Creative Writing

“What Was I Made For?”: Thoughts of a Queer Barbie

I look out over the rolling waves and allow my eyes to rest on her. She’s wearing a fitted white tank top, jean shorts, and her signature silver chain around her neck. Her dimples are on full display as she laughs at something her friend says, and her eyes capture the rays of sunlight and infuse them into her irises, brightening them beyond Technicolor. They’ve broken through to the sixth dimension, and I can’t look away, and I don’t want to look away.

A Jigsaw Puzzle Is an Act of Creation

Sometimes I look in the mirror when the angle is just right and fall in love with the sight of my chest, flat and unburdened. Like the rolling desert that I like to call home, just miles and miles of unbroken land. At this moment, no one has ever touched me there except to lay a hand flat, feel the press of my sternum against their palm, and nothing else. 

The Umbrella 

Lea was already late, running down the sidewalk like a marathon sprinter in the last leg of a race. She dodged around screaming babies in strollers, men in ironed suits in the midst of an argument, and bright yellow fire hydrants. She yelled a quick “Sorry!” or an “Excuse me!” as she weaved her way through the crowds of people hustling to enter the sanctity of their cars after work. Los Angeles at five in the afternoon was not a friendly place.

in pursuit of peace

I was eight when my shape started to shift from straight lines to soft curves, and discomfort began festering inside of me. My discomfort mutated into disgust with each second I spent in an increasingly foreign body. I was eight when a man leaned out of his truck to whistle at me for the first time, and I learned my body exists for the world to look at, and they will look at it and think what they’ll think of it regardless of how I feel about it. I was eight when my body became my enemy.

Our Final Farewell: Generate Inspiration

You step into the first meeting of Student Media’s queerest magazine, OutWrite. It is one of UCLA’s hidden gems, where people can truly be themselves. You applied as a writer on a whim. This was the first queer organization you were involved with during your college career. Seeing other people enjoy their time at OutWrite (and finding you do, too), you stay in the organization for the remainder of your academic years. You drift from being a staff writer to becoming a Developmental Editor and even a co-host of “Speak Out,” OutWrite’s very own podcast, each role challenging your creativity. Here, you are allowed to flourish, trying different techniques to hone your craft. 

Recognized Amongst Nature

here
a wretched body becomes comfortable turmoil
untangles
from within a forsaken shell
The forest won’t judge flesh
blood   and bone
a family of limbs

PHOTOSYNTHESIS

It is a beautiful thing, wanting nothing at all from someone you love because you live with mutual understanding beyond the primal need for physical touch, found in fleeting evenings doomed to end with someone closing the door without looking back. It is a beautiful thing, telling them that you love them over the phone while you’re crying your eyes out because you don’t know what to do now; then you’re laughing until there’s a moment you allow yourself to forget. I remember life before my queer friends, how it felt begging for someone I could see myself in just enough to spark a casual conversation built on genuine interest instead of twisting those unwilling into sharing hyperfixations created for those of us who know what it’s like to have to fight for the ones you love.

To the queer youth, to my younger self

Coming out is hard in so many ways. I came out to myself when I was 18 years old — well, I didn’t “come out,” rather I abruptly clarified it to myself that I like women. Big deal. I hate categorizations and boxes and lists, yet it also relaxes me to put things and ideas into categories, boxes, and lists. The LGBTQ+ spectrum is mindblowingly expansive and, as I’m sure you already know, it is so beautiful.

Birds of a Feather

It started with a Facebook message between two bubbly freshmen-to-be: two California-born Indian girls bonding over Bollywood and books. One message led to another, and we decided to submit a roommate request form to live together in the dorms. It was our first time living away from the home-cooked food of our Indian families. Our shared heritage was what gave us a pocket of familiarity within unfamiliarity.

Ellos Quieren Sangre

Her shoulders drooped with the weight of her Catholic guilt as the statue of white Jesus stared down at her, telling her, I know what you’ve done. His dark eyes seemed to be in perpetual melancholy as her own peered into them. That statue always scared her, always seemed to follow her home from church; it was the first thing she’d see in her grandmother’s kitchen, a miniature version of the statue hung up in her room right in front of the doorway. She had always accepted that Jesus would be a permanent part of her life, just as she had accepted that she bore responsibilities, as the eldest daughter and the first grandchild, to fall in line with what her family expected from her..