Issue 2: Diaspora

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BY W OMEN OF COLOR, FOR W OMEN OF COLOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS PG. 9: LETTER FROM THE EDITOR PG. 10 : TIME & MEMORY BY TAMIRA AMIN PG. 12: MY SW EET MOTHER BY PRIYANKA RAO PG. 16: OTROS ESPACIOS BY ANGELINA RUIZ PG. 20 : PHOTOGRAPH BY ANGELINA RUIZ PG. 21: IGNORANCE/ BLISS BY TALA ALFOQAHA PG. 22: PHOTOGRAPH BY ANGELINA RUIZ PG. 23: HOMELAND HAUNTING BY SHIRLEY WANG PG. 24 : DESSERT DAZE BY SHAM PG. 32: ARTW ORK BY NICOLETTE LECY PG. 33: SNAKEHEAD BY STEPHANIE WANG PG. 34 : THE FOREIGNER FROM NO MAN'S LAND

BY CECILIA CANCIO PG. 36: UNTITLED PHOTOGRAPHS BY NATALIA MORALES PG. 4 0 : A PRIDE OF LIONS KEEPS ON ROARING MOURNING BREATH ON MY SIDE OF THE ROOM AND I JUST WANT TO VOGUE FOR THE GAGGING MASSES IN PEACE BY GODDESS X PG. 4 4 : AYEEYOY BY MARYAMA DAHIR PG. 4 6: FRUTA ABANDONADA BY REBECA ROJAS PG. 4 8: PHOTO SERIES BY FEVEN GEREZGIHER PG. 52: ARTW ORK BY NICOLETTE LECY PG. 53: SINCERELY, HUA MU LAN BY CLARA TANG PG. 54 + 56: UNTITLED & ODE TO HOT SAUCE BY ARYANNA CHUTKAN PG. 59: DIASPORA BY SARA HALIMAH PG. 60 : GREEN GIRL BY UMAIMAH DAMAKKA

TABLE OF CONTENTS PG. 62: HOME ISN?T W HERE THE HEART IS W HEN YOUR HEART IS SPLIT IN TW O BY MOIRA RAMIREZ PG. 64 : THIS IS W HERE I ORIGINATE BY MIKAELA CHOO PG. 66: DESTORY BY KIM MORALES PG. 76: MESSAGE TO THE DIASPORA BY SARA OSMAN PG. 78: POISONED TONGUE BY CLARA TANG PG. 84 : FLORAL W OOL BY UMAIMAH DAMAKKA PG. 85: HEAVN BY GODDESS X PG. 88: A CONVERSATION W ITH POET KRISTIN CHANG, INTERVIEW ED BY ASCEND PG. 96: SPACE BY K. AW PG. 10 0 : ARTW ORK BY NICOLETTE LECY

PG. 10 2: THESE ARE THE COLORS FLOW ING THROUGH YOUR VEINS BY RAIN HIZON PG. 10 6: RED RED RED BY SIX PG. 110 -112: I. CODENAME: THE GIRL I SEE IN THE MIRROR BY CHANNELLE RUSSELL, II. ASHGIRL MAKE AMERICA GOLD AGAIN, & III. ABSENCE ONLY MAKES THE SKIN GROW LIGHTER BY CHANNELLE RUSSELL PG. 114 : UNTITLED PHOTOGRAPH BY NATALIA MORALES PG. 115: SPANISH BY REBECA ROJAS

PHOTOGRAPHY JERUSA NYAKUNDI / COVER, PGS. 1, 8, 12, 30 , 4 2, 64 , 86, 91, 10 4 , 111, 113 TAMIRA AMIN / PGS. 2, 30 , 4 2, 74 , 92, 95, 116

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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The word "diaspora"stems from a Greek word which means ?to scatter.?In our context, this has come to mean a people scattered from a homeland ? through many different means.

W hen settling in new places, some attempt to hang on to their homeland in any way they possibly can; through food, language, culture, stories of back home. Others do not hang onto homeland in quite the same way, or rather, at all for many. The memory of home, of this center from which communities have been scattered, becomes distorted. W hat does it mean to miss a place you?ve never been?Or to try to forget someplace you still dream about?W hether idealized or demonized, it sometimes takes upon an almost mythical quality.

Though diaspora is inherently an idea of separation, what?s most meaningful is how we reconnect. Across borders physical and arbitrary, in neighborhoods, religious spaces and restaurants, we find our way back to one another and create something ? maybe not exactly like back home, but something we can thrive in.

Diaspora is a diverse, varied experience, but what we have in common across it is this: stories and memories. In this issue, women and nonbinary people of color have shared their diasporic experiences ? their stories of loss, of home, of what it means to be scattered.

Bless, Tamira Amin & Malak Shahin

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YOUR HOUSE IS BURNING DOW N AND YOU ONLY HAVE TIME TO GRAB ONE THING - W HAT ARE YOU TAKING W ITH YOU? W HEN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR W ENT UP IN FLAMES, MY MOTHER, EVER THE PRAGMATIST, TRIED TO TAKE AN ENTIRE FILING CABINET OF BIRTH CERTIFICATES AND DOCUMENTATION. W ITHOUT IT, LIVING IN THE U.S. W OULD HAVE BEEN VERY HARD. BUT I AM NOT SO PRACTICAL; I TRIED TO TAKE ALL OF OUR PHOTO ALBUMS. I ALSO KNEW INTRINSICALLY THAT LIVING IN THE DIASPORA W OULD HAVE BEEN ALL THE MORE DIFFICULT W ITHOUT THEM. YOU SEE, TIME IS A CLEVER THIEF. IT MAY STEAL DETAIL OR PRECISION FROM YOUR MEMORIES, BUT LEAVES NOSTALGIA OR FALSE CONVERSATIONS IN THEIR PLACE. BUT EVENTUALLY, EVEN THOSE MAY FADE. THERE IS SOME KIND OF MAGIC IN BEING ABLE TO CAPTURE W HAT YOU CANNOT RECALL. IN PHOTOS, PERHAPS, YOU CAN HOLD ON TO A HOME TO W HICH YOU CANNOT RETURN. SOMETIMES, MEMORY IS ALL W E HAVE LEFT. 10

TIM E AND M EM ORY

AN INTRODUCTION

BY TAM IRA AM IN

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my sweet mother priyanka rao by by ______

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OTROS ESPACIOS

BY ANGELINA RUIZ

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FROM "DO NOT YIELD TO EVIL"

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IGNORANCE/ BLISS

BY TALA ALFOQAHA

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mama used to burn sticks of incense before guests came whisking thin plumes of the Orient throughout the house to veil walls that baba had painted red in wisps of pale white (I think she feared visitors could smell misery) while she cleansed stale sin on ashy alters my sister and i twirled her deliverance into the batons of our youth tracing phantom shapes from smoke and watching them disappear like unanswered prayers

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HOMELAND HAUNTING

BY SHIRLEY WANG

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i have a brother at home he's sitting inside the wardrobe with 2 mangos in a clear plastic cup the kind you put slushies or baby teeth in all pounded to a pulp with his tiny red fists. the door is closed and the stems lie attached to a mass of shredded yellow fruit-meat the victim of a small and potent anger i do a lot of lying when i write paint the horns, paint them off set the birds free and dive nose to ankle to freeway. i'm hitting the ground i'm hitting the roof i?m asking the thing that lives in the sun to stop me from meeting the air and convulsing with indifference why do i see myself when i look at her and why do i hate it what do i do when i rush when i animal when i go cruel and empty and exodus how come i'm still always migrating around my body trying to find a place to stay, a place to belong a place for my mind to occupy without it feeling temporary the light moves outside of me, diaspora playing ghost i call an augury on the landline but there is no answer telling me what i already know. that the beginning of an end is a middle in the way the beginning of a truth is a lie. heaven falls down and i grow winged and heavy i grow god and listless and we are sitting here together inside the wardrobe at home and i am telling you that i do not have a brother.

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DESSERT

DAZE

BY SHAM 24

when i look in the mirror, the darkness of my skin is foreign to me. i forget, sometimes, what i look like. I feel white. i feel pale and washed out until i remember the richness of myself, until i smell curry and incense and the warm, spicy scents of my culture. but outside, outside my home and in the stark city and shopping centres and streets, i feel like i?m white. why wouldn?t i be? i see magazines and movies and books tailored for the masses. they are white, why shouldn?t i be? everything i see and read and hear outside is telling me that i should be white so sometimes i forget, i am brown. and when i remember. when i remember that i?m brown i feel fear. fear of being eaten. why? that?s ridiculous, people say. ludicrous, insane. but when people talk about my brown body they talk as if they want to consume it. these white people are jealous of its darkness, its depth, its richness. they spent thousands on bronzing, tanning, contouring in darker colours. they call every lipstick, foundation, concealer in my colour delicious things: caramel, mocha, chocolate, cinnamon. do they want to eat me? do they covet darkness so much they want to eat me as they eat my culture, donning saris and bindis, henna markings blanketed over white skin, fawning over curries and rice flavoured down with coconut milk and

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water. ?butter chicken,? they say. ?i love indian food!? they say. ?india is so beautiful,? they say. and sometimes i am convinced, i say, ?oh, have you been? are you thinking about visiting?? and then, inevitably, ?no, no, i?m saving to go to europe. asia can be so boring, you know??and then laughter, inviting me to join in as if my other homes aren?t being insulted, as if i agree. as i forget that i am not white, so do they, subconsciously. because they assume that they are everything and everyone feels like them. because i default to being like them. i don?t know how i forget that i am brown, when there are signs of browness everywhere. turmeric milk is now a bestseller, revered for its colour, it?s ayurvedic properties, its richness. but, when i cook it now, i?m accused of being a hipster. ?a hipster,?i say, surprised. has it never occurred to anyone that i?m simply indian? that when i post photos of turmeric milk and chai tea on snapchat and instragram that i?m not just another hipster but i?m connecting with my culture? of course not. because as we all know, whiteness is the common experience. but of course, we all forget that i am brown. i?m guilty of it too. it?s a struggle to remember though, when the people around me only remember when it?s convenient to them. ?what is this dish?? they

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ask me. i don?t know, it?s not an indian dish. they can never remember what i am. ?what does my name mean in indian?? they ask me. i don?t know. indian is not a language. ?why are you so dark, and she?s so fair?? they ask me. i don?t know. we come in different colours, remember? caramel, mocha, chocolate, almond. not just shades of ivory. pale ivory, tan ivory, peach ivory, pure ivory. the starkest reminder that i am brown doesn?t come from the mirror. in the mirror, i can be surprised but i am me. the starkest reminder comes from strangers. old women, who sit on the bus next to me. ?where are you from, dear?? the answer is australia. ?but where are you really from?? still australia. ?you know what i mean, where are you really from?? as if that will make the answer change. or it will come from strange men who sidle up to me at bars but also at the library, at clubs and at university. ?i love brown women, i love that chocolate skin. you?re so exotic.? when brown people make up more of the world than white. or even reminders on the phone where people have no issues until they hear my name, then suddenly its, ?oh, that explains the accent! you have a very thick accent, you know. but you speak english well!? i?m glad. i?m glad that my masters degree has gone to some use. i?m glad that i speak english well as it?s my first and

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only language. and i?m glad that they recognise my accent, my thick australian accent. my dark skin makes me alarmed sometimes. the world tells me that i?m white, or that i should be white, and asks me, why aren?t you white? but i?m glad i?m not. i?m glad i?m dark and i can come home to my warm house where there is always incense burning. i?m glad i can open the fridge and find containers of hot curry, open the bathroom cabinet and find the turmeric cream and herbal toothpaste my friends laugh at. i?m glad i have the typical build of a brown girl, short and curvy with thick hair. a body that laughs and helps my friends and family. skin that this world doesn?t cater to but desires. skin that this white world thinks is delicious.

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DESSERT

DAZE

BY SHAM 29

SNAKEHEAD

BY STEPHANI E WANG 32

serpent girl / coal-scaled, sharp-toothed, dragon-eyed girl / crawl up beneath the tracks, stay hidden, shadow-living kind of girl / ? ? drove a snakehead / held that hammer crooked / (and?) thought he was a dead man. / ? ? just laughed / called him a walking landmine / the next day, the tunnel blew up too early. / twenty kegs of black powder / four hundred kilograms of limestone / instantly blown to bits. no body. / ma'am, we're sorry to hear about your husband, but you're a month behind on rent and your visa is about to expire? / the words follow her around the city, winding wherever she goes / that girl speaking snake tongues with the dragon eyes / she flew up to the sun and took a little bit with her, clinging to her skin / sun-skinned snake girl, that's who she is / she wants to run her forked tongue over the points of her teeth / scream until her gums split / you ride your train over my father's bones / you.

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THE FOREIGNER FROM NO MAN?S LAND

BY CECILIA CANCIO

t here are m om ent s w hen t he w ord s resid ing on t he t ip of m y t ong ue feel like t hey are careening over a p recipice. m y w ord s have b een t he only luxur y i could afford t o b e fam iliar wit h, in a w or ld w here ever yt hing p recious seem s t o b e taken aw ay t he m om ent it has g row n close t o your hear t . t hey rem ind m e of vessels t hat jour ney across an unchar ted ter r it or y, in w hich t hey car r y m y ent ire univer se from t he ot her side of t he w or ld . t o help m e confront t he unknow n. t here is not hing m ore suffocat ing t han silence. or a lang uag e you d o not fully under stand . and t hese w ord s have b ecom e a weig ht i am forced t o car r y around , ever since it has fallen int o d isuse. i have only realized now t hat t he w ord s? t he lang uag e i am speaking is not m y ow n, and ever y t im e i look in t he m ir ror, i d o not see a w ord sm it h,

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nor a p oet ? i see a trait or. m y hom eland has g iven m e ever yt hing t hat i call m y ow n and i owe ever yt hing t o it , b ut i d o not tr uly b elong t o a nat ion w hich i have failed t o p roper ly acknowled g e. our hist or y has b een a w ar for our ow n ident it y, and m any have sacr ificed t hem selves for t he sake of keeping our nam e from t he hand s of our op p ressor s. i d o not like t o t hink t hat i am helping t hem win, by for g ett ing w hat it m eans t o speak m y lang uag e t hat is m ine alone. t he g reat ness of m y countr y is b ur ied under neat h our inab ilit y t o ap p reciate it fully, and m ost im p or tant ly t o have fait h in it . and i b elieve t hat t his countr y has alw ays b een g reat , and t he only t hing left is t o show t he w or ld how unconq uerab le it is. we will r ise ag ain like a p hoenix reb or n from ashes, and we will live t hroug h anot her cent ur y as if it w as m erely anot her d ay left for us t o spend and never ag ain shall we fall p rey t o our enem ies, our weaknesses. allow m e t o finish by saying som et hing in m y ow n m ot her t ong ue: m ahal na m ahal ko ang aking inang b ayan, at d arat ing d in ang araw kung saan tayong lahat ay m at ut ut ong m ahalin ang at ing b ansa.

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UNTITLED PHOTOGRAPHS

BY NATALIA M ORALES

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APRIDEOF LIONSKEEPS ONROARING MOURNING BREATHONMY SIDEOFTHE ROOMANDI JUSTWANTTO VOGUEFORTHE GAGGING MASSESIN PEACE. 40

i feedthemzebra tocover thesmell but thisroommate agreement don?twork likethat i call goddesssister andask if shekept thegoddamnreceiptswhen shegavemeapride shelaughsweknow theywerenot agift theyaremyinheritance theyarenot mine totakebackthesmell swells our nosestheybloat red webleedout andcall that real woman?swork i amtheprideof lions andmymourningbreath ain?tnever helpedno sister noneand thezebraismeasi rot in thedormroomtoilet yes goddesssister I knowthat wasalielet metrythis onemoretimei amthe

bloodnosegoddesssister ain?taroundnomore andmylionsareold friendsof thefamily weall wear devastation onour feet andelectrocute hateful bitchesonthecat walkat somepoint thehalf rottedzebrajoinsinduckwalkingwiththebest of themand mypride instinctivelygoestotear her apart goddesssister readsmetoshamein front of everyonesays thezebraisnot for your pridesheis not tosweeten their mourning breathandi thecoward simbai thered swell i theblood noserun.

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G O D D E S S X 41

AYEEYOY

BY MARYAMA DAHIR

The wed d ing of your t win sister hap pened d ur ing t he sp r ing of 194 2. Four year s later in a sm all Austr ian villag e t he w ar cam e t o an end .

And w hat you had no knowled g e of haunted you, Like t hey alw ays d o. Making sp ace w here t hey d on?t b elong , and you b ent b ones t o let t hem in d id n?t you, Ayeeyo?

They per for m ed t he fem ale rightofp assage, Ayeeyo, w hen you were t w o m ont hs shy of your fift h b ir t hd ay- a sp r ing .

You were t old t o sp read your leg s. Rig ht b et ween w here b one kisses b one, t hey wielded a knife and your child hood cam e t o an end .

Your m ot her b rag g ed over tea wit h t he ot her w om en t hat you were w here All t he p ure g ir ls were. They st ole pleasure from you.

Som ew here b et ween Seylac and J ig jig a he laid eyes on you, He cap t ivated you t oo, d id n?t he, Ayeeyo?

Tall, skin t he color of coffee b eans, he w as reg al, hold ing a staff w here -p raying t o God , t hose hand s w ould soon per for m hom ag e in t he sp r ing t o your b od y, b uild ing volcanoes w here you end and your ashes w ould soon m or p h t o b ones.

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Halim a once t old you a st or y of a w om an w ho left b ones in t he b ack of her husb and s lover, and youFilled wit h t he hot w ax jealousy left b ehind , soug ht an end .

You t ook t he ad vice Halim a never g ave, Ayeeyo.

So w hen he t ook his fir st wife b ack in t he sp r ing You p aid her a visit and sat over w hereThey d anced b efore you at fifteen b ecam e his wife, w here Tayyib, t heir eldest , w ould later d ie. You sunk b ones int o her b ack and lost your t w o front teet h t hat sp r ing , w hen you had Mahm oud , you asked him t o leave her. You b eg g ed him t o leave her w hen your b elly b ecam e sw ollen, Ayeeyo. after t he t hird , four t h, and fift h t im e you p rayed t o God t o b r ing you an end .

God m ust have heard b ecause Deat h soon p ut an end To your m ar r iag e and your husb and w here Boram a for m s g reen m ountains. O Ayeeyo, You held his b od y along side his lover, just flesh and b ones, Your t win sister, Doll, m ar r ied his b rot her w hile you Bat hed in t he coast of Seylac, t he place w here you m et him t hat sp r ing .

You, Ayeeyo, have never sm elled Califor nia, m y bones have yet t o end on t he sand s of t he Seylac b each where you and g rand fat her fir st m et . You had no knowled g e of m e t hat spring.

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FRUTA ABANDONADA REBECA ROJAS

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Tonight. Tomorrow and the waxed moon after that. I?ll wonder if the fruit tastes the same back home. Back home; meaning the small town I have never been too.

Meaning, I don?t know if my great grandmother was even born there. In that small town. My mother and her five sisters and one brother. Her child at her hip. Scrambling from Mexico City to Zinapecuaro. Teaching her niĂąothe unescapable lesson of humildad. My mother, madre, mama, hija demi Corazon says her own mother. And it is a prayer to the unblemished sky. And it is la paloma we never hear from again. Quefuera Santa para bendecirtemadremia. In Mexico. That brown-red land. Take you back, back, back.

W here the indigenous bones are stacked underneath the foundation of white, black and red casas. Or stay here.

W here the white man asks you: are you Azteca or Maya?

Inca or Mexicana?Hispana or Latina?My body screams out neither. None of the above. A mutt race. Red and white clay kneaded together, baked under the sun and formed into this mongrel girl. Nina adolorida. Ashamed, ashamed, ashamed. Lenguajedeconquistadoresbranded into the folds of my purple tongue. Let me ask you W hite man, diablo, hechicero, demonio, if I ever tasted the fruit (back home) would it taste like remembrance?W ould my entire bloodied legacy spill its juice down my not-brown-enough throat?La manzana, la pera, y la uva.

La naranja y la ciruela tambiĂŠn. The fruit mi papa grows for you W hite man. Do you think it would taste different back home?

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BY FEVEN GEREZGIHER 48

1 / / A'adey/ Adey (My country/ my grandmother) W idowed ages ago, she raised her sons alone in this small village.

Most of them are long gone, all the men leave eventually. Ninety-something (only Amlak knows old she is), she insists on cooking herself, doing the laundry herself, feeding her chickens herself. Pride and joy in her routines.

Could never figure out if she was a Western sort of feminist: she yelled at my mom once for making her son take out the garbage ("women's work"), but she also defended my 8-year-old self's decision to throw an annoying boy into a pool of rainwater+pee ("he got what he deserved").

This is a placeholder image. It's hard to look at photos of her now frail, hunched, flies settling on her face like vultures. I hate myself for being American then. My tongue, the traitor, never forms the Tigrinya the way I need it to be. I'm used to toilets and filtered water and wifi, a lazy city kid, and she refuses to try to relate, determined to die at home. I was hoping to spend this time with her, connecting, learning everything about our family history, to let her know I care, but she can barely hear me. Illness, time cloud her days. I don't hear her either, no patience. It's gorgeous out after it rains, but it rings hollow, the evening's perfection echoing irony that I could travel a half-world yet not escape the things I hate about myself.

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2 / / Hafte'Adey (My grandmother'ssister) W hen I lean in to kiss her cheeks hello, I announce myself ("I AM FEVEN"). She smiles and thanks me ("my eyes don't work very well, so I usually just say hi to people and hope I find out who they are later").

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3 / / Ade'Adey (My mother'smother) Are you proud of who I am?Please persuade my mom if so.

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sincerely, hu mu lan by clara tang here?s to those who want to erase the ?alien?parts of their names because they?re not lined with the same brilliant silver or flecks of rose and perfume as the names that glorified stories have for their leading heroes. here?s to those who cough the names mothers and fathers nestle in their palms, nestled words that become words children throw away because now they reside in a broken gold land hissing and snapping letters that were once soft-spoken mellifluous tones. here?s to those who have tried erasing their names so much that they erase holes into their hearts too because there are simply no places for such names in foreign lands they?re meant to call their new homes. here?s to those who taste the bitter aftertaste on the tips of their tongues from neglecting their names that grow from their cultural roots. to those who replenish the hollowed out spaces they shoveled off their titles with the names they shoveled. because now they know better than to bury the call of their motherland. now, they?ll plant and watch their entire names rise up. i send this to the-ones-who-say-?asian-names-are-strange? sincerely, hua mu lan

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UNTITLED BY Ar yanna Chut kan 54

ODE TO HOT SAUCE BY Ar yanna Chut kan 57

Diasp ora

BY SARA HALIMAH

Diasp ora is such a flig ht y w ord . It seem s like it m eans one t hing unt il you look at it s m eaning s across lang uag es and cult ures, and all of a sud den your ent ire w or ld view chang es. Diasp ora m eans t o b e sep arate from a hom eland , t o not feel w hole unt il you can ret ur n. It m eans t o sp read out across t he w or ld in t iny d isp arate com m unit ies. It m eans t o have a collect ive m em or y and vision of p ast and fut ure.

Diasp ora is a lar g e p ar t of Palest inian her itag e as it m akes up one of t he m ain exper iences of b eing ?Palest inian?. In Arab ic, g hur b a m eans t o b e in exile. This is how Palest inians often t hink of our d iasp ora, t hat we are in exile from our hom eland . Ghur b a, depend ing on conjug at ion, can also m ean loss, estrang em ent , isolat ion, m elancholy, long ing , strang eness, strang er, and t he unknow n. All t hese m eaning s are p ar t of our d iasp or ic exper ience. To b e Palest inian and d iasp or ic m eans t o alw ays b e a strang er in your ad op ted hom e, reg ard less of b ir t hplace. It m eans t hat you will alw ays feel sep arate, b ecause you know your hom eland w as lost t o your g rand m ot her, and t hat her olive trees st ill call her nam e. To b e of t he Palest inian d iasp ora is t o know t he m em or y of a hom eland b ut t o per hap s never have seen it your self. That is t he collect ive m em or y t hat is p assed d ow n t hroug h g enerat ions.

This m em or y is p assed d ow n, and p assed on, wit hout reg ard for w het her it st ill exist s. To b e of t he Palest inian d iasp ora is t o exper ience loss of hom eland ever y d ay.

Ever y d ay since m y g rand p arent s were b om b ed out of t heir villag es, we have lost our hom eland . Did we t hink it w ould stay t he sam e, just w ait ing for us t o ret ur n? We have lost it in t hat we no long er live t here, b ut we have also lost it in t hat it will never look or b e as it once w as. That state, t hat Palest ine, t hat collect ive m em or y is just a m em or y now. The land has chang ed , as all land chang es. To b e of t he Palest inian d iasp ora m eans t o suffer from t his loss. To sur vive t he Palest inian d iasp ora is t o confront t his tr ut h and w or k for t he r ig ht of ret ur n, so t hat transfor m ed land m eet s transfor m ed Palest inians. And we m ove from t here.

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HOMEISN?TWHERE THEHEARTISWHEN YOURHEARTIS BYMOIRA SPLITINTWORAMIREZ DO YOU REMEMBER THE LAST TIME YOU FELT AT HOME? A RATHER ODD QUESTION FOR SOMEONE WHO SHIFTS FROM ONE CONTINENT TO ANOTHER, FOR SOMEONE WHOSE HEART CAN?T DECIDE IF YOU BELONG TO ONE PLACE OR THE OTHER. BUT YOURS CAN. REMEMBER BUYING AN ICE CREAM IN EVERY CITY YOU WENT TO, BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW COLD IT IS, THERE?S ALWAYS ROOM IN YOUR HEART FOR ICE CREAM. PERHAPS IT?S YOUR HEART LONGING TO REMEMBER OF THE TIME YOU WERE A CHILD, BUT WHAT WAS YOUR LIFE BEFORE YOU SET FOOT IN THIS FOREIGN PLACE YOU CALL HOME? YOU WEREN?T EIGHTEEN JUST YET, AND SOMEHOW ALL YOU WORRIED ABOUT WAS THE CHILDREN YOU WERE TAKING CARE OF, AND NOT THAT BOY WHO DIDN?T WANT YOU BECAUSE APPARENTLY BEING QUEER IS THE WORST THING A PERSON CAN BE. YOU WEREN?T A DANCING QUEEN, BUT YOU REMEMBER LISTENING TO

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BASTILLE?S FIRST ALBUM WHILE SHEDDING A TEAR IN THE BUS BECAUSE THERE WERE MOMENTS WHEN YOU REALLY MISSED YOUR OTHER HOME, THE ONE YOU GREW UP WITH, THE ONE THAT BELONGS TO YOU AND DOESN?T ALTOGETHER. AT LEAST YOUR NEIGHBOUR HAD A CORGI, AND EVERY EVENING YOU WENT TO THE PARK AND WATCHED HIM RUN AROUND BECAUSE HE REMINDED YOU OF YOUR OWN MOST LOYAL COMPANION. PERHAPS YOU DIDN?T MISS YOUR OTHER HOME BECAUSE THAT WASN?T YOUR HOME, PERHAPS YOU ONLY MISSED YOUR DOG. DO YOU REMEMBER THE COLDEST PLACE YOU WERE TO, WHERE YOU LEARNT THAT YOU?RE A BETTER PHOTOGRAPHER THAN YOU ORIGINALLY THOUGHT, BECAUSE WHAT ARE MEN COMPARED TO ROCKS AND MOUNTAINS? FROM THE CLOSEST THING YOU?LL SEE TO A JURASSIC WORLD TO THE LAST REMAINING PIECES OF THE CULTURE THAT NAMED YOU, THE CULTURE THAT OWNS YOU AND DOESN?T ALTOGETHER BECAUSE YOU STILL PREACH TO CATRINA EVERY DÍA DE MUERTOS. BUT YOU?RE WHITE OF SKIN AND BLONDE OF HAIR, AND THE KIDS SPOKE TO YOU IN ENGLISH WHEN THEY CAME ACROSS YOU IN THE STREETS, EVEN THOUGH YOU BORE ONE OF THEIR NAMES, BUT YOUR PARENTS DETACHED YOU FROM YOUR COUNTRY WHEN THEY NAMED YOU MOIRA INSTEAD OF MARÍA, WHEN THEY GAVE YOU WHITE SKIN INSTEAD OF THE BROWN THAT SURROUNDED YOU. THAT?S WHY YOUR HOME IS SO FAR AWAY, WHERE HISTORY SURROUNDED YOU AND CRYING EVERY NIGHT WASN?T A HABIT JUST YET. HOME WAS WHERE YOU MET NEW PEOPLE WITHOUT FEELING NERVOUS ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT THEY WOULD LIKE YOU, WHEN THE MOST INTROVERTED GIRL FROM YOUR CLASS BECAME A FRIENDLY LAUGHING LADY, A FEARLESS ANIMAL READY TO TAKE ON EVERYTHING. AND FOR ONCE YOU LOVED THE ATTENTION OF BOYS, FOR ONCE YOU WEREN?T AFRAID OF FLIRTING WITH THEM. IT?S NO WONDER THAT THE BOY FROM YOUR FUTURE HAS A HOME WHERE YOU DO TOO. HOW MUCH DO YOU CRAVE TO GO BACK? HOW MUCH ARE YOU WILLING TO SACRIFICE FOR ONE MORE NIGHT UNDER A DIFFERENT SKY, WHERE ALL YOU WORRY ABOUT IS HOW WARM ARE YOUR CLOTHES AND HOW MUCH YOU CAN EXPLORE IN ONLY A FORTNIGHT?

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THIS IS W HERE I ORIGINATE By Mikaela Choo

t he w aves / t hat ?s m y w or ld / suspended in t he / in-b et ween of nat ions / and if you see m e trem b le / it ?ll b e b ecause / t here?s t he b urden of cult ure / on m y shoulder s / and t he anchor ?s weig ht of / not for g ett ing m yself / m y people / m y answer t o / w here d o you com e from? / look, here: / see w here t he jung le m eet s t he cit y / m eet s t he sea? / see t he tender insides / of m y m ot her ?s w om b? / see t hat eg g -yolk sun? / i'm b or n of t hese t hing s / ever y fib re of m e / is w oven wit h t hem / even if i d id / g row up severed / even if i d id / feel t he d istance b et ween m yself / and hom e / i w as not hing / less t han m iles / aw ay 64

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DESTORY

BY KIM M ORALES

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the story has been i am the fat greed that's killing me the thief who guts herself and snatches her own gold chain

the chubby welfare debutante with my crown of acrylic nails my coors light baby beer belly poking out underneath my badly stitched crop top, "boriqua" emblazoned on my ever sagging legacies

i am the food stamp collector i am the world star hip hop historian i am the famine goddess

i am sex and disease and better when I'm on my knees i am the uss maine sinker i am the hilltop seeker i am the lazy drowning Carib the gold wearing savage still the rumor is

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i am dulce de leche witch sweet and light and heavy cream swirling in a hot cauldron my cackling glazes like burnt sugar i am agua de rosa de Jamaica tart but better than my bitter black root i spread myself like the hibiscus flower when it's boiling

i am sugar cane fool my jokes are like machetes and i always make other people rich

i am habichuela con pollo ghost i haunt houses with my overseasoned smell i fill your house with boleros and reggaeton and when I moan of misery rice spills out of my mouth

the gross rumor is

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that I am spicy slut mango hoe banana grower tobasco temptress tropical trick coconut cunt habanero whore big bosomed and baked bread

the truth my very singular and temporary truth i am the young mother and the viejecita en la misa loving and loving relentlessly without protection catholic guilt laid on me violated, used me killed me for christ and has only succeeded in making me sweat more

i am the love child of ruined moon goddesses

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squatting in space sending hurricanes

i am the raised brown hairs of every slobbering conquistador, my european fathers rest on my upper lip

i am the indebted isla del encanto, broke BorinquĂŠn i mean puto rico i mean puerto roto

i am the rich fecund beauty who slashed her own veins over and over searching for an imperialist to love her love me mama EspaĂąa, love me daddy Sam take all my gold, take the food out my mouth and spit your gendered language in return i can sustain myself on that instead

whiteness is an absence of a consciousness white is nothing that is the only true lie and everything else is just a rumor

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a hastened whisper in your ear in passing a dirty trick a sneaky fetishized untruth an overheard half conversation with no one in particular

i do not belong to myself my blood is not my own i think open my veins and see me america again and again

stealing your menial work anchoring my children to your stolen land dancing on your tv with my trilling tongue

i am here to slobber on white dick and squirt hot sauce i am here to wet nurse your fantasies i am here to slice myself on the thin slivers of your consonants

do not stop to look

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to see my families are encased in ice their bones buried in deserts

struck down strung up strung out hung up and hungry while i feed your children clean your homes commit your crimes scare you and comfort you

our hands are not our own

every fiber of my temporary self is screaming softly

i am tit-deep in la paz del hambre y bien emputada

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DESTORY

BY KIM M ORALES

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MESSAGE TO THE DIASPORA From Sara Osm an

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Sara Osm an: I had t he honor of m eet ing a Palest inian w om an nam ed Siham w ho r uns a center ded icated t o p reser ving Palest inian cult ure and t he em b roider y t hat t he w om en in refug ee cam p s m ake in order t o revive and streng t hen cult ural ident it y. I inter viewed her for m y d ocum entar y and asked her t o g ive y?all [ SJP/d iasp or ic Palest inians] a shout out b ecause you are all am azing and I w anted her t o know t he g reat w or k y?all d o and she?s p roud .

"Ya3ni, ya3ni, it is so refreshing t o see m any Palest inians ab road so act ive. It is b eaut iful. I wish, one t hing I wish, t hat t hey p reser ve t heir lang uag e. Lang uag e is an ident it y. I wish t hey will keep on w or king unt il freed om .

Unt il t he Palest ine is free. I wish t hey will b e t og et her alw ays b ecause our cause need s all of t he hand s, not just of t he Palest inians, b ut of any and ever y hum an per son in t he w or ld w ho cares for t heir hum anit y, for t heir willing ness t o, you know, sacr ifice a litt le b it so t hat ot her people can live in d ig nit y in t heir ow n hom es. I wish all of us, not just Palest inians, w or ks t og et her for one p ur p ose t hat all people of t he w or ld will live in d ig nit y. Especially us [ laug hing ] just b ecause I am a Palest inian [ laug hing ] . "

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POISONED TONGUE

BY CLARA TANG

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I. m y chinese lip s open. m y eng lish t ong ue speaks. and t he g round t hat cover s t his cult ural hom e of m ine hisses and spit s m y ident it y out b efore it even g et s a chance t o plant it self in t he chinese soil i g rew from . t he after m at h: q uest ions t hat b uild on t hem selves like g rocer y list s. list s t hat b ecom e a spine of m etap hor s b ut are all m etap hor ic for t he sam e t hing ?are you chinese?? i am . w hen i speak, and m y t ong ue roar s t he lang uag e of t he wester n lion b ut w hisper s t he lang uag e of t he d rag on, i?m chinese. w hen i taste t he d rag on?s fire b eneat h t he t ip of m y t ong ue,

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and t he flam es are ice-cold in com p ar ison t o ever yone else?s d rag ons, i?m chinese. w hen t he m oon p ushes t he oceans aw ay from her t o once ag ain p ull t hem b ack in, and i sw allow t he w ord s of m y nat ive lang uag e t o once ag ain p ut t he flar ing lion b efore t he hushed d rag on, i?m st ill chinese. b ut none of t hem will answer m y q uest ion: w ho decided for t he d ualit y of m y t ong ue t o b e enoug h t o erase m y b elong ing in t he hear t of t he soil i w as alw ays from?

II. i hear t he b att le g round of m y ow n m out h b etraying m e w hen i st um b le over m y nat ive t ong ue t hat i?m m eant t o have sw allowed and alw ays know n. t he after m at h: a q uest ion

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cold as st one. ?aren?t you chinese?? see also: ?t he lang uag e you?ve chosen m akes you a fraud t o your people.? if i could chang e t he eloq uence of m y em p t y cant onese, in a hear t b eat t hat chang e w ould b e. if i could b ite q uest ions like one d oes of t heir t ong ue, i w ould . so i d o. i b ite half of m y t ong ue and i d o not speak. t he flam es of t he d rag on b ecom e confined , g rowling and t ucked b eneat h and i only voice t he wester n lion?s roar b ecause t hat is t he lang uag e i call m y hom e. i hear alienat ion w hen t hose on t he sam e soil as m e hear m y t ong ue. i hear t oo m uch. i hear t hat m y foreig n t ong ue in m y m ot her land only m eans t hat i d o not b elong .

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i hear t he flam e of m y ow n cant onese no long er willing ly crackling ag ainst t he w ood of m y roug h t ong ue b ecause all t hat could b e b ur ned has b een b ur nt by t he em b er s of ot her d rag ons wit h t heir shar pened for k t ong ues.

III. i t ouch t he foreig n ear t h of anot her countr y, ?elsew here?, and crad le anot her ?s cult ure in m y calloused hand s b ut it slip s t hroug h m y fing er s in a w ay t hat hong kong never w ould b ecause foreig n ear t h w as never m ine in t he fir st place and i d o not b elong , t houg h m y lioness t ong ue of eng lish d oes. tell m e, w hat d oes one d o w hen she b elong s in an inter sp ace? w hen t he lang uag e of her m out h leaves her a foreig ner in her m ot her land b ut her cult ural root s craft her as an out sider in a foreig n ocean? w hen t he root s t hat m ean t o g round her

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t o a cer tain place, a cer tain hom e, have troub le w rap ping t heir ar m s around a cit y t hat d oes not w ant t o hug her b ack? a cit y she?s resided in, ever since she had a t ong ue, b ut treat s her w ord s like p oison? d id anyone ever tell t hem? b eing and feeling b elong t o t w o d ifferent sides of t he sam e coin and her hear t is st ill p uzzled as t o w hich side of t he ear t h she b elong s.

IV. i see m y raven hair resp onsib le for sw allowing t he heat of t he sun, t he sunst one t hat b elong s t o all of us and w hen i?m asked , ?w here are you from?? i see t he d rag on perched up on m y lip s, claw s g leam ing , w hen i tell t hem i b elong "here" in t he sam e w ay t hat t he sun d oes am ong st t hem and m e.

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BY GODDESS X inthisstorytheblackfemmebodies/ give/ wet things/ likesweat or tears/

HEAVN

but thisisadifferent story/ inthisstorythetearsarebornof bliss/ from lookingat each/other?sradiancefor toolong/ her shinecanoverwhelm/ black femmebodiestear upfrom/ thetasteof her skinthick/ withpotionlikecoconut oil andwitch/craft that makesthem/ sweet / maketheir bodiessomecocktail of blissone/ couldonlynameparadise/ inthisstorythesweat / ishot andmixing withtheheavynight air not running/ coldfromthebackof their necksbecause of some/ manor somedanger street turned/ darker thanher skinat thewrong timewhen/ theblackfemmebodiesare/ tooalonenotheblackfemmes/ are not alonetonight / theblackfemmebodiespressnakedhot firmagainst each/other blackfemmefingerstanglethemselvesinafros/ inlocs/ inbraids/ inknots/ intwists/ inwigs/ inweaves/ inhalos/ gentle/ liketheyknowpale handsthat havebeenuninvitedandrough/ andmen?shandsthat havebeen uninvitedandrough/ liketheyknowblackauntie?shandsweresometimes uninvitedandroughbut filled/ withsomuchsoft lovetheyalmost forgot / the painandthere/ don?tneedtobenopain/ nomoreinthisstorythefingersare soft / likelipsonneck/ andbreast / andcollarbone/ andthighs/ thefingers hot onhalos/ presspotionskin/ huggirlcockssoft / holdbodiesthat don?t worrybout breaking/ nomore/ theymakeoldmagic/ again/ out of bodies coatedinpotion/ andoils/ andsweat / andjoytears/ toerasethepain/ that blackfemmebodieslearn/ everydayandwe/ canonlynamethat / paradise/ in thisstoryfingersandlipsjourneyacrossbody/ anddiscover all of that / wet magicanddonot / columbus/ donot / take/ but openthemselvesandgiveand / for once/ get somethingback/ wet / andholy/ inthisstory/ theyarewet / andholy/ andthereisnoblood/ inthisstory/ noonehastobleed/ nomore 85

A CONVERSATION W ITH POET KRISTIN CHANG INTERVIEW ED BY DIANA KHONG

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DIANA KHONG: Hi Kr ist in! Thank you so m uch for taking t he t im e t o speak t o Ascend ab out your w or k. As a m ag azine for w om en of color, we're in love wit h t he deeply m oving content you p ut out . How w ould you descr ib e your w r it ing and ar t for m?

KRISTIN CHANG: I?d say I use m y w r it ing t o g host . Not g host ing in t he colloq uial sense, b ut a w ay t o haunt t he sites of m y life, t o m ake t hing s live in/ t hroug h m y b od y ag ain. It 's also a for m of resistance: t o cult ural am nesia, t o w hite p atr iarchy, t o m y ow n invisib ilizat ion. In ter m s of for m , I t hink m y w r it ing is really an em b od ied for m ? I t hink t here's t his idea t hat p oetr y is all ab out transcendence (transcend ing b od y, m ater ial realit y, et c), b ut t hat really just feed s int o t his p ost -racial fantasy, and I t hink p oetr y of t he b od y can b e incred ib ly subver sive and rad ical in t he w ay it dem and s a wit ness.

DK: That 's so b eaut iful and m oving . Your w r it ing often references your cult ure and fam ily. Would you say t hat your b eing (cult ure, b ackg round , exper iences) are intr insic t o your w r it ing ?

KC: Yes! I tend t o t hink ab out m y st or ied fam ily hist or y ? like t he fact t hat m y g reat -g rand fat her w as a constr uct ion w or ker and secret p oet and self-p ub lished m any b ooks, and t hen w as executed d ur ing t he com m unist revolut ion. My g rand fat her (his son) could n't find t he b ooks, so w hen he fled t he m ainland wit h m y d ad , he t old m e t hat he rem em b ered b eing haunted by t hose m issing b ooks. He also lost his son on t he b oat r ide t o Taiw an, b ut for all m y life, t he only loss he w ould talk ab out were t hose b ooks ? t hat w as t he hardest loss, harder t han losing ever yt hing else. I t hink a lot ab out traum a not just as w hat you have t o see, w hat you can't unsee, b ut also w hat you're not allowed t o see. W hat you can never see. For child ren of im m ig rant s, not -seeing is a kind of traum a t oo. I also t hink ab out how I com e from a line of illiterate w om en, and w hat it m eans t hat w om en's st or ies have sur vived only t hroug h m e and b od ies like m ine.

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And I t hink w hat J enny Zhang said ab out "w r it ing ag ainst ext inct ion" is so tr ue. My m om 's favor ite t hing t o tell m e w hen she's up set is "w hat is your s is your s, w hat is not your s is not your s," w hich she lear ned from HER m ot her, and I've alw ays w anted t o say t hroug h m y w r it ing : "But ever yt hing is m ine."

DK: That ?s ab solutely am azing . Going off of t hat ? how d o you eng ag e t hem es of fem ininit y in your w r it ing , and w hat issues specifically d o you find your self d raw n t o (in ter m s of m ot if ) in your ow n w or k?

KC: I t hink I'm d raw n t o t he fig ure of t he m ot her and t he w ay we w or ship a m ot her 's "selflessness" ? m en love t heir m ot her s b ecause t hey are "selfless," and I t hink t he rom ance of fem ale sacr ifice and t he w ay expectat ions of "selflessness" literally translate int o a loss of self, a less of self, w hich is som et hing I'm ob sessed wit h. I t hink selflessness is b ullshit , and w hen I w r ite ag ainst t he idea of sacr ifice I often t ur n t o veng eance. I t hink of t he deificat ion of w om en int o g od desses of m ercy, m ot her hood , et c, and I tr y t o reim ag ine w om en as deit ies w ho are m ot her less and m erciless, w ho see m ot her ing as b ir t hing t he self, t he ver y op p osite of "selfless" m ot her hood .

DK: That 's so b r utal and g or g eous. Often in literat ure we g et t he depict ion of a w om an t hroug h a nar row m ale lens.

It 's im p or tant t o shatter t hat , w hich is som et hing reader s can definitely see in your w or k. How d o you feel ab out t he d ual infant ilizat ion and hyper -sexualizat ion of Asian w om en? Would you say t hat t his influences your w or k as well as your life?

KC: Yes! It 's such a close t opic t o m e (it literally inhab it s us) t hat I str ug g le wit h find ing p oet ic w ays t o w r ite ab out it .

I'm ter r ified t hat in tr ying t o w r ite ag ainst "yellow fever " I'll end up aest het icizing it ? so I tr y t o take cer tain im ag es of t he Asian w om an and g ive her aut onom y, reanim ate t he

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- "Speak American," Kristin Chang

You forget my name in your mouth is still mine.

It?s all a matter of translation / swallowing the innards of a ghost / and rearranging / your own / to make room.

- "Ghosting," Kristin Chang

im ag e in order t o kill it , ironically. I t hink t hat 's w hy a lot of m y w or k revolves around or m ent ions per for m ance, fab le, scener y, film ? w hat hap pens t o t he Asian w om an as actress or p rop? W henever I see t heir im ag es on screen it 's alw ays such an eer ie m ir ror ing , and t he fact t hat t he hyper -sexualized and infant ilized im ag e is so t ied t o m ed ia rep resentat ion has alw ays b een such a visceral m etap hor for m e, b ecause t he idea of b eing scr ip ted in and lacking self-aut hor ship is so real. Our b od ies used as p rop s in t he m ost literal sense. So I t hink a lot ab out Asian w om en forced t o per for m ? t he scr ip t is w r itten, or ientalism IS t he stag e, and it b ecom es t his weird sit uat ion of playing t he p ar t w hile sim ultaneously using t he fantasy or t he illusion of your self as a w ay t o play tr icks, w reak havoc, take it all d ow n.

DK: Do you feel t hat your w r it ing reflect s your per sonal exper iences or t hose of t his inner per sona created t o tackle t he issues you're faced wit h?

KC: I?d say it 's hard t o sep arate t he t w o ? t he per sonas in m y p oem s are ver sions of m yself and m y exper iences. On m y t um b lr I w r ite a ser ies of p oem s t hat all b eg in "dear Ming ," and t he Ming of t hese p oem s is an alter eg o.

Thoug h t he p oem s are not necessar ily realist ic, t hey d o em b od y a realit y. For m e, w r it ing t o an alter eg o is a w ay t o p rocess t hose exper iences.

DK: Speaking of strad d ling ident it ies, d o you have troub le b r id g ing your nat ive cult ural ident it y wit h your cur rent ? Is it ever d ifficult t o feel your self b elong ing t o one or t he ot her, and d o you ever feel a cult ural d isconnect ?

KC: Yes, I definitely str ug g le wit h all of t hose t hing s. I t hink t he idea of "aut hent icit y" t hat 's so often per pet uated by d iasp or ic Asians is so self-destr uct ive. Like, we are consistent ly p olicing each ot her 's aut hent icit y as Asians (w hat lang uag es d o you speak, how assim ilated are you, et c.) t o t he p oint w here we can't leg it im ize our ow n

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existences as d iasp or ic people. We see hyb r id it y as b astard izat ion or loss: loss of lang uag e, loss of cust om , et c, w hen really our inab ilit y t o b e neit her "aut hent ically" Am er ican nor "aut hent ically" Asian is a kind of lib erat ion, a per m ission t o create our ow n cult ural for m at ions, lang uag es, hyb r id it y. I t hink t he only w ay t o resolve m y str ug g les wit h feeling d oub ly inadeq uate and d oub ly confused is t o em b race t hat , and t o center t he d iasp ora as real, aut hent ic, leg it im ate w ays of b eing . I t hink in ter m s of "host " and "nat ive" cult ure, I'm an ot her in b ot h and t hat 's a sp ace t hat 's b ot h ter r ifying and lib erat ing .

DK: That 's so im p or tant t o acknowled g e! Last ly, w hat d oes d iasp ora m ean t o you?

KC: Diasp ora t o m e m eans fluid it y. It m eans inhab it ing m ult iple selves and constant ly having t o translate t he self, w hich is a b urden ? b ut it also m eans a kind of constant creat ive sur vival. Diasp ora is ar t .

DK: Thank you so m uch for taking t he t im e t o speak wit h us, Kr ist in. It w as honest ly am azing t o hear your t houg ht s KC: No, honest ly t hank you!

Kristin Chang is a multiracial asian femm e living in NY. Her work (twice-nominated for Best of the Net awards) has been published or is for thcoming in Vinyl, Poem Mistress, The Margins (Asian Am erican W riters Workshop), Nailed Magazine, and elsewhere. She is currently on the poetry staff of Winter Tangerine Review. She is located at kristinchang.com and on Twitter @KXinming.

Diana Khong is Ascend's creative director.

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Dissect the ghost from my body : because no birth can be bloodless: - "Notes from Nanking," Kristin Chang

sp ace

by K. aw

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i used t o b e young , and m y m ot her used t o tell m e st or ies. t here were t hose ab out cloud s and m ice wit h hear t s of g old , and t hen t here were t he ones ab out t he w om en in our fam ily. i t hink ab out how m y g reat -g rand m ot her had t o wear shoes t hree sizes sm aller since she w as seven ? seven, and ever so restr icted ? just b ecause m en felt t hat sm aller feet m ade you p rett ier, and at t hat t im e, all a g ir l needed t o b e w as p rett y, w hich w as m uch easier shoved d ow n t heir t hroat s t han m aking t hem so. i t hink ab out how she left hom e and cam e t o t his island sevent y year s ag o and chucked off her shoes: ad am ant cag es stained wit h p ainful b lood . ab out how m y g rand fat her p aid no m ind at all and how t hey sur vived on t his sm all island star t ing wit h just a sm all velvet p ouch secured wit h

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m easly g olden-t hreaded str ing hold ing a sim ple few pieces of m etal. i t hink ab out how she w ould w alk b arefooted along t he shoreline, eyes searching for t w o t hing s: t he b est p r ices t he m ar ket could offer and a hom e of hang ing b ird cag es and delicately p ainted flim sy sheet s ? b ut no one really saw t he second look. i t hink ab out how no one w ould look at her feet , b ecause w ho w ould ? it had n?t really m attered ? not t he fact t hat her t oenails were far from sq uared , or t he fact t hat her t oes cur led in on t hem selves, snar ling . i used t o b e young , and i used t o love listening t o st or ies. now i w alk d ow n t he p or t and w at ch t he ship s sail and t he fisher m en b anter, and i see m y g reat -g rand m ot her t here, a hard y young w om an w ho w as b eaut iful from head t o t oe, and i?m g lad she w as never a st or y.

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sp ace

by K. aw

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ARTWORK BY NICOLETTE LECY 10 0

10 1

THESE ARE THE COLORS FLOW ING THROUGH YOUR VEINS BY RAIN HIZON YOU STARTED OFF WITH THREE YELLOW STARS ON YOUR CHEEK AND EIGHT SUN RAYS REFLECTING YOUR SHADOW

BUT WHAT AMAZES ME IS HOW YOU PAINTED 47 MORE STARS ON YOUR SUN-KISSED SKIN AND HID YOURSELF UNDERNEATH LAYERS OF CLOTHES AND YOUR THICK FUR COAT, TELLING ME LATER YOU RARELY FEEL THE HEAT ANYMORE

LATE NIGHTS WHEN YOU'RE ALONE, YOU TRY TO RUB OFF THE THREE YELLOW STARS; DAMPING YOUR CHEEKS WITH WARM CLOTH 'TIL IT'S ROSY PINK? SHAME HAD FINALLY CONSUMED YOU

10 2

BUT YOU SHOULD NOT BE ASHAMED OF THE COLORS: RED, BLUE, WHITE AND YELLOW FLOWING THROUGH YOUR VEINS, KAIBIGAN

THOUSANDS OF OUR PEOPLE HAVE FLED JUST THE SAME? BLEEDING AND SPREADING THESE COLORS WITH PRIDE SWELLING IN THEIR HEARTS AS THEY SHOUT "MABUHAY" MILES AWAY

GO AND WASH OFF THE DRIED AND PEELING 47 STARS YOU PAINTED ONTO YOUR FLESH AND RELEASE YOURSELF FROM THE CONFINEMENT OF COUNTLESS LAYERS OF CLOTHES; LET THE SUN REFLECT WHAT YOU LEFT IN YOUR HOMELAND:

THE SENSE OF PRIDE FOR THE ANCESTORS WHO CRIED RED, BLUE, WHITE AND YELLOW IN ALL 7,107 ISLANDS YOU CALL HOME

10 3

RED RED RED

BY SIX

10 6

my father says we're home with a tipped smile and blue eyes red hair white skin say finally my father unlocks the door to our new house with his birth certificate his nostalgia pulls back the curtains lets in the sun and turns the tv to fox news he inhales deeply like he can already smell the burgers cooking in the backyard beef patties that taste like patriotism on the tip of his tongue he holds five dollars in his hand and says green must be god?s favorite color as he switches it for a pack of menthol marlboros at sun down he sings the star spangled banner like a child finally finding their own mother he pulls english off the trophy shelf dusty but polished his lungs whisper finally his vocal chords rejoice his hands remind him the natural curl of right fist over heart his family welcomes him red hair white skin blue eyes all glowing in the flicker of the football game on tv this is home his entire body says shoulders unwinding as someone else cleans the floors he wraps an arm around my shoulders and says isn't home great?

10 7

he doesn?t notice his touch passes straight through me no se da cuenta que soy mas fantasma que mujer if home is where the heart is then i must dead the border patrol used his badge as a knife para trinchar mi pecho his dogs come to his short whistle para vaciar mis costillas no me crees? come hither press an ear to my sternum and listen to the silence the sound of empty house or abandoned war zone the lost part of me is drowning en el rio grande the lost part of me is standing in a burning kitchen flipping tortillas faster than the red hot comal can kiss my fingertips the lost part of me is green eyes and white corn fields and red sunburn from sitting out with the cows too long the lost part of me is brown skin sweet and spicy like mama's mole the lost part of me sips cold coronas and speaks fragmented spanish like a too full tsuru racing down the costa if home is where the heart is i am a ghost corazon arrancado de mi pecho, soul chained to our volkswagen as we locked the door with our american passports and let my mexican body rot inside

10 8

i, espiritu, drift through the walls and haunt my father?s home slip valentina into his burger buns let my love for mi patria burn on the way down switch the channel to televisa every so often remind him of that broken down full car spanish that waits forgotten in the garage slide a rainbow of pesos across the marble counter para que sepa dios no creรณ el arcoiris para que solo amar el verde Invitar a las lechuzas to burrow in the windows watch death hang his cloak by the door hang ajo around every neck remind them to be careful because los espiritus like me wander lost tearing flesh back buscando nuestras casas torรกcicas father says home around a mouthful of french fries and a red coca cola a white wife beater a blue apron that reads america the great like this is the dream we've all been waiting for i say bullshit around a mouthful of maggots and a red hole in my chest green eyes pointing south and white falda folclorica clinging to my body like im la llorona always mourning the things i lost to the river

10 9

I. CODENAME: THE GIRL I SEE IN THE MIRROR

110

A STRANGER IS AN ALIEN IS AN IMMIGRANT IS A STRANGER IS A STRANGER IS AN ALIEN IS A MONSTER IN THE MIRROR

A POETRY SERIES BY CHANNELLE RUSSELL

ii. ASH GIRL MAKE AMERICA GOLD AGAIN GRAB SUN?S HAND WATCH SKIN BURN. GREET DIASPORA HELLO OH! ARE THOSE MY ASHES IN THAT FUNERAL UR?

iii. ABSENCE ONLY MAKES THE SKIN GROW LIGHTER THERE IS NO HERE HERE. NO HOME TO RETURN TO. ONLY SKIN TO BLEACH TEETH TO SOAK A BLACK BLOOD BEACH AND TIGHT DEATH ROPE

112

SPANISH 114

BY REBECA ROJAS

W atch me turn to dust my own language.

Burn the edges.

Soak it in water to dissolve the bitterness.

W atch me constantly lose my mother?s (grandmothers, great-grandmothers) tongue: in the woodwork of the dining room table, at the doorstep, under my bed.

W atch me crumble it in my hands in frustration, when I can?t help but falter over it.

Stumble over words that should flow like warm milk but instead feel like clumsy marbles, like a bee sting, like a harsh reality.

W atch me unfold my language on my lap as if it were a crinkled sheet of paper smooth out the wrinkles trace the imperfections note the angry pen scratches look for something, anything, that makes sense W atch me apologize over and over again that I am too American that I am not American enough Neither language belongs to me so I tremble and tell my body to stop grieving over the rejection W atch me try and try and fail and learn what it means to be neither To be in the middle To have too many words in your throat choking you and at the same time, not enough to have a voice

115

ASCEND KEEP UP W ITH US TW ITTER: @ASCENDZINE INSTAGRAM: @ASCENDZINE ASCENDMAGAZINE.TUMBLR.COM

PHOTOGRAPHY J er usa Nyakund i / cover, p g s. 1, 8, 12, 30 , 4 2, 64 , 86, 91, 10 4 , 111, 113 Tam ira Am in / p g s. 2, 30 , 4 2, 74 , 92, 95, 116

CONTRIBUTORS Kr ist in Chang / kr ist inchang .com Natalia Morales / @nat _b eig eg ray on IG Step hanie Wang / @halet hos on t witter Mikaela Choo Nicolette Lecy Ar yanna Chut kan Um aim ah Dam akka / @coloured _b raid s on IG & t witter Sham Sara Halim ah Channelle ?Chei? Russell / @cosm icb lackg ir l on t witter Moira Ram irez / @m ant olog y on IG K. aw / htt p :// juneip ar is.co.vu/ Reb eca Rojas Clara Tang / @clehrah on t witter / @koalara on IG

God dess X Pr iyanka Rao / @p r iachoux on t witter Six Shir ley Wang / @pinkm yt hs on t witter Rain Hizon / @johnb oveg a on t witter Kim Morales Mar yam a Dahir Sara Osm an Ang elina Ruiz / htt p ://w w w.ang elina-r uiz.com Feven Gerezg iher Cecilia Cancio / @p hoeb ecaulfield s on t um b lr / @not cecili on t witter / @transcedence on IG

MODELS Ako Asam oah / p g s. 12, 86, 111, 113 / @akoasam oah on t witter & IG Kr islanny Flores / p g s. 65, 91, @kr islannyf on IG / @kr islannyflores on t witter Isat ou Iesha Mbye / p g s. 1, 8, 58, 10 4 / @iesha_m bye on IG Sam iraa Am in / p g s. 3, 4 2, 92, 116 / @b aesicsam on t witter Sab r in / p g s. 30 , 4 3, 74 / @teenhur l on t witter Anond a Hall / p g s. 2, 4 2, 95 / @sp aceheaux on IG

EDITORS m alak shahin, ed it or -in-chief /

Malak Shahin is a Palest inian-Am er ican w r iter and creat or cur rent ly b ased in Minneap olis.

She is an aspir ing hum an r ig ht s act ivist wit h t he g oal of b uild ing Ascend int o a lar g er m ed ia collect ive for people of color t o create w or k for us, wit h us, and by us. / @shawarmahoe on twitter

tam ira am in, sub m issions ed it or /

Tam ira Am in is an under g rad at t he Univer sit y of Minnesota Twin Cit ies. She w as t he Ed it or -in-Chief of t he online p ub licat ion Fresh U Minnesota and is cur rent ly g ett ing read y t o launch a p od cast . In b et ween classes, Tam ira per for m s sp oken w ord and is developing a chap b ook of her w r itten p oem s t o p ub lish. / @tam tam_tweets on twitter / @tam tam_pics on instagram

d iana khong , creat ive d irect or /

Diana Khong is a p oet and ar t ist of color. She is ed it or -in-chief of Kerosene Mag azine, and is on staff at Red Queen Lit and Nob le Gas Quar ter ly. Her w or k is feat ured / for t hcom ing in Br ig ht ly Press, Third Point Press, Lockjaw Mag azine, Vag ab ond Cit y Lit , et c. She inhab it s d ream s and t ig ht sp aces. / @deer thrum on twitter & on tumblr / @dianekhong on instagram

m oira ram irez, m anag ing ed it or /

Moira Ram irez is a t went y year old Mexican ar t ist and w r iter. She's an aspir ing hist or y st udent , w hich is w hy her w r it ing m ost ly focuses on hist or ical fict ion and m atter s from t he hear t . / @MoiraRm z7 & @mantology on instagram

elisa luna-ad y, social m ed ia ed it or /

Elisa Luna-Ad y is a 18-year -old Chicana living in Sout her n Califor nia. She likes w r it ing p oetr y t hat exam ines in-b et ween sp aces and t he hum an b od y as it relates t o ident it y. / @astronom yhoe on t witter

channelle r ussell, cult ure ed it or /

Channelle "Chei?

Russell is a w r iter from J am aica. Her w r it ing explores t he deconstr uct ion of t he hum an cond it ion and t he im p act of t he sur realist w or ld view on t he m ar g inalized . She is 17. / @cosm icb lackg ir l on t witter / @rott onm ilk on t um b lr