black praxis WINTER 2020
ISSUE NO.2
BLACKPRAXIS. COM
BLACK PRAXIS
Founded in 1965, as an extension of the Dartmouth College Afro-American Society, Black Praxis began as a student newspaper. Steeped in Dartmouth’s communities, the newspaper covered campus news, engaged in editorial debates with the Dartmouth Review, and imparted advice and survival tips to its student readers.
Decades later, in 2011, the publication experienced a major transition from print to digital, taking on a new life online. A few years in, after its leaders graduated, Black Praxis went dormant. In 2016, Black students again revived and reimagined Black Praxis for a new generation of Dartmouth students. Upholding the publication's legacy, the leaders of Black Praxis are committed to providing a space to cultivate discourse and celebrate Black creativity.
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editors-in-chief Lola Adewuya Jordan Mcdonald
editoral Djemila Compaore Alexis Reaves Zach Spicer Sam West Lydia Yeshitla
visual Kara Chamberlaine Cleophus McIntosh Esther Oluokun Naomi Steplight Taliq Tillman
marketing and events Jasmine Butler Alaa Mustafa Filomena Silva
contributors Tola Akinwumi Marina Cepeda Zion Jones Jalen Mackie Shane Miller Raleigh Nesbitt Devin Powell Natan Santos
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from the editors “For us, this theme feels rooted in Black Praxis’s core mission–to cultivate discourse and push conversations forward.” The articles and visuals in this issue were written, shot, conceptualized, and organized in the interest of our winter/spring theme: Things Left Unsaid (with a sprinkle of our past issue’s photos because let’s face it, they were great). For us, this theme feels rooted in Black Praxis’s core mission–to cultivate discourse and push conversations forward. The idea of Things Left Unsaid was conceived when we asked ourselves, “what do we wish we talked about more?” In our time at Dartmouth, we have noticed a cyclical nature of community discourse that can often be difficult to break out of. Things Left Unsaid is meant to take the first steps in tackling head-on the conversations that are much needed but are often left out or pushed aside within our communities. Giving voice to the taboo, the forgotten, and the overlooked, Things Left Unsaid brings some of these topics to the forefront of our minds. While our web exclusive, The Legacy Issue, provided a brief look into our pasts, the evolution of cultural trends, and the icons whose legacies have had a lasting impact, Things Left Unsaid will assess the present and highlight what’s happening in our communities today in order to help shape our futures.
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In this issue, we broach the topics we feel should have long been prioritized. Our writers are vulnerable and candid about where they find themselves amidst conversations on identity, politics, beauty culture, and more. In the months leading up to the launch of Things Left Unsaid, Black Praxis set out to bring the conversations happening in staff meetings to the larger student body. In the Spring (19S), we hosted our first Pop-Up, where students within the Dartmouth community anonymously shared and then discussed topics they felt deserved more attention from their peers and communities at large. In the Fall (19F), Black Praxis collaborated with I2 Literary Magazine and hosted a Pre-Launch Party where students were invited to get an early taste of both of our upcoming issues. Again, we fell into a discussion about the untold lived experiences of Dartmouth students. At these events, we witnessed how new spaces and more diverse perspectives allowed us to depart from the typical and monotonous in a way that has been both refreshing and eye-opening. As you explore the issue, please keep in mind that Things Left Unsaid is merely scratching the surface and is in no way comprehensive or definitive. All topics that need to be discussed will not be addressed in this issue, and that’s okay! We can’t do all the work for you anyway. After reading this issue, we urge you to continue creating spaces where forward-thinking conversations can be had, however difficult or uncomfortable they may be.
Jordan and Lola 4
BLACK PRAXIS
letter from the editors LOLA ADEWUYA AND JORDAN MCDONALD
playlist STAFF
cyntoia brown-long: breaking the silence JORDAN MCDONALD AND LOLA ADEWUYA
the problem with the new natural hair movement DJEMILA COMPAORE
to look in the mirror and see yourself ALEXIS REAVES
TABLE OF
CONTE 5
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late to lemonade SAM WEST
slow to speak: contributing to the conversation ZACH SPICER
where do we go? CLEOPHUS MCINTOSH
in the dark SHOT BY TALIQ TILLMAN
black dartmouth speaks LYDIA YESHITLA
what goes without saying JORDAN MCDONALD
ENTS 6
welcome to the party POP SMOKE
things i imagined SOLANGE
shut up KODIE SHANE
yeah, i said it RIHANNA
how you want it? TEYANA TAYLOR
no pressure MAHALIA
plastic 100•C MAHALIA
no strings KYLE DION
insecure BRENT FAIYAZ
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truth or dare KELELA
smack a bitch RICO NASTY
pretty ugly TIERRA WHACK
close friends LIL BABY , GUNNA doo wop (that thing) MS . LAURYN HILL
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tola akinwumi photographed by taliq tillman
BLACK PRAXIS
LO L A A D E W U YA A N D
cyntoia brown-long photo by andrew nelles | the tennessean
On November 18th, criminal justice r Cyntoia Brown Dartmouth
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Preceding her arr heard all around years prior. P remem
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JORDAN MCDONALD
, 2019, author and reform advocate n-Long came to h’s campus.
rival was the story d the internet two Perhaps, you mber... WARNING: This article discusses sexual violence. If you wish to skip this, please advance to the next article starting on page 23.
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In 2017, we were all suddenly talking ab injustice that had occurred over a deca As we would soon learn, in 2004, a sixte year-old Cyntoia Brown had been sente in prison for killing a man in self-defen had paid to have sex with her.
cyntoia brown-long photographed by lacy atkins | ap
Appearing on the social media like Rihanna, Kim Kardashian, an images of a teenage Cyntoia fa rose to the forefront of mainstr discourse. After years of grassro advocacy, her sentence would by Tennessee Governor Bill Ha in her early release on August 7 we met Cyntoia just a few mon we were struck not only by the but, by how much this one spe life we all thought we knew, fa woman in front of us.
Despite one’s familiarity with C difficult, when speaking to her only of her time in the system. personality and overall presenc your attention. First, there’s her accent. A Tennessee girl at hea with polite assertiveness. Grou
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bout an ade before. een enced to life nse after he
a pages of celebrities nd Lebron James, old acing a life sentence ream criminal justice oots and personal d finally be commuted aslam in 2019, resulting 7th of that year. When nths after her release, e gravity of her story, ecific, viral, part of her ailed to capture the
Cyntoia’s past, it is r in person, to think Rather, it is her ce which commands r distinct southern art, her voice is warm unded by her faith and
a renewed commitment to her instincts, she is unflinching and unapologetic. When she arrived at Pine to have a private lunch with a small group of students, Cyntoia entered the restaurant with grace as she joined what must have looked like an awkward group of strangers anticipating her arrival. Still, over the course of the lunch, she did not hesitate to break the ice, to ask for what she wanted, or refuse what she did not. “Do y’all have Dr. Pepper?” she asked the waitress immediately. As anyone who has been to Pine before would suspect, they did not, in fact, have Dr. Pepper. Disappointed by this fact, Cyntoiae would come to find Pine’s menu to be a bit incompatible with her traditional Southern tastes and values. When the fries we ordered to share as a table was comprised of a pitiful amount of potato, she encouraged us to inquire about the portion size. When the table ordered buffalo cauliflower, Cyntoia adamantly refused the new-age appetizer on principle, vowing to never give in to our attempts at light-hearted peer pressure.
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cyntoia brown-long photographed by biyeshi kumsa | dartmouth college
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Toward the end of the lunch, one of the students at the table turned to Cyntoia and asked for her insight on a timely issue: human sex trafficking. Amidst broader concerns about women’s rights and safety, we have witnessed a recent surge in discoveries about the true depth of sex trafficking and human trafficking in general. In the United States, this growing awareness has sparked the concern of the American public, raising trafficking to the status of a federal priority. In the U.S., most people’s understanding of sex trafficking comes almost entirely from movies like Taken. Since the franchise began in 2009, we’ve lived in fear of white teenage girls on overseas vacations being stolen from their families in broad daylight and forced into impenetrable trafficking rings--the likes of which only a trained CIA operative and his particularly precocious daughter could make their way out of. Stories like Cyntoia’s remind us that these movies don’t accurately reflect the stories of a vast majority of young girls who become victims of sex trafficking. Despite acknowledging human trafficking as an epidemic that is extensive within and beyond U.S. borders, many of use still hold on to unrealistic ideas of what it actually looks like. An influx of news detailing sensationalized plots to kidnap women in Wal-Mart parking lots or nail salons has only reinforced these ideas about trafficking within our society. As a trafficking victim whose experience dispels our blockbuster expectations, Cyntoia emphasized the importance of highlighting stories and victims that fall outside of the media’s interest–the narratives that never make it to the big screen.
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Despite what the movies would have you believe, people are rarely snatched from their lives and loved ones all at once. A few hours after our lunch, Cyntoia addressed an audience packed into Alumni Hall, with only standing-room remaining, and set the record straight. She told the story of her life–how she had been failed by many social systems before the criminal justice system had taken its turn. Despite being raised in a loving home by her adoptive parents, Cyntoia fell victim to what is now recognized as the school-to-prison pipeline. From a young age, her school treated her as a criminal. In middle school, she was sentenced to “in-school suspension” for possession of caffeine pills. Later, she was placed into the special needs program at school, where she spent her days in a classroom tucked away from the rest of the student body, forbidden from speaking to other students. Routinely isolated from her peers for criminalized behavior, Cyntoia expressed feeling very alienated as a child, and that this trauma made her incredibly vulnerable to predatory people. Not unlike Cyntoia, most trafficking victims are cast off to the margins of society long before they are trafficked. They are people who have slipped through the cracks of their school systems, families, and communities. Cyntoia’s story underscores how the education system in particular can facilitate vulnerability. Schools can serve as the first settings in which young people encounter policing, abuse of power, and coercion. As Cyntoia recounted in her speech, her school’s administration had attempted to
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hide her from her peers, w cause. All but abandoning impressed upon a young C worthlessness and alienatio define the course of her a spending three years in an centers and the Departme numerous youth facilities, eventually ran away from h the streets of Nashville. Sh harrowing series of experi be one of the lowest poin the man who would event Her exploitation at his han the life-altering decision th prison.
But as she so el asserted during “there‘s no suc teenage prostit
As Cyntoia’s story reminds facilitated by intimate betr trust is perverted into unev Forced into our nation’s bl become prey to those wai greatest vulnerabilities–the love, and a sense of belon
writing her off as a lost g her, these authority figures Cyntoia a sense of on that would come to adolescent life. After nd out of juvenile detention ent of Child Services’ 14-year-old Cyntoia home, resorting to a life on he describes that time as a iences–what would come to nts in her life. At 16, she met tually become her trafficker. nds would lead her to make hat later landed her in
loquently g her speech, ch thing as a tute,”
us, trafficking is most often rayal–relationships where ven power dynamics. lindspots, many victims iting to capitalize on their eir desire for protection, nging. They are gradually
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broken down–severing their ties to loved ones and their former identities over an extended period of time. Girls who are already struggling with homelessness and who have suffered from sexual and emotional abuse are particularly vulnerable. It is much easier to hide girls that few are looking for. And even when we know where or who to look for, the enduring power of racism, classism, and misogyny, make many of us unable to see victims for who they are. For Black and brown victims, especially, we are quick to label those most vulnerable to sexual exploitation as “fast” and/or “promiscuous.” Our callous responses to these women and girls are not only disconcerting but dangerous. As Cyntoia pointed out, the label of “teen prostitute” that originally framed her case, was instrumental in setting the ideological grounds on which a teenage girl could be tried as an adult for defending herself. In Cyntoia’s case, the words used to describe her rendered her unfit to live beyond prison walls. But, as she so eloquently asserted during her speech, “there’s no such thing as a teenage prostitute.”
cyntoia brown-long photographed by biyeshi kumsa | dartmouth college
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Cyntoia herself had already served several years of her life sentence before she fully understood that she was a victim of sex trafficking. The man who had trafficked her was her boyfriend, she maintained, even as her lawyers argued differently on her behalf in court. “I thought I was grown,” Cyntoia admitted wryly. Cyntoia, like many other young girls, had internalized the stereotypes we often ascribe to Black girls. Where these youth are concerned, the recognition of one’s childhood is a matter of privilege. Adults tend to assume agency, independence, and lack of innocence in Black girls–often perceiving them as older and more culpable than they really are. All of which has led to a society where Black girls experience harsher punishments and judgment for their behavior. For this reason, even Black girls themselves may struggle to acknowledge their vulnerabilities, as they are so rarely regarded as victims rather than perpetrators. Stories like Cyntoia’s are the reality for most girls who become ensnared in the traps of sexual trafficking. What our society has failed to talk about is the truth at the core of the sex trafficking epidemic–that what is happening is far more insidious than a series of senseless kidnappings. The true horror of trafficking is that it is a system of exploitation which is entirely reliant on our society’s greatest shortcomings.
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“The tru is a syste entirely shortcom
It is even more difficu us to come to terms w roles each of our ow communities play in t have been slow to acknowledge the wa fail and harm one ano is much easier to thin are helpless against t monstrous social development. But, w no longer blame eve
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ue horror of trafficking is that it em of exploitation which is y reliant on our society’s greatest mings.�
ult for with the wn this. We
ays we other. It nk we this
we can erything
on the boogeyman. If we are to fight the growth of human trafficking networks in this country and around the world, then we must first contend with the ways we make the most vulnerable populations easy targets for this kind of violence. Accountability requires that we begin to resist the ways we have learned to throw
each other away. Changing the way we think about trafficking would mean changing the way we hold ourselves accountable. It would require that we pay closer attention to how our actions as individuals, authority figures, and community members can either contribute to the problem or a solution.
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On Christmas Eve, Cyntoia penned an article in the Washington Post after news broke that yet another young Black girl, Chrystul Kizer, is facing life in prison for killing the man who had been sexually abusing her. In the article, Cyntoia reminds us that her own clemency was an exception to rules that have not changed, and otherwise, continue to punish victims like herself and Kizer. “A year ago, I was sitting in a prison cell, praying that the world would redefine what justice looks like for people like me. Chrystul, and all trafficking survivors, deserve the kind of justice that boldly acknowledges: ‘Your life matters, too,’ ”she wrote. To bring the justice Cyntoia prayed for, into being, we must first change our speech. Through language we can reveal all that is at stake where trafficking and imprisonment are intertwined. The incarceration of women and girls is all too often erased from mainstream trafficking discourse and criminal justice reform efforts. Where race and gender are concerned, Black women and girls are rarely made the priority of either conversation. For this reason, we must begin telling different stories in order to fight the good fight. Proceeding to rally around half-truths about this epidemic is to fail those who blunt truths could set free. Cyntoia said it best. “To be a voice in the face of injustice requires more than shouting into a bullhorn. It is our responsibility to become stewards of a system that exists to serve, and not to subject. That responsibility involves looking past the emotions, digging into the details and committing ourselves to advocating for change that affects everyone — not just the names we know.”
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In the 60s and 70s, the Natu political statement cor Black Panther Party and the ral hair symbolized Bla such as Kathleen Cleaver for their kinky afros. In an i er, Cleaver described the m among black people that their physical appearance is 60s and 70s, the Natural Ha began as a political stat sponding with the rise of th Party and the Black Powe Problem with the New uralThe hair symbolized Blac Natural Hair Movement power. Panthers such as Kath Angela Davis were known fo Djemila Compaore afros. In an interview wit 23
ural Hair Movement began as rresponding with the rise of t e Black Power Movement. Nat ack beauty and power. Panthe and Angela Davis were know interview with Kathleen Clea movement as “a new awarene their own natural appearanc s beautiful.”In t air Movement tement correhe Black Panth wer Movement. Na ck beauty and hleen Cleaver an or their kinky th Kathleen Cleaver, Cleaver d Ask anyone with curls or kinks and they’ll tell you that the Natural Hair Movement made a comeback during the early 2000s. What many forget or fail to mention however is that the idea of valuing “natural hair” isn’t new. And like any cultural moment, it’s important to acknowledge the roots of the movement to understand it. In the 60s and 70s, the Natural Hair Movement began as a political statement corresponding with the rise of the Black Panther Party and the Black Power Movement. Natural hair symbolized Black beauty and power. Panthers such as Kathleen Cleaver and Angela Davis were known for their kinky afros. In an interview with Kathleen Cleaver, Cleaver described the movement as “a new awareness among black people that their own natural appearance, their physical appearance is beautiful.” But, because the movement was politically charged, those who participated became a target of oppression and discrimination, which eventually led to the decline of the movement. Still, the message of “black beauty” behind the movement was and continues to be significant to the Black community.
kathleen cleaver source unknown
The Natural Hair Movement returned in the 2000s, and “going natural” became a household term among Black families by the end of the decade. While the new Natural Hair Movement isn’t connected to any larger, politically charged movements this time around, it is still rooted in the same objective: for Black people to embrace their natural hair. In the early stages of this version of the Natural Hair Movement, Black women called upon each other to put down the perms, relaxers, and chemicals that altered the natural state of their hair. In addition to promoting self-acceptance, the movement also gained traction by highlighting the newly discovered health risks associated with chemical straighteners. The rise of natural hair products and natural hair care since the beginning of the movement is indicative of an enduring need for the existence of the Natural
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In the 60s and 70s, the Natur political stateme of the Black Pant Movement. Natur beauty and powe Cleaver and Ang their kinky afros. In an inter Cleaver described the movem among black people that thei appearance, their physical ap beautiful.”In the 60s and 70s Movement began as a politica with the rise of the Black Pan Power Movement. Natural ha and power. Panthers such as Davis were known for their k with Kathleen Cleaver, Cleav Hair Movement and societal acceptance. In the process of encouraging acceptance, the movement also gained political momentum when it aimed to end hair discrimination, especially in the workplace.
Embracing one’s natural hair texture means reclaiming a beauty that has been largely rejected by society. Furthermore, for Black madam jones co. ad | c. 1940 women, being “natural” means creating a space for themselves in a society that discriminates against them on the basis of their naturally occurring hair textures. Recent news headlines have forced our nation to stop turning a blind eye to ongoing discrimination against Black hair in the workplace and in schools, which have demonstrated just how necessary this movement is for the Black community and society. The Natural Hair Movement has encouraged self-expression in the Black community, which has allowed the community to remove the pejorative and derogatory historical connotations attached to their hair in order to take pride in their texture and heritage. Although the movement has influenced the Black community, over the years, it has abandoned some of its initial objectives. For example, the classification system, a scale used to determine and organize hair texture and curl pattern, was originally adopted in the Natural Hair Movement to maximize hair care efforts, but it has quickly become a tool of discrimination. The classification system is now used as a marker that signals which type of natural hair is the “best” or most desirable. Currently, hair types with looser and bouncier curls (3a-3c) are the most coveted, while kinkier hair types (4a-4c) are viewed as unmanageable and unattractive.
This discrepancy has become especially apparent within media and corporations where it’s made clear that not all hair types are equal. Online, when searching up “natural hair” the results are often dominated by images of women with looser curls. In addition, corporations tend to endorse natural hair gurus with, again, looser and bouncier curls, to promote their products. By endorsing and promoting only looser curls, the market sets them as the beauty
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ral Hair Movement began as a ent corresponding with the ri ther Party and the Black Pow ral hair symbolized Black er. Panthers such as Kathleen gela Davis were known for rview with Kathleen Cleaver, ment as “a new awarenes still hold the mentality ir own natu- thatmany ral the closer one is to “Negro” heritage, the closer one is to ppearance is being unnacceptable s, the Natural Ha al statement corresponding nther Party and the Black air symbolized Black beauty s Kathleen Cleaver and Angela kinky afros. In an interview ver described the movement a the beauty standard for black hair. Even within the natural hair community that was created to encourage the acceptance of all hair textures, we are still marginalizing those with features farthest from “whiteness”. This classification system has ultimately reified Eurocentric beauty standards and the idea that kinky hair is undesirable. Despite the popularity of the Natural Hair Movement and the impact it appears to have had, many still hold the mentality that the closer one is to “Negro” heritage, the closer one is to being unnacceptable. A closer look at this movement will reveal that, for women with kinkier hair, not much has been achieved in their search for acceptance within society and their very own communities. And so the question must be asked: If the Natural Hair Movement is making a group of naturals feel uncomfortable with their hair, does it not contradict the basis of the movement? And should it, in this situation, still be considered a movement at all?
“
Where the Natural Hair movement is concerned, even the meaning of the word “natural” has evolved drastically over the years. Recently, there have been debates in the Natural Hair Movement concerning the definition of “natural.” In the past, the term ‘natural’ was used to describe individuals with hair that had not undergone any chemical alterations. However, purists within the Natural Hair Movement have moved the goalpost, defining a new set of requirements for naturals. Under this regime , individuals that wear protective styles such as box braids, cornrows, any form of extensions, wigs, and/or weaves are not considered ‘natural,’ despite having chemical free hair. This latest interpretation of ‘natural,’ further excludes people from the Natural Hair Movement. The sooner people realize that being natural doesn’t always mean wearing your hair out, the more accepting the movement will be. From my experience, it is assumed that people who wear extensions, weaves, and/or wigs either have “bad hair,” no hair, or that they’re displaying signs of self-hate because they are “not embracing” their natural hair. But, just because individuals do not wear their natural hair “out” 24/7, doesn’t mean they don’t love their natural hair, or that they are uncomfortable with it. Furthermore, criticism of protective styles reveals a lack of understanding that protective styles are important to our cultural identity, self-expression, and healthy hair.
”
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political statement correspon Black Panther Party and the ral hair symbolized Black be such as Kathleen Cleaver and for their kinky afros. In an in er, Cleaver described the mov among black people that thei their physical appearance is the Natural Hair Movement b corresponding with the rise the Black Power Movement. N beauty and power. Panthers s Angela Davis were known fo terview with Kathleen Cleav movement as “a new awarene their own natural appearanc is beautiful.”In the 60s and 70 began as a political statemen As far as I'm concerned, the mainstream faces of the Natural Hair Movement have abandoned its core values and it is now largely destructive. Growing up in West Africa, the concept of “natural hair” was originally foreign to me, as it wasn’t something women in my culture discussed or participated in—everyone wore their hair in perms or protective styles. But, as I got older and became exposed to the Natural Hair Movement, I fell in love with the idea of leaving my hair natural without perm or relaxers, and so I let the chemicals go and became a “natural.” Yet, in my natural hair journey, it took me 3 years to start wearing out my kinky textured hair. The reason for that delay was due to the many pejorative terms I’d heard being used to describe peers with my type of kinky hair. The two common descriptions I heard were “Negro hair” and “nappy.” Hearing derogatory terms used against kinky hair by other “naturals,” made me hesitant for a while about wearing my natural hair out, because I thought I was “doing it wrong.” To be fair, the Natural Hair Movement has had a few positive impacts, such as decreasing hair discrimination in the workplace for some (emphasis on “some”). Still, the issue with the Natural Hair Movement is that it has become exclusive, implying that there is a right way to be black and wear our natural hair and contradicting the idea of “loving the hair that grows on your head.” I'm not asking that the movement be as politically charged as it was during the 60s and 70s, but to have the movement recognize that there is more than one way to be natural, and that each form of natural is equal.
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With every generation, there are movements that encompass the values of the era. Over the past two decades, we set out to start a new movement that respects and values every hair type and hairstyles, and yet many of us still wonder: will we ever truly embody the Free Hair Movement? The Natural Hair movement was a great start to the idea of free hair, but somewhere along the line it lost that message. The Natural Hair movement was supposed to empower people to wear their natural hair without discrimination or criticism. But, somehow the movement turned away from that to the reinforcement of binaries like “good” or “bad.” As a result, many have become critical of the way the movement turned its back on some of the people it was created for.
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nding with the rise of the Black Power Movement. Natu eauty and power. Panthers d Angela Davis were known nterview with Kathleen Cleav vement as “a new awareness ir own natural appearance, beautiful.”In the 60s and 70s began as a political statement of the Black Panther Party an Natural hair symbolized Blac such as Kathleen Cleaver and or their kinky afros. In an inver, Cleaver described the ess among black people that ce, their physical appearance 0s, the Natural Hair Moveme nt corresponding with the rise lupita nyong’o courtesy of getty images
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The contradiction in the movement reveals that as a community we still have yet to embrace ourselves and our beauty. As a community, we need to work on successfully creating a safe space within this society without causing division and reinforcing discrimination that makes a group within the Black community feel unaccepted, especially with regard to their natural hair. It’s time we take part in a new movement that understands both the personal and cultural sensitivity of our hair, a movement that strives to support our and its growth.
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to look in the mirror and see yourself alexis reaves
t a h “T
w i t m h ' u I y o o u y y . B h ec ause w 's
Once upon a time there were two girls who came into the world together. It’s often said that twins have a special connection, and the sisters were so intertwined that they shunned all who breached it. They spoke to themselves and no one else in a strange tongue that few could decipher. They weren’t literally conjoined, but you couldn’t tell where one girl began and the other ended. As the twins grew older, however, one felt a desire to run away from this stranglehold and into herself. She’d cry “I am me,” but her other
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half would reply “You are me.” At times they woke with their bodies swapped, and would beg each other to restore them to their real self. They imagined both killing the other and being killed by the other. The push and pull only stopped when one died prematurely, freeing her sister but not really. “I was born a twin, and I’ll die a twin,” she says. Did they love each other too much? You wouldn’t think so. After all, isn’t love the goal to which we ought to aspire? Even though human beings are riddled with base longings and
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.”
e m or
‘ y sa
r o ’I f
f e s u a y c ’ o e I u ‘ B s y a . me
inclinations, love isn’t often counted among them. It cleanses, it transcends, it sublimates. To love someone is to near something divine. The idea of love as ultimate fulfillment is an old one, found deep in the annals of the Western cannon. Plato wrote about it in The Symposium, which includes a particularly rending creation myth. The story goes that people were once attached in pairs, creatures with eight arms and eight legs and two faces. In an act of hubris reminiscent of Eve biting the apple,
–Andrzej Żuławski Possession
they challenged the gods and rushed towards the ether. As punishment, Zeus hurled a thunderbolt down from the heavens and ripped human beings in two. In their newly wretched state, some desperately clung to each other to feel whole again. Others simply died of starvation or self-neglect because they couldn’t bear to do anything alone. The curse remained, and to this day we desire to reunite with our missing half in a bid to reverse this deformity. Find love and you will achieve not only happiness, but self-completion.
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t p i o m n, the u s s a s l i ove h t r en
ferocious pursuit becomes understandable, even heroic. By hunting for love and giving ourselves up to it, we’re returning to a natural state and shrugging off the foreign cruelty of loneliness. “Love conquers all” the saying goes, and we happily go to our defeat. In this journey towards wholeness, however, we hollow ourselves out even more. Bound to the idea that without a partner we’re deficient, energy is directed outward at attaining another rather than developing the self. Yes, love can conquer all, even what marks us as individuals. I admit, the preacher has been a sinner. For years I couldn’t distinguish the boundary of my identity and that of others, and love was how I subsumed the latter into my own. It started in adolescence, a period that for many marks the
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. ’s..
Giv
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beginning of an unbearable series of decisions about the person we want to be. Instead of suffering the distress of choosing, I simply clung onto others and siphoned from them: they would go through the burden of saying “I” for me. This love wasn’t necessarily romantic, but there was always that longing for the other and what they could offer. At first it was a writer, a young woman who was extremely online. Her openness made it possible for me to attach myself, and soon I regarded her as a template. I, too, began writing about my life and publishing it on the internet, even sending an essay to her via Facebook (which in embarrassment I recall she replied to with a simple, silent thumbs-up). I don’t think it was just childish emulation on my part; here was someone I admired deeply and in whom I wanted to lose myself.
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tola akinwumi photographed by taliq tillman
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Next came a friend of hers. She had studied philosophy at Dartmouth and would soon enter graduate school at an even more prestigious institution. A few months later I was in the middle of nowhere in New England, slogging away at Heidegger and Nietszche. We followed each other on Instagram and I posted about philosophy to impress her, bearing the username “simone weil knockoff.” I even corresponded with her for a few months, but crossed a line by oversharing. I had forgotten that we didn’t really know each other.
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the dark quiet of my room at night all would come rushing back. It was like binge eating, constantly gorging myself on sweets even though my intestines were threatening to burst open. At one point he said it didn’t even matter if he loved me, because I would never be able to accept it. He was right.
The most intense of these relationships was with a man from a faraway European country with lots of mountains and where terrible things had happened. It was the familiar pattern, an initial respect sliding into deep admiration sliding into distressing infatuation.
I asked him what he would do if he were me, and he replied that he’d focus all his energy on becoming strong and independent. At the time, I thought it was just some lame truism. But that was what I loved the most about him, how resilient and self-possessed he was. My most striking memory is when he told me that he’d never wear a uniform no matter what, given the blind conformity that had left a nasty stain on his country. I wanted to be like that.
My friend once dreamily recounted that love felt warm and was easy, but I was made ill. I hated how much I loved him, as it became hard to focus on any thought he didn’t occupy. Even if I forced myself to do mindless tasks during the day, in
For over a year I moped and dreamt of him and got drunk on self-pity. He once asked me why I loved him so much. I listed everything; he was all that I aspired to be. It was in this moment that I realized that I could actually be these things if I tried
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hard enough. Instead of continuing to procrastinate, I could start making those tough choices about the person I was to become. I unfroze myself. Slowly but surely I came to accept that loving this man or anyone really couldn’t give me what I actually desired. When I said the word “I” it began to feel less and less insincere, and the grip around my own identity tightened. I wasn’t completely aware of it until one day my professor commended me for refuting her in class. We had disagreed about some Greek philosopher who had long since turned to dust, and I said quite plainly that I wouldn’t concede to her point. After that confrontation I carried on normally, coming to the lecture and sitting at the front of the room, thinking nothing of it. But it had shocked her, and she wondered if I would ditch class or hide in the back row. A similar incident happened later in the term, in which my peers lauded me after I had stood up to a different professor. It seems that I had changed.
Months later, I’m still getting used to this new person. There remain moments when I’m weak and childish and look to others to make decisions that belong to me. But I forgive myself. After all, I’m young and choosing the person I want to be, and have decided that mistakes are allowed. Sometimes I want desperately to go back and show my former loves how much I’ve matured, but then the feeling subsides. I can become myself fully and unflinchingly without clinging on to someone else. I don’t cast a suspicious eye on love. It exists and is everywhere, in a myriad of forms and strung between more people than we’re aware. I realized that in all those years spent projecting onto others that I had profoundly loved some so much that there are embarrassing tears pricking my eyelids as I write this. I had never seen them as a means to self-transformation or fulfillment; I simply loved them and loved them deeply.
n a m e h t d e v o l y pl m i s ... I
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The realization that people and the love we have for them can’t be used to solidify ourselves is like coming into a state of twinlessness or abandoning the idea of our fabled missing half. Maybe this creates a sense of incompleteness, but that’s not so terrible. It’s proof that we’re always growing, vessels of latent potential. Instead of desperately looking for others to fill this void, we can find comfort in ourselves and recognize the inherent value we have as people. We can be in love, but also appreciate our loved ones as ends in themselves. No one had ever taught me that, but I want to tell you that it’s possible to live and thrive this way. It has gone unsaid for so long, yet it’s what we need to hear the most.
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kara chamberlaine photographed by taliq tillman
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beyoncĂŠ in lemonade (all following photos) courtesy of parkwood entertainment
BLACK PRAXIS
LATE
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TO
by sam west
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I have a confession to make. I, Sam West, have never seen Lemonade, Beyoncé’s famous 2016 visual album. When it originally came out, I was a senior in high school, but even now, after four years, I still have not seen it. Am I ashamed of this fact? Yes. Do I still pretend like I’ve seen it? Yes.
Music feels especially important for our generation at this moment, and without a doubt, music has always been a tenant of black culture as well. For whatever reason, the fact that I hadn’t watched Lemonade has for four years been something I’ve been afraid to admit. Music feels especially important for our generation at this moment, and without a doubt, music has always been a tenant of black culture as well. Yet for all that, I can’t say I really keep up with this world. I generally know the greats, and can sing along to a more than a few contemporary favorites. But I couldn’t tell you who so-and-so is, spit back
the lyrics word for word on such-and-such’s new single, or give you any new recommendations. This is often met with a bit of a surprise. Sometimes I want to come back with a “do you know August Wilson’s work?” or “What's your favorite Spike Lee joint?” But ultimately, I don’t because it wouldn’t be productive. Doing so would be to demarcate another exclusive line, separating those in the know and those outside.
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In general, I don’t believe in ridiculing someone for not knowing something I do. When considering art, there is simply too much media out there to ever consume it all. And when considering black art, so much of the content has been so instrumental and pivotal for cultural events in our history, that it could take a lifetime to study it all. Thus, we should never assume we’ve all lived the same lives, consumed the same media, or been touched by the same art. Everyone has their niche of expertise and interests from cultural criticism, music, literature, dance, or television. There are a multitude of black experiences and a diversity of thought within our community. While I definitely don’t claim to be a member of the Beyhive, I don’t not
like Beyoncé. I mean, I grew up on Dangerously in Love and B’Day. Some of my earliest memories are of playing with that album cover/lyric sheet. I remember looking at the cover--Bey with her diamond net of a shirt fixed centerfold– as I sat in the car blasting “Baby Boy.” It’s not like I’ve been living under a rock since 2006. I’ve definitely heard some of her newer songs at parties, or seen them referenced and discussed in pop culture. I’ve seen Titus Andromedon’s masterful rendition of “Lemonade,” I’ve danced to “Formation,” and I heard all about what Jay-Z did —I’ve even seen Homecoming! But until now, I’d never actually watched Lemonade. I simply had to see what all the fuss is about, and isn’t now as good a time as any? So just for you, I’m going to watch it all and tell you what I think.
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I. P U S HIN G P LAY The very first few images feel unrelated at first, a woman we can only assume to be Queen Bey herself, in cornrows and a fur coat leaning on a car, a ground view of trees, a wide field, and BeyoncĂŠ on a stage. The first sounds we hear feel like breath, though a little foreboding. And by the end of the song we literally watch BeyoncĂŠ attempt suicide by jumping off of a building only to be launched in the next poetic interlude. One where she watches herself drowning/living underwater, under a haze of depression. Until the floodgates open, and she walks out without a care in the world like a literal goddess. Powerful, smiling, badass, and a little reckless, she swings her bat. Except that she does care, and next we see her Anger. A Malcolm X recording splices the song citing black women as the most underappreciated and disrespected people in America. And as I watched her destroy cars and throw her wedding ring at the camera, all I could think was: Jay-Z really done fucked up.
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The foreboding theme of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake” and the words, “so watchu gon’ say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me” take us into the next song. Back on a plantation in the big house, Serena Williams cameos, and then, of course, Bey sings the line I’ve been waiting for, “you better call Becky with the good hair!” And I am left wondering, “what has Jay-Z done to this beautiful woman?” Next, there is a lot of bloody imagery and Beyoncé in front of a burning plantation house. Damn. Daddy Lessons features home videos and poetry about her parents’ relationship. After that, there is a laying on of the hands, and a scene of Beyonce’s body washed up on shore brings us into an intimate performance of “Sandcastles” and the first time we are seeing Jay-Z. Each song so far seems to be a mastery of yet another genre or musical inspiration. There are inklings of real joy, and her first tears shed in the visual album.
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And still more, the next song pays tribute to America’s lost sons as remembered by the women who hold their pictures; we see a newborn baby; and other women walk through the slave quarters now. Then, going into Hope and the song “Freedom,” celebrity favorites hold a seat at the table, and Beyoncé performs for them alongside black ballerinas. Jay-Z’s grandmother speaks: “They served me lemons, but I made lemonade,” the resilient underscore of the album as “All Night” shows us love and family. The grand finale features Bey floating in the aftermath of Katrina, her again in front of the plantation house now in black accompanied by men, a young boy dancing in front of a line of police who surrender to him, and some shots of Blue being cute.
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I. AF TE RTA STE A few thoughts I had while watching this: Why is Beyoncé so pretty and so good at singing? Yaaass to black women farmers – Leah Penniman anyone? Queer black love cameo–yes! Beyoncé brings forward strong themes of love, pain and betrayal, and black womanhood throughout history. While paying homage to emotional and blood memory, the South, and works like Daughters of the Dust (as seen with the antebellum white dresses and women in the trees). Damn. This experience was stunning from start to finish and so relevant and beautifully vulnerable. It was an utter celebration of black culture in every way, from style, poetry, and lyrics to movement and visual storytelling. And lastly, though I know we all know this, but wow, Queen Beyoncé is truly a force. I’ll be sure not to be late the next time she decides to change music forever.
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devin powell photographed by cleophus mcintosh
ZACH SPICER
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“Speak up.” These two simple words have appeared in almost all our lives in a variety of contexts. When someone can’t hear us, we are asked to “speak up.” When we have an issue that we have internalized, we are advised that we should “speak up.” Despite the relative simplicity of this action, we often find it difficult to follow these actions. My life has been marked by contradictory experiences related to speech: when reciting something I have rehearsed in front of a small group of people I know, I stumble over my words but, place me in front of a large crowd of strangers, unprepared, I am able to deliver passionate speeches. My extended family characterizes me as a “quiet child” to this day, while my non-Black friends always deem me the most talkative of the group. I have always been aware of these opposing characteristics of my speaking but have only recently realized another way it manifests itself.
I spent the first five years of my life in Trinidad and Tobago, surrounded by my family and generally, people who looked like me. While throughout my childhood and most of my teenage life I was hyperaware of my Blackness after moving to Florida (living in an all-white neighborhood and attending an elementary school where I was the only Black student in the gifted program), at some point it became a non-issue. I later questioned my discomfort once I realized I was stronger than my circumstances that imposing this discomfort and in a way, eventually was fine being the only Black voice to speak. My group of friends in high school would speak about affirmative action, police brutality, and community violence in an unbiased manner, our discussions were often intellectual conversations rather than debates where I felt the need to defend or represent the Black community. Despite the fact that these conversations existed, I felt like there was still a gap. Looking back, I now recognize the privilege that I had to have a community that welcomed me so easily but have realized that it has made me extremely slow to speak and even distanced my connection from the Black community. My mother always raised me to be proud and aware of my Blackness, both she and my father graduated from Howard University and never let anyone question their identity. As a result, I believe I’ve always had an acute awareness of Black issues, especially since they were not things members of my community could directly relate to and dove into topics seeking to understand them more. I read novels, articles, and did my best to educate myself and advocate against police brutality, micro-aggressions, and systemic racism, always feeling like I was helping contribute to the conversation.
DESPI TE THE FACT T H AT THESE CONVERSAT IONS EXI STED...THE RE WAS STIL L A G A P
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However, I don’t think that it was until I came to Dartmouth that I realized how much my upbringing distinguished me from most of my Black peers. Just a few weeks ago, when we were discussing the basis of this issue, I found myself unable to contribute at all. I simply had not had the same experiences as other members of Black Praxis and it had never been more clear to me than at that moment. The topics of conversation that we said were said to be “left unsaid” were things that I had either discussed ad nauseum with my friends or read about at length. However, realizing that I had only read about these issues and not gone through them, my mouth remained shut, and I was unable to speak. There has been a recent trend throughout society of recognizing that certain classes of people sometimes do not have the authority to speak on issues because they do not have a background that gives validity to their opinions. People that cannot get pregnant cannot necessarily make judgments about abortions as genuinely as someone who can; those that don’t face homophobia should not be in charge of the
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dialogue surrounding LGBTQ+ issues compared to an LGBTQ+ person; people that don’t have the “Black experience” are not as credible as those that do. So what is the “Black experience?” Is it something that I can say I have had to deal with? These are the questions that I have been wondering myself, and unfortunately, still, do not have the answers to, although maybe an exact answer does not exist. I like to think that to a certain extent, there is a common thread that runs between the experiences of all Black people, but I cannot identify it exactly. Some literature has identified that suffering is the common denominator of the Black experience, but I take issue with this characterization. While I have endured a fair share of hardship, this problematic idea has left people like me in this predicament where we feel unable to participate in these discussions, despite having voices that are valid. It implies that in order to be Black in the United States, or in the world, you must have undergone some hardship, leaving little room for prosperity or improvement without forgoing your Blackness.
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zion jones photographed by taliq tillman
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I’m more than willing to learn from those that have gone through the things that I have only read about, knowing that this could only shed more light on these issues by providing more context. But I know that the responsibility of reaching this new level of discourse is heavily dependent on me. I have to work harder to reach a level of comfort where I can admit my ignorance and be willing to learn from it. That’s why I chose to write this article. For too long I have been uninformed and too scared to admit it, hopefully after this I will feel comfortable entering Black spaces with my ignorance and leave a more knowledgeable person.
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zion jones photographed by taliq tillman
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cleophus mcintosh
WHERE DO WE GO?
Last year, as a freshman in college, I often found myself going with the flow, just trying to find a community that I could call home and feel loosely accepted in. As I’ve grown and transitioned into my sophomore year, I have begun to question my surroundings and be more critical of the situations I am putting myself in. Are they truly beneficial? Or am I only here because I feel like I should be, because I feel like I owe somebody my time? Over time, these questions have led to a constant battle in my head. I’m often left twisting and turning trying to find the answers—my brain tied up into endless knots of self-doubt and fear. I am torn between two worlds. I can distance myself from the things that aren’t necessarily good for me, but have brought me joy in the past or become more involved in areas where I don’t automatically feel accepted but know will be beneficial for my well-being in the near future.
cleophus mcintosh photographed by taliq tillman
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As a result of this battle, my mental health has suffered. This year, I’ve kept to myself more than I ever have, finding solace in solitude. In these moments, my thoughts wander to places they never have before and another set of questions arise: Do I really have any friends that I could go to and enjoy a twenty-minute conversation with? Am I as confident as I appear, or is it just a façade that I’ve put up to distract others from how I really feel about myself? Will I ever make it to where I want to in life, or will I end like so many people who are filled with hopes and dreams and optimism and never execute? Being alone has become a dismal time for me and yet, I crave those moments when I don’t have to answer to anybody, when I don’t have to worry about how I’m perceived. Although I choose to deal with my problems through solitude, there are many other ways we, as men, exhibit the signs of our ongoing mental battles. Many of us become distant, usually separating ourselves from groups that we previously appeared to be inseparable from. We seem to experience personality changes, approaching every situation with unwarranted hostility. Some might even choose to bring down those around them by joking or rebuking a specific community, forcing those who are flourishing to wallow in self-doubt along with them. Regardless of how it manifests, our inner battles ultimately cause us to act out of character, to say things we don’t really mean, and to present false versions of ourselves to the people closest to us. 52
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Through my own experience, I’ve realized that it is unhealthy to live like this. Time has taught me that the best way to go about these issues is to talk to somebody about how you feel. It may be hard at first, especially for black men in our community, to speak up, as being vulnerable can get you chastised and cast aside in an instant. Since birth, we have been raised in environments where masculinity is equated to unwavering weakness and stoicism. Many of us grow up with the belief that anything suggesting an inability to meet these standards is unacceptable. This makes it nearly impossible for us to ever let anyone know how we really feel.
BEING ALONE HAS B
TIME FOR ME AND Y
MOMENTS WHEN
ANSWER TO ANYBODY
TO WORRY ABOUT H
cleophus mcintosh photographed by taliq tillman
I believe despite this, it is imperative to overcome our fears and let people know when things are not okay. You won’t always get the response you are looking for, but those who give you the hardest time are usually going through the most. By talking to someone about how you feel, or even writing your feelings down in a journal, you are able to release negative thoughts and free your mind from being constantly hunkered down.
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BECOME A DISMAL
YET, I CRAVE THOSE
N I DON’T HAVE TO
Y, WHEN I DON’T HAVE
HOW I’M PERCEIVED.
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Just a couple weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I worked up the courage to text my father and tell him how I honestly felt about something. I told him that I was unhappy with a situation and that I didn’t want to continue feeling this way. Although nothing changed immediately, I was awarded with the peace of mind in knowing that I had got it all off my chest and didn’t have to keep these feelings pent up inside me anymore. At a place like Dartmouth, small acts like this are necessary because the isolation and lack of outlets can quickly become detrimental. On this campus, it is so important to cultivate a support system, a group of people who you can always turn to when you’re in need. A group where there is never any fear in telling one another how you feel, where you have the freedom to get whatever you need to off your chest. I hope all of us can learn to unapologetically express ourselves and be willing to help others get through their own battles as well. We are all in this together and no progress can be made by willingly watching one another suffer alone as individuals. We need to help each other grow, so that we can all flourish.
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tola akinwumi photographed by taliq tillman
shane miller photographed by taliq tillman
raleigh nesbitt photographed by taliq tillman
BLACK PRAXIS
black dartmouth LYD IA Y ES H I T L A
WHO ACTUALLY MAKES UP “BLACK DARTMOUTH”?
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kara chamberlaine photographed by taliq tillman
As black alumni and student groups increase efforts to make the Dartmouth administration accountable for its past, it’s equally important to recognize the problematic perceptions that tend to homogenize the black communities that still continue to exist on this campus. Beyond the color of their skin, black students at Dartmouth have multiple identities that are oftentimes unnoticed. To the typical untrained American eye, the singular stories of black individuals on this campus appear to be fused into the same narrative.
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h speaks
jalen mackie and devin powell photographed by taliq tillman
HOW DO WE SEE OURSELVES? All too often, simplistic understandings of the “black experience” at Dartmouth assume that every black person can identify with a homogenized story; this perception is harmful as it prevents others from engaging with the complexities existing within black identities on this campus. For this reason, it’s important to recognize the ample nuances that exist within the black community at Dartmouth. For this issue, I profiled three people from the College’s black community–students hailing from Africa and the Caribbean, as well as those born and raised in the States–to shed light on the ways that origin and upbringing contribute to the unique stories on this campus.
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A L E S SA Fully acknowledging her racial ambiguity, Alessa Lewis ‘22 highlights her heightened self-awareness to race once setting foot at Dartmouth and America in general.
“I think I appear as different amounts of black to different people—it all depends on who I’m talking to,” said Lewis, a sophomore who grew up in North London to African-American and German-Irish parents. “Since I have lighter skin, I appear to be “more white” or “less black” to a brown or black person. But to a white person, I seem more “ethnic” or “ethnically ambiguous,” she said. It is no question that friend groups on campus are formed by identifying others who may share a similar experience or identity. At Dartmouth, the strengthened unity of the black community has allowed Alessa to seek out a group of people who, like her, face a shared reality of navigating Dartmouth as a black student. “I’ve been floating between groups on campus that are predominantly diverse and others that are mostly white. Since some groups I’m involved in are somewhat formed on the basis of race, I didn’t immediately put myself into them or have people reach out to me. In a way, I’m lucky that I’m involved in communities that are predominantly black and others that are predominantly white, but it’s definitely harder to enter groups where I’m not easily identified as someone who necessarily ‘fits in,’” she said. Living as a mixed person in London for eighteen years, Alessa always had a strong awareness of what her black identity meant to her, until she started school at Dartmouth.
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“My dad grew up here, and he’d always used to tell me that I’d understand what it means to be black. I always thought I understood it what he meant, but being at Dartmouth for a year has led me to develop a different perspective; now I’ve realized that my blackness is understood in different amounts to different people. My high school wasn’t a diverse community, but topics concerning race were hardly discussed at a deeper context, so only once coming to Dartmouth was I able to realize how much I view myself at an “in-between” phrase.” Alessa also spoke on the history of racially discriminatory laws in the U.S. and the U.K., and how these histories ultimately influenced the lack of discourse surrounding race in her British high school. “I think being Black British and being African American mean two very different things. I’ve always reflected about my mixed race growing up, but since my high school never taught about the complex racial history of the U.K. to the same extent that schools in the U.S. do, I’ve never been pushed to realize that I’m not a “whole” of any race. Now at Dartmouth, I’m much more aware of my race and what it means to be black and how others perceive me,” she said.
marina cepeda photographed by taliq tillman
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TYLER For some students hailing from the Caribbean, like Tyler Neath ‘21, being misidentified at Dartmouth has been a constant struggle.
“I have always been mistaken as African American. Initially, this affected me negatively as I thought misidentification homogenizes black people, rejecting the multiplicity and complexity of the black identity. Now, I simply treat misidentification as ignorance, especially when the person who is mistaking my ethnicity does not have prior knowledge of my background or experiences.” A native of Jamaica, Tyler views his hometown as a major factor in shaping his Dartmouth experience. For example, when considering career paths, he entered college with the idea that “becoming a doctor or engineer guarantees financial success,” which he considers to be an idea commonly held among Jamaican families. “My twin brother and I somehow grounded ourselves in the reasoning that engineering will lead allow Jamaica to prosper and thus, it is necessary,” he said.
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Though Tyler has no intention of “othering” himself from the black community at Dartmouth, he hopes his peers will ask him directly about his background instead of relying on assumptions, as his Jamaican heritage has shaped his academic and career choices at Dartmouth and beyond. For Tyler, no racial or ethnic characterization is capable of capturing the full scope and complexity of one’s uniqueness. “I have come to an understanding that my true identity can never be defined by labels of ethnicity or nationality. Even still, if I were to plainly summarize my identity, it should simply be Afro-Jamaican,” he said.
natan santos photographed by taliq tillman
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DA N I E L While students like Tyler feel a unique tie to their birthplace, other Dartmouth students feel that certain experiences have distanced them from their family’s country of origin. Partly due to an unexpected move to Nairobi, Daniel Solomon ‘23 has developed a stronger connection to Kenyan culture, despite being ethnically Ethiopian.
Spending virtually his entire life in this other country and attending entirely Kenyan schools led Solomon to perfect his Swahili, while compromising his competency in Amharic–the official language of his home country. “While I definitely identify with aspects of both cultures, and there are certain things I prefer in one culture over another, in general I identify more with Kenya. And since I feel like language is one of the most efficient ways to understand a culture, I was generally way more versed in Kenyan media, references, politics and humor as compared to Ethiopian,” Daniel said. Despite moving to Kenya only three months after he was born, Daniel admits that the sense of isolation that comes with transitioning into a new country stayed with him well into his high school days. “I must admit though that there were times I did not feel welcomed by the Kenyan community, especially when matters of race or ethnicity were brought up in the classroom and people would make insensitive and stereotypical jokes about Ethiopia.” Daniel remembers the jokes usually centering around how “poverty thrives [in Ethiopia], how people are starving there.” 67
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Moving to Dartmouth this year gave Daniel an even bigger adjustment to tackle, but he’s become relatively accustomed to sharing his balanced identity with the Dartmouth community and particularly within his acapella group—the Dartmouth Aires. Daniel hopes to add onto his dual perspective, contributing to and benefiting from the rich cultural tapestry within communities he’s found a place in at Dartmouth.
jalen mackie photographed by taliq tillman
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To: HBIC, Lola Adewuya From: Editor-in-Chief, Jordan McDonald Subject: What Goes Without Saying Hey Lola, I know this is the end of the issue and I promised not to add any more pages to the layout but I must say something before we finalize Thing Left Unsaid! THANK YOU. Thank you for reaching out to me in 2017 to help you bring back a historic student publication that had been dead for years before we arrived at Dartmouth. You had such amazing foresight and I am so grateful that you picked me to be your partner in this journey. Working with you as editor-in-chief has been one of my favorite parts of my time at Dartmouth. Thank you for all the work you have put into Black Praxis on and off-campus, in the mornings and at night, in New Hampshire, in Canada, and in Texas. We have you to thank for BP’s visual reputation and I am always amazed at what you are capable of as a graphic designer and a leader. Thank you for dreaming big and following through on what we always wanted Black Praxis to be.
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Thank you for never giving up even when we both were tired and exhausted and over it!!!! Thank you for you always sharing a laugh with me when we were up late editing articles with no end in sight. I couldn’t have gotten through without you. Thank you for your patience and attentiveness and for being the best editor-in-chief Black Praxis could ask for. Thank you for being the only person I ever could’ve done this with. There is so much we have to thank you for but these are just a few tokens of my appreciation. We’re all so proud of you and can’t wait to see what you do after Dartmouth. Google has no idea how lucky they are. BP loves you and so do I. Thanks for EVERYTHING! Jordan McDonald Editor-in-Chief
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