part of the LED screen is permanently
blotched out. I sigh, staring at it for a moment before raising it to my ear. I listen as
words begin to pour out of it, relaying the instructions for my next job. I roll my eyes
everytime the caller drops some trivial piece of information that anybody could figure
out themselves. Once I’ve received the extent of my instructions, I flip the phone shut,
stuffing it back in my pocket.

I rise to my feet, stretching my aching limbs. I dig around in my other pocket for
a moment, before finding what I’m searching for. A small box of cigarettes. No matter
how many times I threw them away, smoked them, crushed them, incinerated them, or
gave them away, they always seemed to find their way back to me. I chuckle. It’s almost
sweet, in some strange, messed up way. I take one, lighting it with a flick of my finger
and raising it to my mouth. I take a deep breath, letting the smoke fill my lungs before
exhaling. The smoke takes the form of a wispy arrow in the air in front of me, pointing to
my destination.

I retrace my steps, past the old lake house, whose family has long stopped
visiting. Past the sprawling pine forest, whose depths held so many memories and
stories. Past the rusting swing set, where children play no longer. As always, I find
myself repeating my same old pattern, always walking back to the life I try so
desperately to run away from. My motorcycle waits for me in the empty parking lot,
seemingly beckoning me closer. The familiar smell of gasoline and rubber permeates the
air. Its matte black finish, that appears to suck in any light that dares exist around it,
matches the very wings on my back and the suit that dons my figure. It roars
triumphantly as I ignite the engine, setting off on the road again.

The radio creaks out a lonesome tune as I drive into the city. I always hated this
radio, always sounding so sad. Guess it reminds me of me. The beautiful pine trees
slowly begin to give way as the rocky road turns to smooth asphalt. The lake sprawls out
far to my left, its sparkly waters drawing out a deep, aching, longing from within me. I
tear my eyes away, letting it fade into the distance behind me. The street slowly begins
to fill with cars, which strangely all converge on the road going opposite of me. I pull
over momentarily, lighting another cigarette and drawing in a deep breath before letting
out a puff of smoke, adjusting my course as the bite sized arrow deems. The cityscape
rises around me, tall trees having been replaced by looming buildings. I can see my
reflections in each of the windows as I pass. I barely recognize myself.

Soon, just as the lake had, the city fades behind me, until I’m alone on the road
again. I can feel my heart tensing up as I grow ever closer to my destination. Trees
sprout up around me as I continue on into the mountain. My tires chew up dirt before
spitting it out again. Finally, I come to a stop. I find myself at the end of a long dirt
driveway, which snakes up to a lonely, two story house, accompanied by an old station
wagon. I smile faintly, the faded blue paint on the exterior bringing back long passed
memories of a somewhat happy childhood. I quickly suppress the thoughts and foreign
expression. There’s no place for them here.

I take the burnt out cigarette from my mouth, throwing it to the ground and
crushing it beneath my heel. I find a sufficiently sturdy tree to prop myself against, and
wait. I wait and wait, cursing at myself for my inaction, but I know it’s for the best. I wait
until the first spark pops out. I wait until the house’s orange glow fills the sky, until the
heat from the inferno bathes across my skin. Then, I begin to walk. I walk until I’m past
the car and onto the deck of the house. The heat feels like it’s scorching my skin, but I
know it isn’t. It can’t. I open the door. Immediately smoke rushes out, threatening to
choke me, to strangle the life out of my body. I ignore it and continue on. A woman,
burned and coughing, emerges from one of the rooms. Her eyes widen as she sees me, a
hint of hope jumping to life in her heart. I stare at her solemnly for a moment, letting a
single tear fall from my eye before burning away. But I am not here for her, with a hand
as heavy as my heart, I push her back into the depths of the fire. She barely has time to
squeak before the flames consume her once more.

The smoke bends to my will as I walk up the stairs, leading me to my target.
Flaming rafters fall from the ceiling, each missing me by mere inches. The smell is even
worse upstairs. I try to avert my eyes as I pass the family portrait hanging from the wall.
Two loving parents, a suit-bearing man in his fifties and a blouse wearing woman in her
late forties, stand proudly behind two children, a young boy with shaggy brown hair and
a brightly smiling girl, who, due to my own actions, will never smile again. I try not to
gag as the picture is engulfed in flame. I continue on down the hall, following the smoke
until it finally points to a door to my left. I swiftly kick the door off its hinges before
stepping inside. There, in the corner of the room, clutching a soot stained teddy bear,
the shaggy haired boy sits. Tears streak through the dirt on his cheek as he clutches the
bear. He slowly looks up as I approach, a glimmer of hope shining in his face. A glimmer
that will not be extinguished by the likes of me.

I hold out my hand, and he takes it, staring in awe at my ashen wings as I sling
him onto my back. With the boy secured, I retrace my steps, making sure his eyes stay
shut and no smoke gets into his lungs. We escape through the front door, just as the roof
collapses, burying any and all memories made in that place. I carry him until we reach
the end of the driveway. We both stare at the remnants of the house for what feels like
hours until the wail of fire trucks can be heard in the distance. His hand grips the fabric
of my pant leg as I turn my back to the destruction. I set a hand on his head, before
kneeling down to eye level. I redirect his attention to the ground, watching as wonder
spreads across his face as a black flower breaks through the dirt. I gently pluck it from
the ground, tucking it into his overalls pocket before standing. I don’t look back at him
as I mount my motorcycle and set off once again.

Torn Connection by Anonymous Heartbroken

At times I question myself, if I’m a good friend, am I too available for people when they need me? I feel like I do a lot for people but I never get the same loyalty in return.

This one random day, I decided to hang out with my best friend and her two friends whom I didn’t really talk to. As the day went by, we were having fun. One of her friends offered me something to smoke. Usually as a teen you think it is fun to do such things like smoke. It wasn’t my first time, but I wouldn’t do it often, I was never addicted or anything. So I smoked what she handed me and I only did it once and I didn’t like it.

A few minutes later we decided to get McDonald’s. As we got there I got off and once I was close to the door to enter the restaurant my face felt weird like if it was sort of swollen. It felt like ants were walking in my face. I started to feel weird, so I asked them if they had seen my face swollen or anything they said no which made me wonder what is going on? I took a seat and I just started to see black spots randomly. My vision was not okay. I started slowing down. I never found a way to explain how my vision was that day but I myself knew I wasn’t okay. The first thing I did was look at my best friend and told her I wasn’t feeling good at all. I was begging for her to take me to the hospital but she just stood there asking me why, what do you mean, no you’re just “high”, which made me feel alone and scared. I didn’t know what to do, because as a best friend I feel like it’s a different friendship so I thought she was going to understand me and help me instead of making me feel unsafe as if she didn’t care. The girl who offered to smoke told me to go to her truck with her so she could blast cold air on me to see if I felt any better and as well to lie down in the back seat. We all got in and drove home. While we were going home so much was going around in my head. I thought I was dying. I honestly wanted to cry for help. I ended up calling my mom while on the way back to my best friend’s house telling her to pick me up because I didn’t feel good. While we were going back to my best friend’s house, she was on the phone planning on going to another party instead of asking me if I was okay. I didn’t feel safe around them anymore and I’m thankful my mom picked me up. I had calmed down by the time my mom arrived. I went home and I was honestly scared. The way I reacted to what gave me left me with no words. I had so many emotions. The next day I woke up scared, but my so-called best friend never checked up on me which broke me because I really thought we were close and I knew if it was her in my position I would be there and would have helped her.

Even after that situation I never used it against her or anything. I’m still always there for her but when I need advice or I feel sad she doesn’t care and I know I shouldn’t be okay with a friend like that but I have a caring heart and I care so much about us. I wouldn’t want the friendship to end because everything in the beginning of our friendship was so much fun and we saw each other like sisters, and that was the time I ever felt a torn connection between someone I love and me.

Multicultural Action Plan by Kelly Gutierrez

My full name is Kelly Denisse Gutierrez Aguilar. I was born in a small city named Victoria in Tamaulipas, Mexico. Although I was born in Victoria I have very little familiarity with that city, I was raised in a smaller town named Tula, where most of my family resided. I was raised by my mother until I was 8 and was influenced by her beliefs, including religion, without questioning it. She was Christian, therefore I considered myself Christian until I was like 12. I have memories of attending church and being enrolled in church classes for kids, which I was really scared of for some reason. Regarding my father’s beliefs, I was aware that he was raised on Catholic church and his parents were really strict on him following that religion, but as my father I never considered him religious. Things changed when the pandemic hit. We would attend a catholic church every Sunday for a couple months until his work schedule changed drastically. As of now I do not consider myself religious. Considering the different religions that my mother and father are part of I do try to respect both and attend church with my dad when invited or getting rosaries for my mother, because I know the importance it holds for them.

Growing up the until way I would identify myself with was Hispanic, being younger and living in Mexico that was all I knew. Then when I came to the United States my race was asked on documents which had to be answered white. I think as a Hispanic filling out white feels a little off. Most of us Latinos and Hispanics although being mestizos feels like a sense of erasure to our indigenous ancestry.

A former curiosity of mine has always been the origin of my ancestry and ancestors. I have always wondered and dreamed of sitting down and conversating with my ancestors and asking them about their life experiences, getting a good grasp of how I came to be. It is known that Spain ancestry dominates majority of Mexico alongside native Mexicans.  I know both of my last names have Spanish descent, both being widely known and used throughout Hispanic countries.

 Race can be described as a concept used to describe a group of people who share similar social or cultural identities, ancestral backgrounds, and physical characteristics, such as skin color and facial features in a person. I believe the United States has grown a lot when it comes to diversity, and the respect grown for one another. The concept of race might have been created long ago to separate and discriminate against one another, to create barriers between people that should never have been created. We should never try to erase the history and struggles races have been through because that would be insensitive. I believe the differences of one another such as culture, ancestry, and qualities from around the world make our planet a beautiful place. Getting to know people who differentiate from you who are enriched in their own way, people who value things and aspects of their own can be very important, something they take pride in.

The very first experience I had with different races was when I first arrived here. I had just completed a bus ride for 2 days from Mexico to little York, Texas, and had to wait in front of gas station for my dad to arrive. My father unfortunately got in a car accident as he was going to pick us up, so we had to wait longer than usual. I remember being afraid and cold. An empty gas station lot and the vast dark sky, it felt like I was being swallowed whole. We didn’t know any English, how currency worked, or how to socialize correctly with anyone that passed by. Two young African American men approached us in a gray car, I’m sure they thought we were homeless now thinking about it, they offered us two sprites and peanut butter crackers they had bought in the gas station. My mother expressed her gratitude, in Spanish of course, and went on with their drive. Shortly after that we got sheltered by the gas station owner for the rest of the night until my father arrived. Only communicating through hand gestures, and face expressions. I remember this night so vividly, feeling a knot in my throat, it feels so emotional. At that moment I had no idea what was going on, but after a whole decade has passed by, I have never forgotten them, I wish I could hug those two guys and the gas station owner for being so kind to me and my mother.

I have always been taught by my family to be respectful to everyone and anyone just how I would want to be respected. It was never detailed, I never got my parents to explain the differences people have, but as I grew older myself, I ended up researching everything. I had a really close friend, whom to this day I love dearly, we had an art class together and we would laugh so hard during class that our stomachs would be sore until the following period. There was an instance where we would have to do group project with different classmates, and this person was making fun of him and using “gay” as an insult. My friend noticeably looked down and was affected by the whole situation, I had never seen him in down spirits, so I felt like I needed to do something. I told the person that comments like those should not be made and that it was disrespectful to do so. I hadn’t known my friend’s sexual orientation prior to this, we talked about how he got picked on for being open about it recently. At that moment I knew I had to inform myself about it, for respect and self-awareness. I think this is a good example as to why discriminating against someone for their sexual orientation angers me, people do not give one another chances to develop friendships or be acquaintances when that shouldn’t be a problem. I hadn’t known my friend’s preference before that incident, and his preference would not have changed the way we got to bond.

I have always taken the principle of never judging anyone, from younger years I never spoke badly of anyone. Whether it was personality wise, looks wise, socioeconomic status, religion, etc. because I knew it was wrong to do so, and because of the damage it could do to someone. I have gotten to see the hate people give one another, and it seems so sad and unnecessary to me. I’ve gotten to learn and educate myself in many ways due to the diversity of my friends and community. Everyday there’s always something to learn from different groups of people and I do so joyfully.

Personal Conflict by Erick Gomez

Throughout my four years in high school, I was studying to be a welder. Although it wasn’t a choice I made for myself beginning freshman year, it was a chance I took with open arms. I enjoyed welding, at times even loved it. The feeling of doing a weld seeing my accomplishments, how much I had grown and having my teacher praise my work and letting me move on to the next level always brought joy to my future. I decided to pursue welding.

Senior year of high school was when the ball really started rolling. I was getting certifications left and right, experiencing new groove welds and positionings. I went to state competitions and was able to receive four certifications in total as well as meet new people. It really felt like something I could do in the long run, but my senior year was also the year when my mom got to know more of my career. She was the one who would give me money for the trips, but she never understood what I was doing till I received my first certification in welding.

She was concerned that it wouldn’t do in the long run. She asked, what would I accomplish with welding? She started asking questions about the pathway and saw how it wasn’t a “career” that it was just a passerby, something to just enjoy, a hobby really. Although I do love her, I understand her concerns, but never really understood why I was being belittled for my decision.

My dad was proud of me accomplishing these tasks, accomplishing these goals, but my mom wouldn’t, the more I got sucked into welding, the more my mom wanted me to draw out of it. I always heard applause from others. Saying that it was a good career, that I would make good money, yet she still didn’t want it for me.

It wasn’t till I got my first job while working almost three months in it. I got scared because of what my mom would always keep telling me, I was being pressured. I wanted to be a welder, it was my dream, something I did for 4 years, but in the end, it got to me. I decided I would pause that dream and go to college.

When people ask me, I can say my choice of going to college was to pursue an associate degree for a better career, but really I am going to college because of my mom’s influence.

Endurance in the Home and the Workplace: Two very different works of Fiction, Jennifer Martiza McCauley’s When Trying to Return Home and Please Be Advised by Christine Sneed, Explore the Workplace and the Home as Sites of Psychological Trauma by Siakor Gbawar

Two recent books of fiction dwell on the adversity we as people in this society must endure balancing our obligations and what we think is owed to our families and the corporate world in which we work.  When Trying to Return Home by Jennifer Maritza McCauley (Counterpoint Press, 2023) and Please Be Advised by Christine Sneed (7.13 Books, 2023) deliver a narrative of the exposure to the “psychological torsion” to which we adapt as employees and as family members. The choice is to endure family pressure and corporate workplace procedures, rules, and guidelines or deal with guilt.

 The stories in When Trying to Return Home describe geographical settings–Puerto Rico, the Midwest, and across the southern states where the characters’ families are based.  Please be Advised, on the other hand, uses exaggeration and irony to explore a fictional workplace. These books remind us that spaced between the members of our families and in the workplace, some of the most personally defining aspects of our lives are acted out.

In Sneed’s novel, the collection of memos reveals a certain degree of practical jokes but also reminds us that your father is not the owner of Quest Industries, that bonds of family are vastly different to the relationship of a company to its employees. Of course, Sneed novel is a lot of fun to read, some of her memos show a sense of humor, laughter, and jokes.  Memos like “Time-saving measures”, “But no one will be fired,” “New policy for inter-office candy”, and the touted benefit of filling out the “fun wellness survey” are some of my favorite lines.  The Quest Industries memos are always from the mid-level, higher level, and lower-level management and always directed at the employees below them, who are mere recepients. Employees must endure the harsh reality of having to put up with company policies which are sometimes degrading, insulting, rude, belittling, embarrassing, and ignorant, as they constantly try to conjure a sense of belonging to the company.

Certain characters in Macaulay’s short stories are intertwined into the fabric of other stories, giving a link and a smooth transition in between the stories at time. But all characters in the stories struggle with their experiences and existence. They question their actions, relationships, and characteristics. They are confronted with the dilemma of making certain choices based on their love for family. Sometimes what is requested of you seems unrealistic, but you owe this effort to your family member. Psychological torsion can make or break a person, having to withstand the brutal adversity of belonging in this society.  In the first story “Torsion,” The guilt of Claudia having to tell her mother not to go and kidnap her brother, her mother’s plan, was just a devastating feeling. With all the suffocating love, a toxic one, her mother had showered upon her and her brother, she couldn’t tell her mother no.

Whose side would she be on if she had told her mother no to the kidnap plan?  Would she take the law side knowing kidnapping is wrong?  Maybe this was all the mother knew about, how to be there for her babies.  “Mama didn’t notice that her love was cruel until CYS took my brother”.  This is an example of being caught up between a hard place and a rock when having to make the ultimate decision of standing up for what you believe in or for what is right to a family member.  What are the consequences are we willing to pay?  Loss of a family member. 

 At what point do we as people in this society get to draw the line?  Knowing when it is the right time to break this cycle of psychological torsion is a valuable key.  The decision we make when we are presented with challenges by our families, and the workplace should always have to do with being comfortable in our own skin and distinguishing the difference between what is wrong and what is right.  I have come to the conclusion that you just won’t be able to please everyone whether it’s your boss or your family member.              

When Trying to Return Home: The Journey of Diverse Identities by Isidro Donoso

The short-story collection When Trying to Return Home (Counterpoint Press, 2023) by Jennifer Maritza McCauley is a delivery in which the author makes an approach to the question of belonging in a new society. The characters are always asking themselves “Where do I belong?”

In “Torsion,” Claudia faces problems like having to decide between her future and helping her mother kidnap her brother. Based on people that do not fit quite good in an American society, this book reflects to the reader a wider perception of their own society, reminding the reader that many Americans face all type of problems, financial, identity and racial problems.  

In the first story, “Torsion”, the question of belonging is present since the story tells us about an African American family who were forced to be separated. The little boy of this family was forced to be moved apart from his sister and his mom, because Child Protective Services determined that the place where he was living was not appropriate for a child who needed dialysis. After this, he was handed over to an adoptive White woman. In this story, there are two opposite points of view on the question of belonging, the mother’s and the daughter’s. The first point of view in which we can see the problem of belonging is from the mother. She was willing to do everything she could do to take her son back, even though she could not afford all the cares of her son’s treatments. In the other side, we have the sister’s perspective at the beginning she helped her mother to take her son back, but in the middle of all, she realized that kidnapping her brother was not worth it because of all the consequences. This makes us realize that we do not have the point of view from the main affected character in this story, the kid. Being separated from your family at a young age can lead to a constant feeling of not being in the right place and a total loss of identity.

In the title story “When trying to return home,” the question of belonging in this story is more remarkable. The story tells us about a Latina who moved to South Florida for work. Since the moment she arrived she began to feel a strange feeling like she was just one more of the pile. When she was young, she lived in many places and, in all these places, she was recognized with many nicknames which make her feel welcomed, but in Florida she was nothing special. When the protagonist talks about where she comes from, and when she meets the “Trigueña” outside of a bakery, she reminds her of her mother, especially when the lady started saying things in Spanish that her mother used to say to her. This encounter with the “Trigueña” makes her realize how far she is from home. Andra, the main character in this story, gives us the most interesting analyses related to the thesis of this review. As she goes further in the story, we can notice that she does not feel comfortable with her friends, her friends represent the new environment in which she is, and she does not feel comfortable with the “Trigueña” either–she represents her past. It is interesting to see how the main character of the story, Andra, reacts when the “Trigueña” starts interacting with her. Andra is too afraid to speak Spanish after this sudden encounter with her past. For me, it is very interesting how the writer transmits us to the exact moment where all this is happening and we can almost feel the anguish and helplessness Andra feels in that moment, by not being able to speak Spanish with the older woman. It makes me think that she lost her Latin bond and that leaves her farther away from her roots.

The question of belonging is present in each one of the stories, aspects, and scenarios in the book When Trying to Return Home. McCauley can immerse us in the problems each one of the characters in the story has to face, giving us many points of view, each perspective completely different from the last story. The question of belonging is present in the lives of many people, who do not feel comfortable in America. This book also makes us realize how complicated it is for so many Americans to be in one of these situations.

Bibliography:

“When trying to return home” Counterpoints, Jan. 2023,

“In These Black and Afro-Latino Communities, Family Is a Double Bind.” The New York

Times, Feb. 2023, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/07/books/review/when-trying-to-return-home-jennifer-maritza-mccauley.html