The 2021 Black History Month Kickoff Vanguard

The Black Student Union Presents...

The Black History Month Kickoff Vanguard: Presence​ ​Through​ ​Protest

2020-2021 Executive board

President

Vice President

Treasurer

Educational Coordinator

Historian

Political Correspondent

Publications coordinator

Public Relations

Secretary

SA Representative

Social-cultural coordinator

Senior advisor

...Alexis Anderson ...Kendra gourgue ...Jenna johnson ...Elizabeth Plantin ...Jocelynn labossiere ...Krista hall ...Ajahee Sekkm-miles ...Tyler shepherd ...Alana morse ...Calista Bryant ...Amielle Gibson ...Aaron Adams

This Vanguard is dedicated to the many revolutions in the name of our survival.

With every word written, lyric sung, paintbrush stroked, and step taken, our experiences and expressions are documented throughout history. These are the extensions of our ancestors’ journeys. We give thanks and continue to create as a form of disruption.

Guilty Marielle.

I have a confession to make‌ Forgive me, father, for I have sinned And in a way that has left me pleased.

I have stopped fighting.

I have come to terms with the fact that; I have been preaching to a false choir.

To wolves who have been sheep for so long They have forgotten how sharp their teeth Really are.

I have taken a break from this battle And this break has turned into a hibernation.

One I don't intend on coming out of.

I have never marched with them And I don't think I ever will, Because our steps simply do not fall in place And that is okay.

I no longer make my diatribes public Because not everyone is worthy of reading them.

So I keep them locked away, In my journal.

And as they try to leave the pages Wanting to be heard I must remind them of their worth And then they settle down accordingly.

Now you may view this as me silencing myself, And you would be viewing this correctly.

But my silence is not an act of violence, It is an act of resilience.

And it is not for you to understand.

I am sorry for all my sins.

Hot comb I flinch as the heat from the comb burns my kitchen Being tender headed never did make this process any better As I scroll through my phone, while my mom tries to finish I come across another body These bodies have been piling up alot lately And I have started to lose track of the names

Letter to my Daughter Monica-Grace Mukendi you're existence is the epitome of love personified i mean it i loved you into existence creating you will be my greatest accomplishment of all the wonders of the world the Black Womxn is still number one on my list even greater is the birth of her Black daughter the regeneration of earth after the tears of God from seeing our mistreatment in the world mix with the dirt that gives us the shade of our skin and years of oppression still manage to make roses, make diamonds make the gold that is the Brown skinned girl to feel you is to feel an extension of me living breathing inside me mama wants you to know that this connection is umbiblical that I will never leave you that no matter what shade of Black you are you are and will always and forever be beautiful the world may tell you otherwise but I will look into your eyes and know that the sun couldn’t get enough of you kissed you so much it wanted the world to see how much it loves you mama wants you to know you were not born a Womxn you were instead destined to be one you are destined for greatness beyond what your mind can consider you made to be immaculately but

you will have a childhood filled with wonder and play mama is gonna carry the world on her shoulders so you can dream image yourself in a world where life is worry free you won’t see my struggle i will teach you how beauty truly is internal the scars i have will serve as bedtime stories of perseverance you will know love healthy love wholesome love Black love your father will take care of your mother the way i nursed you in the womb we will carry the world together proving to you that love isn’t pain mama wants you to know every piece of your identity is a piece of art that i will always want to see hang in every room because i can’t get enough of you every thought in your mind is a lyric of a song that I could listen to on repeat even every mistake is simply a part of the story and although I am a writer for you i will always want to read mama wants you to know that no void is too deep for my love to fill always come to me nothing too much for me to understand don’t hold anything back instead hold me allow me to hold you let us embrace and feel the connection created upon conception from the womb we were inseparable and even after death that remains

Untitled Malachi Mitchell I write about my struggles hoping lost souls can relate I trade in all my sorrows for this art that I make I protest by existing In this time that we’re living Where being woke has turned into a commodity Platitudes that lack honesty Devaluing black bodies As the tally number rises See my people keep crying See my people keep fighting It inspires me, lights a fire inside of me I wake up everyday knowing that they’d rather see me dead or in jail So I lift up my head and inhale And exist in these spaces that were not made for me And acknowledge my skin unapologetically To be alive is sign of protest And even if it feels hopeless I still dream for more So I write in put those dreams into words And turn those words into actions For the better tomorrow that I might not reach But maybe a generation someday will see

THE SCREAMING BUT SILENT PANDEMIC Mikal McKay Something has been straying me away from the pen Something deep. Painful.

Nothing visible for your eyes to see This pain goes deeper than my flesh and bones Deeper than my tissues and sickle cells This pain transcends to spiritual Or might I say ancesterial Since I feel the pain of ancestors witnessing the repetition of their woes Repeat offenses committed to them Passed down like hand me down clothes Lifetimes of fighting the oppressors with no peace to show Grandparents received no justice. Grandchildren receiving no justice.

Generations of black bodies experiencing war Black families living with members being torn from the family picture To be placed in a bigger picture… of a movement To be a martyr unwanted To be a prophet Black bodies can’t rest until the deals with the devil are profited So how can I write and fight a war when time is limited Give spoken words when the people that need to hear me Silence me How can I gift my voice when my country leaves me voiceless There is no safe space for poetry with this subject matter on my mind Cannot create a piece of mine if I have no peace of mind No subject matter will matter until Black Lives Matter But we never mattered in this Land of the Free Look at our Genesis, we wasn’t even destined to be in this country Now placed in predicaments where we can’t escape We get yelled that if we hate this country, we should leave Having us Black Americans struggle with our identities Because how can I write as a Black American Poet about Black joy When as a collective in Black America, we don’t feel joyous Our present only presents nothing but pain that even the past can feel That keeps the future still Another Black body dead.

Another Black woman disrespected

Being used and abused, then being neglected Another Black man internally affected Being infected by the sickness that terrorizes us all This pandemic runs deep Deeper than the individual Its complexities wreak havoc through time It will never cease to exist until we see peace Yet justice is not willing to be found So the only way to heal this pain Is to burn this system down to the ground Burn. It. All. Down. lmma make my momma flowers out of cotton Anokye Bomani See we still slaves we still slaves See the house and the field negro complex always started the same We just found better ways to go around them Shackled behind the same chains But divided by conformity Dark-skinned field Negro is meant for the streets Light skinned house negro is pretty enough to be behind them pictures where you eat Think about it And even though I got a lot on my mind and not enough in my chest I have still learned to ball up my voice to speak up on issues that killed so many of the rest My brother and sisters laid to rest I can name them if you want Put them in Alphabetical or phonetic order

I can even tell you all the ways in which they got slaughtered

Tamir Rice was killed at 12 Emmett Till was killed at 14 Trayvon Martin, was killed at 17 Michael Brown Jr., was killed at 18 Stephon Clark was killed at 22 Ezell Ford was killed at 25 Rumain Brisbon was killed at 34 Jerame Reid was killed at 36 Tanisha Anderson was killed at 37 Eric Garner was killed at 43

I can show you where they’re last breath touched the pavement end of the chapter but we still fighting against tall tales of enslavement I can tell so much about this broken cycle I cut the tips of my fingers picking up the broken pieces of the story But It’s the same story re-written to so many names I wish I could tell you tomorrow things are going to change, things get better, we will be okay But as I continue to build this roses out of cotton My blood becomes the roots My roots turn into the stem My stem turns into thorns I have come to understand cotton I understand it so well I’m able to manipulate my body into it something you see as cloth but my touch turn into petals

Momma, I do this for you I promise imma build you a garden full of these cotton flowers

The Ends Sometimes it feels like Black is not a color, it is a target Damn What do you know about soft pills and them hard days?

Walking down dark, broken and misguiding hallways What do you know about me You don’t know about me Emptiness filled with outspoken lessons I’m a young black man with so many broken confessions See our story is all the The saddest part is that it is re-written through so many names And we get so lost in the detrimental roles of masculinity We continue to lose ourselves Yet the most important aspect of life is self This isn’t really a poem these are notes that transcend into words This is more a message that needs to be heard

Around 22000 of our young black boys from the ages 6-15 are healed in juvenile detention centers.

This is aint problem It’s a system The same system that killed my 4 fathers A system that has been normalized We live in a society fueled by systematic oppression A society where I can be gunned down if I show the slightest sign of any microaggression A society where counting my days is the same as counting my blessings And being yourself is the same as holding a loaded weapon Huh This melanin that we wear can folds just like clothes So hug me tight and hold meclose Don’t let me go Please Before it’s all to late And it’s said and done You’ll hear a bullet with my name beautiful name on it come from devils gun Say it louder Be a whole lot prouder And never let me go In the ends I hope to hear you calling a 1000 miles again

Editor: Ajahee Sekkm-Miles Vanguard Participants: Anokye Bomani Malachi Mitchell Marielle Joseph Mikal McKay Monica-Grace Mukendi

Cover Art by Robert Provilus

To become more involved with the black student union follow our

Instagram @bsu1968

Attend our general body meetings Thursday at 6 pm in Zoom/IGTV (UUW317)

Check out our website bsu1968.wixsite.com/mysite-1

To join the vanguard e-mail work to theunionpub@gmail.com