Who Won This Years's Top Essay Prize at UCLA? Yep, Former Student Xinix Perla

In which an Essays in Journalism alum remembers how a psychic predicted her prize-wining essay, which I'm sharing in full

Photo by Nick Page on Unsplash

She was always late.

We’d be five minutes in. Or maybe 25. And the door would creak open and this whirlwind would appear and sit down and exhale a bit and then we’d resume.

Every single time.

A few weeks in, I found myself wondering: Would her work match the unusual and unique observations she shared in class? Could she connect the special way she’d assess published work (as I recall, she kinda loved Lopate, for instance) to her own attempt to make a story? Would her firm but useful feelings about fellow students’s work translate to her own effort toward excellence.

Yep.

It took a minute. But eventually, Xinix Perla, from my winter 2023 Essays in Journalism course, delivered the final paper I knew she could write.

And, sure enough, she won the university’s top essay prize.

CONGRATULATIONS.

Here’s Xinix’s reflection on winning, and also the essay that earned the honor. (If you’re super busy just promise me you’ll at least scroll down to read the final’s opening line. It’s one of the best student openers I’ve ever seen.)

Written in the Cards 

By: Xinix Perla 

My mom’s aunt, Albaluz, is a psychic. And by psychic, I don’t mean a palm reader you pay $35 to predict “your future” on Ventura Blvd. I mean one of those old-time, been-doing this-for-30 years, taught-by-several-generations type psychics. According to my mother, she can use voodoo to send good or bad energy into someone’s life, ward off negative people in your path, and talk to spirits. 

Albaluz gets lots of visitors in Mexico for her services. She’s done this for free her whole life and is currently 70 years old. To her, monetizing “the gift God gave her” is morally wrong, so she never charges people for it. For this reason, she’s lived a very poor life. 

My mom reunited with this aunt when she moved to Tijuana to start a clothing business. Since Albaluz’s living situation isn’t the best, my mom invites her over to chat and lift her spirits. In their time together, Albaluz has “foreseen” many things about me and my siblings without ever having met us. My mom often calls to warn me about what’s in store for my future. I listen and entertain it out of respect, but I never believe a word. She’s tried to convince me to see Albaluz in person countless times, urging me to come visit her place in TJ for a reading. Sometimes I feel like she wants my cards read more for herself (as a nosy mother) than for me. 

At the same time, her insistence could stem from a place of concern, since every parent wants to know if their kid is following the right path. Regardless, my response is always the same, I either dodge the question or say no because I don’t believe in psychics—I also just want her to trust that my life will work out fine without the use of spiritual intervention/guidance. 

One day, while enrolled in ENG COMP M138, my mom called me with a psychic update. In a nutshell, she said, “A pale man at UCLA is going to come into your life and help you out in a big way…don’t be closed off to him…and don’t think about your boyfriend.” 

If you knew my mom, you’d know this is a very “her” thing to say. The audacity!.Before this, she had warned me that I was going to get pregnant. Then, a couple of days later, she called me to announce that my boyfriend was going to impregnate someone else too. Both were ridiculous and both never came to fruition (thank god!). 

Those instances didn’t bother me that much, but what she said this time was rude and out of line. I rolled my eyes, bothered that she basically told me to cheat on my boyfriend for a guy who could help me out in some “mysterious” way. I wasn’t conscious of it, but each call about their “future-telling” escapades bothered me. In flustered Spanish, I told her to stop calling me for this sh*t and to not include my name in their brujería (witchcraft) anymore. After the call, I went to class late as usual with no pale man entering my life. 

During week 10 of the winter quarter, I submitted my final paper to the M138 Class Drive. I titled it “Quinceañera’s Blow,” because this night truly did blow (it sucked profusely), and because it tells the story of how cocaine (a.k.a blow) ruined my cousins’ quinceañera. Writing the essay was pretty challenging—it had lots of characters and several layers to it. In class, Professor Deuel would ask me how it was coming along. 

Having only written a small portion, I’d say, “Good, just some hard parts here and there.” But the hard parts were everywhere. Whilst writing, I’d think: how can I explain this person without writing too much about them? Should I include this part about my family history? If my mom were to read this, would she be mad?? 

If I learned anything from this class, it was to not get stuck overthinking—to just write. Eventually, I found my flow and finished my essay. The title came to me at the very end and I contently submitted what I had written. 

Weeks later, I received a short and cryptic email from Professor Deuel. The subject line read “nominating you for a prize” and the body said, “hope that’s okay!”—and that was it. In all honesty, I thought nothing would come of it so I didn’t ask the swarm of questions I had. I simply responded with an equally short message: “Thanks Professor! Hope you feel better from drinking the dirty swamp water.” Weeks went by with no news.

About a month later, on May 15th, I got an email from HUMNET saying I was the recipient of the 2023 Peter Rotter writing prize. By far, the best email I’ve ever received! I was utterly shocked that my writing could win an actual award. I skimmed through the email twice before telling my boyfriend that I won a writing prize at UCLA. Saying it out loud made me giddy and cheery. I told him that the award ceremony was scheduled for June 2nd and to save the date. 

Like a complete nerd, I was excited to attend the ceremony. I pictured a small event with other young aspiring writers—we’d be eating green grapes and enjoying small refreshments, each of us awkwardly waiting to receive our respective awards. I wondered how much money each recipient would get and how they even determined that. I also questioned if I should take my mom or my dad, or maybe neither. 

In the end, it didn’t matter. 

The first week of June, I got a heavy fever and developed a weird red-dotted rash on my hands. By midday on June 2nd, I notified Professor Deuel that I was unable to make it to the event. I was bummed, but it is what it is, life happens. The initial HUMNET email was enough recognition for me. Being nominated by a professor and then selected by a writing committee reassured me that this career was worthwhile. It gave me a boost of confidence in thinking I could make it as a writer someday. 

I didn’t tell my mom about the award until after I got the direct deposit. I told her I won a scholarship my English professor nominated me for. Almost immediately, she said, “The man Albaluz was talking about! Maybe that was your professor. You see, I told you something like this would happen!” 

Her response didn’t surprise me one bit. It made me laugh and think of how Albaluz was partially right. Maybe in her vision, she saw my professor helping me improve my writing and nominating me for this award. Maybe she saw this win coming. 

This doesn’t at all change how I feel about psychics, I still don’t trust their craft. I trust in life and everything unfolding the way it’s supposed to. I trust that this is the first milestone of my writing career and that years from now, I’ll be looking back and seeing this prize as the first time I got paid for writing. Whether it be in journalism, book publishing, or any other professional writing, I know I’ll find success in this vocation. I’m sure the next time my name gets brought up in their psychic readings, Albaluz will find that written in my cards.

And the prize-winner:

Quinceañera’s Blow 

By: Xinix Perla 

There are no brighter lights than the ones shining out of an LAPD vehicle. The beams blind me as a police officer tells us to step out of our car slowly and carefully. Someone must’ve called 911. 

There are four of us crammed at the very back of our 2014 Chevrolet Traverse. I’m hugging my younger brother as I try not to cry, still processing the total mayhem. “Step out of the vehicle with your hands up.” 

The cop shouted his instructions using a megaphone in a firm, authoritative voice. We cracked the door slightly and pushed it open little by little. I realized then that the intense light was also coming from the flashlights under the guns they were pointing at us. 

The first one to exit was my 12-year-old brother, Kenny. I couldn’t believe there were guns pointed at him. I know the police were being cautious—they didn’t know who or what was in the car—but the thought of it was so bizarre. The nerves in my small teenage body made my arms shake when it was my turn to go. 

“Take out your hands.” 

I threw both my hands out where they could see them. 

“Now, come out of the vehicle with your back facing me, and walk this way slowly. Hands still in the air.” 

I walked backwards for about 20 feet. I wondered if I was stepping back slowly enough and wanted to turn around to see where I was going. After they checked in on me, they instructed me to sit down on the curb. I could see my dad being detained on the other end of the parking lot. My mom was walking in my direction, still swaying and talking loudly from her drunkenness. 

I was in Malibu with my dad when I asked if he’d ever done cocaine. I was 19 and searching for answers. Confirmation more than anything else. I needed to know if what my mom had told me was true. 

He’s sitting across from me on an old work blanket set atop the fresh Lechuza sand. His life’s work involved moving and delivering furniture to support our sizable 6-member family. These thick blue blankets were what he used to wrap the wooden edges of nightstands, paintings, 6-foot mirrors, any furniture you can think of. 

I’m contemplating how to smoothly bring up this question, searching for the right conversation starter that will ease into my serious inquiry. The Don Julio 1942 tequila bottle we’re sipping on introduced the topic seamlessly. When I took a gulp of it, he got taken aback. He tells me, “Eso no se toma asi.” That’s not how you drink this. 

I respond, “No te preocupes, no es mi primera vez tomando esto.” Don’t worry, this isn’t my first time trying this. I proceed to tell him all the things I’ve tried: shrooms, alcohol, and marijuana. 

He wasn’t surprised though, he already knew my brothers introduced these drugs into our home. “Solo no vayas a probar las drogas duras.” Alright, just don’t try any hard drugs. 

I look at him and say, “¿Has probado drogas duras, como la cocaína?” Have you tried any hard drugs, like cocaine? I ask this question hoping to confirm the suspicions my mom gave me. 

He reciprocates my gaze and says, “No, hija. Yo nunca a tocado eso.” Nope, I’ve never touched that stuff. He makes a face like he’s offended I even asked. I pause for a moment and question whether I want to press him about it. I wanted him to be honest. Deep down, I knew he was lying to me. I realized a long time ago that parents lie to their kids. Santa Clause, the tooth fairy, how babies are made—it’s normal to try to protect their innocence. Even so, I wanted the same respect I gave him when he asked me if my mom was texting another guy the day he left our house for good. He could always tell when I was lying, just like I could tell when he was too. 

The reason I was questioning my dad is because of a conversation I had with my mom in a Hertz sprinter van outside a casino in Arizona. She took me and my older brother on a trip for work and “quality bonding time.” We had just finished picking up the merchandise for her clothing business when Michael said he wanted to stop by a casino. He used the money he made driving that day to play Blackjack for almost 4 hours. In that time, my mom and I stayed in the car organizing the back of the van. 

It wasn’t long before we started talking about all the unspoken things we never addressed when I was growing up. The recent divorce and specific low points in their marriage were brought up. 

She took me back to the night of the quinceañera—the night my dad sent my tia’s narco husband to prison for life. 

A little background on my family: Tia Lidia (we called her Titi) is my religious Catholic aunt from my mom’s side of the family. My siblings and I first met her on some random summer weekend when my parents dropped us off at her place in Downey. 

Their goal was to get us more acquainted with our extended relatives living in the US. I was 13 when we visited and remember Titi waking me up early to attend mass Sunday morning. We ate a big breakfast she prepared for us and jumped in her 2015 Chevrolet Tahoe with 4 newfound cousins. She played soft Christian music the entire 20-minute drive to the church. It was strange how different they were from us. I made a judgmental little face toward my sister like “is this for real?” It was all new to us, we never followed any religion in our household (or even ate breakfast together). 

It was the first time we stepped foot inside a church. It felt uncomfortable having to hum the foreign songs they knew so well. Holding the sacramental wafer in my mouth until it dissolved was also very strange. I didn’t know the protocol or the rules back then. What I do know now, is that it’s extremely ironic that a devout Catholic was married to an infamous drug lord from the notorious Tijuana Cartel. 

The quinceañera was a celebration of the coming of age of my two cousins, Stephanie and Brittney. It was held at a Banquet Hall in Downey and the drive there took about an hour from Panorama City. No church music was played on the way there, just the regular reggaeton and bachata music my mom always listens to. 

Upon entering the Banquet, you are greeted with a bunch of round tables with big centerpieces and an impressive bar at the other end of the room. The overhead lights shoot yellow and blue colors throughout the hall as music plays loudly from massive speakers. People were already loose and buzzed. 

We arrived late as per usual of the Perla’s. Dinner had already been served and the peak of the party was unfolding. We greeted all of my mom’s half-siblings: Titi, Tio Victor, Tia Joseline, and Tio Armando. They grouped up for a picture to capture the first gathering of them all together. My mom was next to Titi in the photo, laughing with her arm around her estranged sister. It was the first and last time they were photographed together. 

**************** 

My mom grew up in Honduras as an only child. Her dad was a reckless drug addict who was incapable of raising a child. Her mom was a prostitute who detested having her, so much so, that one night she tried suffocating my infant mother with a pillow because she was wailing unbearably. Luckily, my great-grandmother walked in and pulled her off. She immediately threw her out and raised my mom as her own daughter. My grandpa impregnated other women and abandoned those kids too. These were my aunts and uncles who attended the party this day. 

**************** 

There was a table at the quinceañera specifically for Titi’s husband (let’s call him Miguel) and his associates. They sat with a solid wall behind them and had a clear view of the entire room. Miguel was their leader. He carried a visible pound of cocaine and was drinking Modelos. 

My dad was already 9 beers in when he asked the bartender for two shots of tequila. My mom is also getting hammered—it’s a celebration! Why wouldn’t they right? Michael, my older brother, is old enough to drive us back, and if he drinks, his girlfriend Kathryn who also came with us can drive. My father is a functional drunk on beer, but add the tequila shots in there and he’ll start to act off impulse. 

He sees Miguel and notices the cocaine he’s carrying. He goes to the table and walks up to him directly. 

“Oye, amigo. Dame una linea.” Hey man, let me get a line. He approaches him like it’s nothing, Miguel is just another person to him. 

“No te conozco amigo. Por favor, aléjate de aquí.” I don’t know you, my friend. Please get away from here. He’s firm, but not rude. He doesn’t want any problems but still asserts his dominance. 

“Soy el esposo de Jessica, prácticamente somos familia.” I’m Jessica’s husband, we’re practically family. My dad ignores the obvious cue to leave. 

“No te conozco.” I don’t know you. Miguel gives him a threatening look and my dad finally backs off. 

He meets up with my mom again and drinks more beer, feeling a bit defeated. His ego is bruised and he’s not going to let this go. 

When Miguel gets up to go to the bathroom he follows him inside. I don’t know what the men’s bathroom looked like, but I imagine it’s the same as the women's. There’s a mirror, sinks, and multiple stalls. The lights are a little spotty and you can hear electrical buzzing flowing through the walls. 

Miguel walked into the bathroom with his right-hand man; let’s call him Luis. They don’t go in there to use the restroom though, they’re in there to snort lines of cocaine. Miguel pulls out his bag and scoops up a gram of the blow with his pocket knife. They split lines of it on the bathroom sink and snort it within seconds. My father walks in and interrupts them. He knew this is what they were going to be doing when he decided to follow them. 

“Ah, ya entendí. No quería que los niños se dieran cuenta.” Ah, I see. You didn’t want the kids to notice. He directs this at Miguel who’s pinching his nose and sniffling from inhaling the cocaine. 

“¿Estas mal de la cabeza o que? Deja de chingar o me vas a conocer.” Are you fucked in the head or what? Stop pushing it or I’ll show you who you’re dealing with. [This is the literal translation. In narco terms, this means “leave me the fuck alone or I’ma put a bullet in your head”]. 

My dad—being the man he is—remains completely unphased and walks to the urinal to unload all the beer he’s been drinking. The men leave without saying anything else to him. 

While all this is happening, I’m sitting at our table eating a handful of sour strips I got from the snack buffet. My dad comes to sit down next to me and looks agitated. I don’t know why, but he keeps looking at the table across the room in front of the solid white wall. 

My Tio Armando approaches us and tells me he’s leaving. He gives me a hug and says it was good to see me. I say the same and wish him a safe drive home. Once he left, my tia Joseline also headed out with her husband and kids. Soon, the banquet hall seemed emptier and the party was winding down. I grabbed one of the pretty blue centerpieces and my sister grabbed another from the table next to us. I don’t know why Latinas do this, but we always take the centerpieces home (and in my case, the leftover candy too). 

I walk to the parking lot with my older sister, Kriff, and my younger brother Kenny. It’s past midnight and super dark outside. There’s dim lighting coming from the streetlamps near the fence with bushes growing on it and an orange and green glow shining from the 7-Eleven sign one parking lot over. We’re looking for our parents so we can start going home. 

As I scan the area, I spot a group of guys on the upper-right side of the parking lot. It’s my dad and the narco guys. He didn’t let it go. My dad had to say one last thing to Miguel before leaving and ended up instigating a fight. 

There are three guys on him. My dad takes off his belt and uses the hard metal part to create makeshift brass knuckles to wrap around his right hand. The narcos already got a couple of blows in, but my father is still standing. There’s blood on the floor and I’m not sure whose it is. 

My Tio Victor notices the fight unfold and jumps in to help my dad. It’s three against two now, and my mom also gets involved. She’s always stood by my dad no matter what. Miguel leaves and rushes to his car. I see the headlights of his old Camry turn on and my mom chasing after him. He grabs something from the center console and comes out of his car. Michael and Kathryn enter the scene and rush to us. 

Miguel pulls out a gun and points it upward, shooting a bullet into the dark sky. Michael shouts at Kathryn to get us in the car and to do it quickly. We’re all crouching a little as we rush to the Traverse. Kathryn gets us inside and instructs us to go all the way to the back of the car, as far away from the fight as possible. We watch the chaos get worse through the windshield. 

Michael gets in front of Miguel and says “What the fuck is wrong with you man? There are kids here!” 

He points the gun at my brother’s face and I cry l out his name. “MICHAEL!!” The fear of him dying made me want to rush out of the car and run straight to him. Instead, I held Kenny because I knew he was feeling the same way I was. He needed his big sister and I needed to feel like I was doing something. 

Michael is enraged and takes a step closer to Miguel. What is it with the men in my family? Do they not fear anything? You can hear police sirens from a distance and Miguel gets spooked. He puts the gun away and tries to leave. My mom, still very much drunk, grabs onto the passenger door of Miguel’s car and hangs on to it with both arms inside while the rest of her body is hanging outside the vehicle. I’m guessing she doesn’t want him to get away because I can’t find any other reason as to why she would do this. 

He tries to make a U-turn and my mom’s feet drag along the concrete going 10 mph. I can’t believe what my 14-year-old eyes are seeing through this windshield. Miguel’s friends try to jump into the moving car, but the blue and red lights are already flashing over the lot. 

My Tio Victor had already left when he heard the gunshot. He ran to 7-11 to get napkins for his busted lip and said bye to me through the fence. Titi and her kids were gone since the beginning. They saw the start of the fight but didn’t stay to watch the end. 

The LAPD vehicle is now shining the world’s brightest light at our car. It blinds me, I can’t see anything. We each proceed to walk backwards out of the Traverse one by one with our hands up as instructed. I’m now sitting on the curb with an officer in front of me. He’s asking me to describe the shitshow that just occurred. 

My mom, never wanting us to have any contact with the police, quickly walks over and says, “No, no, no. You can’t talk to my daughter without me present. I know the law. Minors need to have their parents with them when being questioned.” 

I look at the officer slightly embarrassed that my mom is still a little drunk. I don’t say anything and neither do my siblings. It doesn’t matter though because they search Miguel’s car and find a couple kilos of coke and the unregistered gun he shot in the air. The cops take the narcos in and the night comes to an end. For some reason they let my dad go. They’re more interested in Miguel as it turns out he was wanted by the FBI. The drive home is silent, no one really says anything or maybe no one knows what to say. 

The morning after, we skipped school and stayed home all day. I was confused about everything that happened last night. My mom debriefs us about it, but her explanation is filled with holes. My dad is lying next to her on the bed as she talks to us—his left eye and both cheeks are swollen and his whole face is covered with bruises. She tells us to keep what happened inside the house and to never share it with anyone at school. 

We never discussed it after that, but it was brought up again when I was 19 in the Hertz sprinter van. She told me the real story of that day and mentioned that she couldn’t explain everything to me when I was little because I was “too young.” Titi never wanted to see my mom again and their relationship ended for good. In her eyes, my dad was responsible for sending her husband to prison. In my mom’s eyes, my dad was responsible for cutting the ties between her and her sister. Their marriage ended for other reasons—this was just one of the many. I’m not sure what I learned from all this.