Issue 1: Self Love

ASCEND issue i: self love october

ASC

BY WOMEN OF COLOR /

CEND FOR WOMEN OF COLOR

LETTER FROM THE

EDITOR 3

Ascend Ma gazine is committed to showcasing, developing, and amplifying the voices and art of women of color. Very few spaces exist th at prioritize us and our voices — of those spaces, many often don’t give us the resources and support th at we need to succeed. Very few institutions and mediums exist th at are for us, by us, and with us.

Our aim with Ascend, be yond creating a ma gazine, is to establish a space where women of color can come together and not be exploited or marginalized. Here, we give ourselves a gency to tell our stories, sh are our art, and gain experience th at we’re often not given the opportunity to do in mainstream media.

Our first issue theme is self-love. As women of color, selflove is revolutionary. It is counter-culture. It is to unsh ackl e ourselves from the oppressive structures of white supremacy th at profit off of our self-h ate.

You are worthy and brilliant and beautiful.

We want Ascend to help you on your journe y to self love-and it’s a long, arduous one. In these pa ges, we h ave told our stories of struggl e and of triumph. Self love is not eas y but nothing revolutionary and worthwhil e ever is.

In the words of poet Nikki Giovanni, “Show me someone not full of herself and I’ll show you a hungry person.”

This is Ascend.

Welcome home Bl ess, Malak Sh ahin, Editor-in-Chief

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TABLE OF CONTENTS pg. pg. pg.

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3: otros espacios by angelina ruiz 4: letter from the editor 7: to be a woman color and love yourself is revolution by malak shahin 9: idk by jaleeca yancy 10: trends by ruth fisseha 11: ode to the cut wire by diana khong 15: blue black girl by kearston hawkins-johnson 16: montage by shanina dionna 17: dear black girl by celine munanga 19: brown grl blues by elisa ady 25: montage by shanina dionna 29: rice girl by amy lafr 31: pretty pleas by amino yusuf 33: untitled/smoker by k.c. garza 35: as free as the wind by angela veronica santos de moraes 36: please by sara alattar 37: real talk: self love by tamira amin 51: the fine line by tulani hlaho 55: dead walk by diana khong 56: catrina by moira ramirez 57: 02:26am by akirah williams 61: black girl by zamina donaldson 64: colored love by anisah gonzalez bengharsa 68: otros espacios by angelina ruiz

TABLE OF

TRIGGERS pg. pg. pg. pg.

16/25: illustrated nudity 51-54: nudity 55: alluded sexual assault 66: r*pe mention, exploitation

TO BE A WOMAN OF COLOR AND LOVE YOURSELF IS REVOLUTION

BY MALAK SHAHIN 7

I learned to hate myself first. Learned to hate the way my teeth fit in my mouth, my mountain of a nose, the shape of my eyes. I was always too much of something: too loud, too hairy, too opinionated, too ungroomed. I learned to hate my smile. I learned to hate the way words taste on my tongue. I learned to hate every inch of my skin and my bones. They wanted me to be submissive. They wanted me to squeeze myself into spaces where I would stand quietly. They did not want to hear my voice. They did not want to see my face. And then they have the audacity to ask me “why do you hate yourself” as though I am not what they created. As though I did not peel back my skin, rip off my eyebrows, and learn to make my mouth smaller for them. As though they did not teach me.

I want to learn to love myself. Some days, I stare at myself in the mirror and tell myself I am beautiful. That I am worthy. Some days I hate the way my voice sounds but I love the words that fall off of my tongue. Some days it’s easier. Some days loving myself is like breathing. Some days loving myself is standing at the edge of a volcano, convincing myself that I enjoy the sensation of being burned.

Everyone keeps telling me it gets better. How long do I wait for better before I realize that better is never coming?

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TRENDS BY RUTH FISSEHA This poem goes out to the girls who spent their formative years cringing over the thickness of their eyebrows and the fullness of their lips, only for eyebrow game and overdrawn lips to exist years down the road.

This poem goes out to the girls who grew up somewhat terrified that their hips would grow way wider than they’d like, that they’d eventually fill out like their mothers and others before them only to see Iggy and Kim become iconic for the very things they were told to fear.

This poem goes to the girls who didn’t like to stay out in the sun for too long, and were scolded by their mothers and grandmothers when they did.

The little tubes of Fair and Lovely kept at your auntie’s house, the sleek boxes promising Eastern women new beauty in about seven days.

Promises made by the same company that also owns Dove, who champions the façade of self-love and acceptance with their touchyfeely commercials.

It is visiting your cousins in your home country and seeing them carrying parasols on a sunny day, because fair skies don’t mean fair skin.

Meanwhile a bottle of Fake Bake is readily available at your local drug store.

To only have your features desired in theory.

Which just means not on the people who were born with it.

Having to shave, burn, and bleach parts of ourselves to look acceptable just to see that it was almost for nothing.

Were we born in the wrong time? Too late to be able to internalize the appreciation?

Or will it be just another fad, another style that eventually finds its way out.

To the girls who are able to follow the new trends and just wipe off the old ones from before: Remember this.

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ode to my leg hair you’re better when you’re clean, smoke screen you’re better when you’re girl not palp not firecracker ode to mudbaths, bare feet, girlhood on a leash ode to my bald ass head to growing from thicket the body is a collection of pricks but be girl not prick but be seasoned be spiced that’s why they love you

ODE TO THE

CUT WIRE

BY DIANA KHONG

ode to blown pupils i match them eyes tight-lined, red-lined to shit, bodied by a falling sky you steal the heat from it ode to split lips and sore heels and skin to the bone to the girl-shaped bomb to the girl-shaped bomb

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Blue black girl. she looks at her reflection through the mirror staring so hard she loses sight of herself. lips dry and burnt from the joint between her fingers, eyes unfocused, she is trapped within the suffocating smoke clouds in the high world of Blue. trapped in a world of numbness covered and disguised in the cloak of “fine” protected from the stares and questions and ultimately, herself.

BLUE BLACK GIRL

BY KEARSTON HAWKINS-JOHNSON she suddenly has an urge to punch. punch until the glass shatters, punch so that she can no longer see the person reflected on the other side, punch so that the scars and the Blue are gone gone so that she no longer hears the expectations of how a woman should be how a woman should love, who a woman should love, who a woman is gone so she can escape to the Fantasy and the Subconscious. the world of many colors, the Surreal. where she can create dragons on paint and flowers on pastels. where the only blue would be of the endless sky, of possibilities, of peace.

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she can hear a voice, her soul, saying: “you are not of this world. you do not belong in Blue.

Blue isn’t all of who you are because you are so much more. you are light, love, and constantly evolving. you are green. life.”

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DEAR BLACK

GIRL

BY CELINE MUNANGA

You won’t find yourself in these history books but you were there You won’t find your achievements in their words but you achieved You won’t find your chocolate skin in their poetry your big hair in their songs But you will discover for yourself that your beauty need not be written down in history to be real.

You will discover the fearlessness inside you that has kept you going for this long.

You will discover the infinite fire within you that can never and will never be extinguished.

You will discover You and you will finally know that you was all you ever needed

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BROWN GRL BLUES ELISA ADY 19

how did you get here? / cut from my mother’s hip / raw and unbeaten meat in the mouth / no salt, no pepper / i consume with tough discomfort / that’s how, ruca / i did not travel by barbed wire or coyote pelt / i grew into my womb-buried roots / scorched earth underfoot as far as the eye can creep / this, my land before yours / it burns in the good way / like just-off-the-grill grease / can trace myself through Her veins / can you, ruca? / cannot be an alien in my own home / mi casa, mi tierra / esta suciedad / en mis manos y boca también

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today i wake without reason / a fact of my existence / i am jarred from the dream world / by the sound of my cage being rattled / i see my captors in the white / who keep me locked up / their little alien / only temporary housing / soon i will be sent away / for daring to claim a portion / of my own meal / for now / i will wait / for scraps of bleach-white bone like entrails of an animal long dead like carrion and rot-flesh and viscera smeared across my lips / for your finely-bred american sympathy

a day without edges / it’s a happy one / when i can eat mango slices / like the sun halved on tongue / orange and alight / with false pretenses / it’s a happy one / when i ooze gold / instead of gutter water / when the neighbor-kids smell flowers on me / instead of suicedad and fuzz / and if i’m a little brown at the edges / a bit burnt / almost-flushed with ash / it’s only because i own the sun / She is tied to my finger / and i refuse to cut her free / i feed her well and take her for walks / put her back in my pocket in bursts and cycles / to spare the world all the never-ending sweat / if i’m full of fire at the end of the day / it’s only because she’s pumped me full of it / and you asked to be burned the minute you stole my smile / called me immigrant / chonga / illegal / instead of my name / instead of an active volcano / that will raze the walls you built / around my browned, broken-in / body

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MO

NT AGE ART BY SHANINA DIONNA

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Montage is a personal testimony. A self-portrait representing my ongoing journey to truly finding me and learning to love and accept who that really is. In July 2015 I was admitted into the Belmont Behavioral Hospital of Philadelphia, PA diagnosed with ma jor depression and for having finally revealed many years of suicidal thoughts with a plan with my first-ever psych therapist.

Art truly helped save my life. Montage encourages not only myself but those whom may be receptive of this particular work to hold on to themselves. To journey on just a little bit further and witness some euphoric, transcendent resolve concerning ourselves — and I know, accountability isn’t fun. But I’ve learned it to be a safe haven for when the quirks of life start to ruffle one too many feathers. Since adolescence I sought acceptance and love and commitment and loyalty and reassurance from everyone else except me.

Why not be receptive of these things from me?

Transparently, I’m yet finding a solid answer to that question.

In the meantime, whatever I can create with a staple, primary color palette will be there to continue to help me express visually what I would not otherwise have the courage to express verbally. I’m (we’re) getting somewhere. I know it. I (we) have to be.

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I THOUGHT I WAS ALONE. BUT GOD FORBID WE GIVE UP ON OURSELVES, RIGHT?

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MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME HOW TO EAT WITH FORKS AND SPOONS BUT IF YOU’RE DOWN FOR YOUR CULTURE THROW THOSE DAMN SILVERS IN THE TRASH AND USE YOUR SOULFUL HANDS THAT HAVE GROWN FROM THE EARTH AND HAVE TOUCHED ARTEMIS EACH MINISCULE RIDGE IN YOUR FINGERS HAVE BEEN BRUSHED WITH DARK SOIL NO GOD COULD ERASE EVEN AFTER A THOUSAND LAYERS OF NEW SKIN I GRAB MY RICE IN MY HANDS FEELING EACH MOUTHFUL FILLED WITH PRIDE BUT THEY SNICKER “HANDS ARE FOR WOOD AND DIRT, NOT TOUCHED BY FOOD YOU FUCKING DISGRACE.” THEY SAY AS THEY SHOVE THEIR UNCUT FINGERS INTO THEIR GREASED UP BURGERS AND OIL-WASHED FRIES THEY SLICE MY SKIN EASY LIKE THE GROUND WHEN MOTHER NATURE IS SCORNED BITS OF RICE STUCK ON MY FINGERS AS MY BLOOD HAMMERS AGAINST ME I CAN HEAR MY MOTHER WEEP THE NATIONAL ANTHEM PULSATING BEHIND HER AMING LIGAYA NA ‘PAG MAY MANG-AAPI ANG MAMATAY NG DAHIL SA IYO. I BREAK THEIR NOSES ONE BY ONE BONES CRACK AND GRIND TO PEBBLES THICK BLOOD DRIPS FROM MY KNUCKLES I FLICK DROPLETS ONTO THE WHITE TILED FLOORS AS I SIT BACK DOWN AND EAT MY BOWL OF RICE CLEAN

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RICE GIRL

BY AMY LAFR

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Give me pulsing vibrancy and faded pastels; give me high cheekbones and softly arched brows; give me rich Shea butter and light floral cream.

Give me a sturdy base: hips wide boulder thighs heavy sighs as I pass by on twinkling, ballerina toes.

Give me these extremes and the entire spectrum; give me the power to choose and the power to refuse.

These are my terms and conditions, understand and proceed or keep the representation you think I need.

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pretty pleas A POEM BY AMINO YUSUF 32

UNTITLED ART BY K.C. GARZA 33

SMOKER 34

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PLEASE

BY SARA ALATTAR

Please do not try to find a home in your sadness.

It is tempting to build your house and furnish it with reasons why the world hates you and feel comfort in giving up because you’re sure you don’t deserve hope anyways.

Home is where warm, cooked meals are, home is where a good night of sleep awaits you.

But those spoonfuls of despair will only leave your stomach bare, and blanketing yourself in past mistakes will cause you to shiver.

Do not find security in your sadness just because you can lock yourself behind its door.

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REAL T A LK: SELF LOVE by ta mira amin

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Self-love.

Is it a goal? A state of being? Something you can eat? Everyone wants it, but describing what it is can get real murky real fast. Confused? Don’t worry, these girls have you covered: Muna Abdirahman, a 23 year old Somali visual artist based in Minneapolis who specializes in character design; Sara DuVall, a 23 year old pansexual Latina comic artist based in Seattle; Victoria Tsai, a 22 year old TaiwaneseAmerican visual artist and musician; and Haaniyah Angus, the 18 year old content creator behind @nerdypoc and everything else you love. I got to sit down with these four amazing female artists and content creators to talk the good, the bad, and the messy of self-love.

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When you’re looking at badass or powerful women, you can lose sight that everyone started somewhere — same goes for loving the girl in the mirror. And typically, that journey starts pretty young.

“I was in the 4th grade, and I overheard some girls talking about my classmates’ thigh gap, and how lucky she was that her legs were so skinny,” DuVall recalled. “When I got home I went straight to the mirror in my room and looked at my thighs, and for the first time I became aware of the fact that they touched each other.

Looking back now, it’s kind of surreal and sad — I was so young, and suddenly so self-conscious about something that didn’t even matter.”

But it’s not just peer pressure that can bring on feelings of inadequacy. Tsai spoke on how media affected her when she was younger.

“Cartoons played a definitive role in developing my image of beauty. Sailor Moon — long legs, sparkling eyes, and a confident air of poise — and others like Josie and the Pussycat Dolls, heck even Scooby Doo. All these images began to form a list inside my mind of what was considered beautiful and, coincidentally, valuable.”

One way or another, hating yourself is something you’re taught. And more often than not, white supremacy makes for a very instructive teacher. Most all of the women recalled having entanglements with it in their formative years.

Abdirahman described facing colorism when she didn’t have a name for it yet. “My family is on the ‘light-skin side,’ and because I was darker than most my cousins it was hard to come to terms with beauty. All I heard from my family was, ‘Don’t wear that, you’re too dark for it.’”

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For Angus, it was a matter of racial identity — or rather, multiracial identity and its proximity to whiteness. “I’m Somali, Jamaican and English and I don’t look exactly like my mix,” Angus mused. “I don’t have slim features, I don’t have 4c hair, I don’t have light eyes. So for me, it’s always been pointed out that I can’t be any of those three, which, when I was younger, disconnected me from wanting to be close to my cultures.”

The process of assimilation can be akin to running away, as Angus did from her roots.

Tsai, however was running towards something. “I constantly wished I was white,” Tsai said bluntly. “White was what I saw in the magazines, on TV and in movies. White was success, love, and happiness. I wanted those things, and since whiteness made itself apparent in every aspect of cultural consumption and depictions of beauty, being Asian seemed wrong,” she confessed. “ I remember moments wishing I was born white so I wouldn’t have to suffer the assumptions and insults aimed at me based on features of my body that were very clearly, not white.”

So how do you get out? How do you leave the cycle of insecurity and learned self-hatred? DuVall described it as such: “It was definitely a progression. I really struggled with myself and my body image through middle school and high school, and it wasn’t until I left for college that I finally started to actively try to accept and love myself. It hasn’t been easy,” DuVall said. “And for a while I felt like a complete fake, but I feel like I can confidently say that I’m in a much better place now. And I’m hoping I can only get better from here on out.”

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Conversely, Angus describes her journey to self-love as an epiphany. “I used to base my self-worth on if people liked me and if boys were into me,” Angus explained. “But when I turned 17, it suddenly hit me that I’m the only one who should measure my self-worth and my self-love should only be based on me.”

These women give assurances that the other side of the rainbow does exist. “I have no desire to be white any longer,” Tsai laughs. “A lot of that came from educating myself about history’s longstanding relationship with promoting whiteness as the ultimate. Learning that societal beauty operates on an agenda, often serving those in power, made me realize that white isn’t inherently beautiful, it’s just marketed that way. That and seeing more and more women with faces like mine in fashion, stories, and media compounded with a desire to find inner peace helps me view myself and my body as things that are worthwhile, successful, valuable, multi-faceted, and yes, beautiful.”

As you can see, representation — good representation — is always important. But DuVall says her sense of self-love is more internal. “ I feel beautiful because I’ve accepted myself for who and what I am, and I think that that kind of freedom from stress and self-hatred really makes a difference. I’ve found that the most beautiful people are those who rock what they’ve got and stay true to themselves.” For Abdirahman, her work helped shape and change her perspective. “I loved art because you can make anything beautiful and that really changed how I view things.”

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As nice as this all sounds, like DuVall hinted at, getting to the point where you can say you love yourself isn’t the Tumblr aesthetic it’s cracked up to be. “It often feels like I’m taking three steps backward for every one step forward,” Tsai confessed. “I’m working hard every day to find inner peace and be more honest with myself.” She went on to say, self-love can be downright uncomfortable sometimes. “The concept of [self-love] was entirely alien to me. But from that point on up until now self-love is still something I work on every day to improve and strengthen. Loving myself often feels strange and unwelcome, as if in doing so I’m indulging in arrogance or vanity. But as I’ve gotten older, the less I care about what others think of me, and I think that has helped my journey.”

Abdirahman has a mantra: Tomorrow will be different. It helps her get through the ups and downs that come with self-love. Tsai’s mantra is a little different, but no less inspiring: “Everything is ultimately meaningless.

I know it sounds grim, but I don’t see it that way. It’s a way for me to free myself from useless thoughts that occupy time better spent doing what I love,” Tsai explains. “When I catch myself worrying about whether or not people will care if I wear these shorts with that top, it helps put things right into perspective.”

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Another theme that ran through my conversations with the girls were the bad days. And there are bad days. It’s natural — there’s lumps in every muffin, as I always say — and that doesn’t make your self-love any less real or valid. Here’s a bad day according to Abdirahaman: “[On] hard days I’m wearing super baggy clothes and I feel really uncomfortable. On good days I feel happy, and I can talk to people without feeling gross.” To Tsai, the bad days are, “…consumed by feelings of emptiness and meaningless[ness]. Of wanting to conform to seemingly make life easier, to unlearn and be ignorant.” For Angus, “[It] looks like me wanting to binge eat and cry my eyes out because I hate how I look and I feel hopeless. The good days are me wanting the best for myself, pushing myself to workout, to go out, to make myself up and just being happy.”

On how to balance the highs and lows, Tsai commented, “ I think it’s important to remember that self-love, much like life, is a marathon and not a race. It doesn’t have to happen overnight, it doesn’t have to be linear, and it doesn’t have to ever be fully actualized. Take things at your own pace when handling something so delicate, and be proud of where you’ve come and where you will go.” Take DuVall and Tsai for example; both recall being really self-conscious about their smaller breasts but laugh looking back on the insecurity. “Now I wouldn’t change my size for the world,” DuVall chuckles. Angus said her art helped her work through her insecurities. “Writing helps me express myself and express the sadness and helplessness I used to take out on myself.

Recently I wrote a poem on how it feels to be a fat girl and it was the first time I’ve ever publicly talked about my weight.”

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I personally admire each and every single woman I spoke to.

They’re all extremely talented in their fields and not a damn one was perfect. And I think that’s amazing because for so long, it felt like being brown and woman in this world meant I had to be. So I want to leave you, reader, with this: there is room for you in this world. There is room for the medals and there is room for the mess. You don’t have to love yourself every day. I don’t think anybody really does. But you can carve space for yourself to get there. And slowly, slowly, slowly, you will.

TAMIRA AMIN IS ASCEND’S SUBMISSIONS EDITOR.

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THE FINE LINE Performance Art by Tulani Hlalo

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THE FINE LINE BETWEEN SELF CONFIDENCE AND NARCISSISM IS EASILY BLURRED. THE DECISIONS WE MAKE AND THE WAY WE CHOOSE TO BEHAVE IS OPEN TO INTERPRETATION BY THOSE WHO WISH TO OBSERVE. ONE PERSON’S SELF ASSURANCE CAN BE CONSTRUED AS ANOTHER’S NARCISSISM. EVERYTHING LIES IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

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DEAD

WALK

BY DIANA KHONG

here you find dead bodies of girls sweet as schnappe, tongues deep in hornets nests and men brawny, hefty strong string them across their shoulders careful gravehands they are their palm lines holding tributaries run dry fish drowned in the dirt careful gills in careful bodies make not cares about horrible people jack the ripper never came back for my body but neither did i

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i am electricity when i can taste the salt on my skin i am electricity when i can’t run my fingers through the snakes nesting upon my scalp i am electricity when spices curl around my tongue when they kiss me goodnight when they wish me good morning when i can look in a mirror and smile i am electricity when my fingers grasp the silk of my skin i am electricity and i always will be.

02:26AM AKIRAH WILLIAMS 57

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Black girl with the big hair, permed hair, in transition hair Black girl, with no hair Black girl, with hair everywhere You are loved You are light You are magic They envy your features Your big lips Your big butt And those thick thighs They want to be you Black girl, you are so special You continue to send love into a world set on hating you A world that doesn’t see your worth This world is not good enough for you Black girl you are the epitome of strength Ghetto black girl, we love you Black girl, raising kids on your own we appreciate you Queer black girl, we will protect you Black girl listening to rock bands, you are black enough Black girl, being you is more than enough Black girl, you are love You are light Black girl, I hope you love being a black girl

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BLACK

GIRL

By Zamina Donaldson 62

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COLORED

LOVE THE STRUGGLES OF ATTAINING SELF LOVE FOR LATIN-AMERICAN WOMEN

BY ANISAH GONZALEZ BENGHARSA

There are certain things in life that can’t be taught — things like how to deal with heartbreak or how to achieve a goal. They can be inspired or explained, but they can't be taught. Not everything is a math equation; you can’t always learn to plug in the variable to get the correct answer. High up on this list of things is self love. Figuring out how to love one’s self is different for every person. It’s a difficult task, particularly for women of color. So, though I can’t teach anyone how to love themselves, I can relay my experience in my own continuous battle to celebrate myself as a Latin-American woman, in a country and age that tells me to do the exact opposite.

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I always knew I was part Latina, and I always knew my mother was a Cuban immigrant. What I didn’t know, until a couple years ago, was what being Latina entailed. One of these things is the unrealistic physical ideals set up for women, most of which can’t be attained by women of color. Beauty standards are things pushed onto women from the moment they ask for their first Barbie doll, which is probably why my mom never got me one. I was gifted an American Girl doll instead. Marisol was a good little Hispanic doll, with no breasts or thin waist, and so I got to live most of my childhood without worry of my physical appearance, or my apparent strangeness for loving empanadas or platanos.

A worry-free childhood is not something any of us get to hold onto forever; we eventually have to grow up, day by day, slowly and regretfully. I was no exception to the rule. I was ten years old when my mom dragged me to go bra shopping and eleven when I saw my first few stretch marks. The pants I had once worn without any problems were now revealing. It was probably one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. I remember looking at my thin classmates and feeling fat and insecure. My first encounter with bullying was in fifth grade, my mother said I was just more developed, that I had a “Latina’s body,” and it was then that I wished I could be anything but Latina.

That feeling, that disappointment in myself and my genes, only worsened over the years. My first year in public school was also my first year of middle school and I can say, without a drop of uncertainty, it was the worst year of my life. I got to learn a few more things

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things about being Hispanic — things I would have been just fine never knowing. The first lesson was not to associate with the white kids, partly because they ask really dumb questions — like how you’re Muslim and Hispanic — but mostly because they make you feel like an endangered animal one sees at the zoo.

I found it amusing that we, the Hispanic students, were constantly praised for our culture’s food and music, but criticized for every other aspect of who we are. Speaking Spanish in any class that wasn’t Spanish class was deemed inappropriate for school. Those of us who couldn’t speak English were told to learn, because apparently being American and Hispanic were mutually exclusive. My Spanish teacher was a white, “educated” lady for knowing a language other than her own. Our lunch lady on the other hand, who was also bilingual, was subject to border-hopping jokes. How were we supposed to love ourselves when our culture was only acceptable when draped around the shoulders of white people?

It was a couple of years later that I learned another lesson about being a Latinx woman: we are a living fetish. Over the years Hispanic women have gained reputations. We are pleasers — we give our men what they want, and I suppose it’s true. For decades, throughout the United States, owners of plantations hired undocumented Latina immigrants as farm workers. These workers found themselves sexually abused and exploited, and they accepted that as a part of their life. They would rather deal with rape than be sent back to a life with no future for them or their children. So we became easily manipulated,

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which was ideal for many men. This, along with many other “Latina sexual stereotypes,” taught us that our sexual appeal was one of the few things that made us worth anything.

I’d love to say that these things no longer phase me, that they don't make me ashamed of my culture and myself, but they do. To this day I sometimes wish I could be thin, and wear the same clothes Bethany wears without being deemed “a slut,” or “attention seeking.” I continue to feel the need to prove myself — sometimes by making sure I don’t please a soul, sometimes by refusing to speak Spanish in hopes I’ll be seen as more than a fetish, more than a language. Despite all this, somewhere in the castle of self hate built by others and myself, I find myself slowly embracing my uniqueness.

So no, I can’t teach anyone to love themselves.

I’m not completely sure I love myself at the moment, but I can tell fellow Latinas and women of color that they’re not alone. We’re growing and searching while laughing at Trump as if he isn’t a real threat to our families. We’re pursuing careers while wondering if even a PhD will make us educated.

Self love isn’t a goal — it’s a state of mind.

Sometimes it will waver and that’s okay, because that’s just part of being a Latin-American woman. It’s exhausting and difficult, but it’s beautiful.

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PHOTOGRAPHY tamira amin / cover, pgs. 1, 12, 13, 18, 23, 32, 38, 39, 42, 43, 47, 50, 58, 59, 69

tiana oliveras / @tiana.oli on ig / tianaalright on twitter / pgs. 46, 63

MODELS eloho urhieyovwe / pgs. 1, 18, 24, 42 aurin chowdhury / pg. 2, 12, 23 nurul quratulaini abd salim nast / pg. 47 crystal maqsudi / pg. 50 zarlasht niaz / cover, pgs. 32, 58, 59 ra’wi mahamud / pg. 69 fatima ahmad / pgs. 13, 43 libin said / pg. 13 kia whittier / pgs. 39, 59 aly starbard / pgs. 46, 63 rahaf ebbini / pg. 38

CONTRIBUTORS angelina ruiz / @nglnrz on ig / angelina-ruiz.com jaleeca yancy / @jry_designs on ig / jrydesigns.net ruth fisseha / @presidentruth on tumblr kearston hawkins-johnson / @ThatsSoKearston on ig and twitter shanina dionna / @shaninadionna on ig and twitter celine munanga / @celle_writes on ig / @Celine_TM on twitter amy lafr / @loverankie on ig / @inkheaux on twitter angela veronica santos de moraes / @angelvmoraes on ig amino yusuf / @aminamiski on twitter / @chisimaio on tumblr k.c. garza / @kcgarza on ig / @superbitchcomic on twitter / @thekillustrator on tumblr sara alattar / @saraalattarx on twitter / strongwomanspeculates.wordpress.com tulani hlaho / @lani_hlalo & @tulanihlaloart on ig / www.tulanihlalo.com akirah williams / @kirahstagram on ig / @dipbrow on twitter zamina donaldson / @cluelessmina on ig / @dionnedavenprt on twitter anisah gonzalez bengharsa / @ferventwanderess on twitter / praysayslay.com

EDITORS malak shahin, editor-in-chief

/ Malak Shahin is a Palestinian-American writer and creator currentl y based in Minneapolis. She is an aspiring human rights activist with the goal of building Ascend into a larger media collective for people of color to create work for us, with us, and by us. Right now, she is a college student, navigating what it means to be a woman of color at a PWI. / @shawarmahoe on twitter

moira ramirez, managing editor / Moira is a 19year old writer/artist and aspiring history student from Mexico. /@mantology on instagram

tamira amin, submissions editor /

Tamira Amin is an undergrad at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities. She was the Editor-in-Chief of the online publication Fresh U Minnesota and is currentl y getting ready to launch a podcast. In between classes, Tamira performs spoken word and is developing a chapbook of her written poems to publish. / @tamtam_tweets on twitter / @tamtam_pics on instagram

diana khong, creative director /Diana Khong is a queer poet and artist of color from Massachusetts. Her work takes on modern colonization, life post-diaspora, and what it feels like to be a Vietnamese woman in a white man’s America. She is 16. /@oldadams on twitter / @grisiy on tumblr

elisa luna-ady, social media editor / Elisa Luna-Ady is a 17-year-old Chicana living in Southern California. She likes writing poetry that examines in-between spaces and the human body as it relates to identity. / @astronomyhoe on twitter