Edited by :Christy Abram
COPYRIGHT @ 2019 Brown Girls Write Publisher’s Note: All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Inquiries about book orders or additional permissions. The writers contributing to Holler if you hear me: A coming of age anthology retain copyrights on their individual works. Published by: Brown Girls Write Publishing Seattle, Washington www.browngirlswrite.org hello@browngirlswrite.org Designer: Christy Abram Editor: Christy Abram Image for cover: Copyright @Adobestock
Dedicated to all of the students who worked hard on this project: Melissa, Keira, and Mariah. Thanks to Seattle Interagency Schools, Melissa Rysemus, Rio Correa, and Jacquie Hardy for believing in this project and giving the authors a voice.
Contents
MELISSA Burning up the Past to Welcome the Future 2 MARIAH Nigger 4 KEIRA
Dear Freshman 7
RIO
In the Dark, In the Cold 10
KIM
Be your Own Advocate 12
JYNIECE
Chosen 9
ABOUT
Brown Girls Write 15
Burning up the Past to Welcome the Future MELISSA LUCAS
I jinxed myself when I said I would never get trapped in a toxic relationship. I thought you were the one for me, but I was mistaken. You were the worst. I feel dumb for feeding into your bullshit and believing your lies. We met on April 7, 2017, at Mimosas Nail and Spa. I remember it like it was yesterday. You sat patiently waiting for the nail tech to finish my full set. Each time I glanced in your direction, you flashed a beautiful smile. Butterflies remain, but you fooled me. I believed you were the one for me. I was committed, no one mattered but you. I gave you more attention than I gave myself. I made sure you got home safe and your belly was full. I came out of my pocket when you were stranded, with who knows who. You took advantage of me, but I ignored it. I continued to help you because I loved you. Why’d you had to hurt me? I asked is for you to keep it “one hunnid” with me. I never forced you to be with me. I thought you were happy. I believed I was too. I can only see the bad in our relationship. Why were you so secretive? I expected good morning texts from you, instead, I saw conversations between you and random girls. It seems you were only interested in me when you needed something. I can’t believe I let you run over me the way you did. I didn’t deserve to get thrown to the wall or snatched up by the collar of my shirt. I also didn’t deserve to have my face pushed into those sheets and nearly suffocated. 2
I should’ve left a long time ago, but I believed that you would change. I asked God to help you but he removed you from my life. I’m grateful—our relationship was a joke. If I could start all over, I would’ve gone the opposite way and paid your ass no mind. I thank you for removing negativity from my life. Now, I walk with the crown atop my head. I am a strong and independent young lady. You didn’t break me; you made me unbreakable.
3
Nigger MARIAH DIXON It was a cold winter morning. I stepped on the train looking for a seat. The train was slightly packed. I knew I would have to stand for a little while. The Soho station was next, more people boarded the packed train. As the door closed, a white lady with a familiar pink jacket entered the train with a small dog slowly pacing behind her. A male passenger, wearing a black jacket, desperately looked for someone to leave their seat. He was distracted by the small dog sniffing and licking his leather shoes. His eyes wondered then settled on the lady with the pink jacket, as she bent over and spoke to herself. Suddenly yelling, “There’s a Nazi on the train!” People looked confused by where the noise came from. Again, the peculiar lady points and yells “There’s Nazi’s over there,” at a random couple. The train grew quiet. Is she using her white privilege to call someone out? Abruptly, the lady in the pink jack bent down and yelled, “Fuck me,” and proceeded to hump the man in front of her. He moves away, silently tucking in his phone, “Sorry, I have to go to work soon,” he responds—he thinks she crazy too. The lady mocks him, “Oh, he has to go to work soon!” She has everyone’s attention. The girl next to me notices the commotion and decides to turn down her music. She pays close attention to the lady; the way white people do when 4
when black people are shopping, selling water, or picnicking. The train arrives at next station, but no one gets off. There was minimal talking just slight murmurs and train sounds. The doors closes with a small bang and the speaker announced, “Next stop, Industrial Chinatown District.” The passengers continued their conversations, no longer paying the lady any mind. The crazed lady continued talking to herself then announced, “There are niggers on the train.” There weren’t many black passengers, but somehow our eyes met. Should we say something or leave it alone? She is crazy after all. I took my phone from my pocket and texted my friend, JJ. “Omg, this lady just said, nigger, what I should do? He texted back, “Beat her ass!” I scoffed at the thought. JJ and I had a similar conversation the day before. A white girl at his school said, “nigga”. I told him I thought it was wrong that he didn’t say anything. I longed for the day that a racist white person would call me that horrible word. I imagined shutting them down with my words and following with my fist. I got my wish, but I was too shocked to move. The irrational lady looked around the train until she locked eyes with me. “I see a nigger,” she balked. Everyone paused and looked in my direction, searching for resolve. They waited for me, a young black girl to say something, but I did nothing—I forgot my taser and pepper spray that morning. The train left the Chinatown station. Again, I pulled out my phone wondering if I should document the action or remain quiet. Passengers got off the train shifting the woman closer to me. The woman had an odor to her. Her stench was so ripe it caught all of our attention. I held my breath and moved away. “Oh,” the woman yells. “She doesn’t want to be touched. No one touch her, we’re in her hood!” I paused to think, is she worth being on the news? I could see 5
the headline, “Black female chokes white woman on the train.” It was her stop, we were grateful. Her final words to me: “Look, at Medusa.” She was referring to my braids. I knew she was being racist and stereotyping me because I didn’t look like the other black girls on the train. I walked off the train with my head held high. I was the bigger person. I didn’t make the news that day.
6
Dear Freshman KEIRA HAMALIAN High school is filled with people who tirelessly fill voids with unnecessary drama. No one knows what they’re doing, yet they pretend to. It’s easy to get lost. Don’t let me scare you, but if it takes over, high school can chew you up and spit you out. First, looks don’t matter as much as you think. Vanity is a huge issue in general, but when you get a bunch of teenagers together, it can be deadly. Ninety percent of people are too focused and worried about how they look to care about others. People will see you and not think twice about you. If having nice hair and a done-up face makes you feel good, do it. As long as you can walk the halls, comfortably, and confidently, with your head high—that’s all that people will see. School is already stressful enough. Don’t worry about looks. Stick to the flow you know. Next, don’t hold grudges. Although you’ll come across those who will rub you the wrong way, holding on to negative feelings will bring you down and throw off your focus. Instead, stay alert and pick your friends carefully. Finally, put yourself first. High school is like a battlefield. It’s every man for himself. This doesn’t mean not to talk to people or befriend them. But the ones who respect your hustle are the ones you should keep around. I’m not telling you to be a narcissist, because that can get ugly fast. Just be aware. 7
Some people’s intentions are not what they seem. You don’t want to learn that the hard way. You don’t have to take my advice word for word, but consider it, and adjust as needed. Yes, most people in high school are tirelessly and compulsively filling their sad, empty voids, but never judge a book by its cover. The weird kid staring at you for all you know could be your future husband or wife. Everything happens for a reason. So, go with the flow. Just know to survive here on earth, you must take care of yourself first. With a happy mind and body; comes a positive attitude. And a positive attitude draws positive opportunities and all-around positive energy. Sincerely, Keira
8
Chosen JYNIECE DIAZ & GLADYS BARILLAS REYES The sun is setting, and the kids are playing, the breeze feels good in the neighborhood. It gives me a feeling like I’m in the right place, at the right time. Neighbors are barbecuing, you can smell the carne asada and hear oldies bumping. La Vida sin musica no es nada. Me cae la noche me siento desesperada…cargo un arma, mi vida en Dios esta confiada. Down the block they’re shooting glocks. En la esquina a Vato is getting whooped by the vecina…ha, la vida loca of this young Latina. Gramma watching novellas, que suspenso-Primer Impacto on the TV. Homemade tortillas on the stove. The warmth of a Latinas home, I smile. I’m grateful, cruising with my queen. She raised me since she was a teen. Car shows, Firme flows, hitting switches of them low-lows. Hoppin’ like there’s no tomorrow,” Let’s go raza,” yells one of the homies. “Let’s hit Alki with the crew.”Candy paint, shiny shades on cars―sportin’ brand new gear. Chicano rap, Mr. Criminal, Baby Bash, Lil Rob, Ese Villen, and Lysto to name a few. Time progresses it’s not always smiles and sun dresses. A mother cries because her son was murdered, I’m talking about my brother. Seven bullets to the chest, father give the family rest. Young homies incarcerated, trap houses being raided. My queen is locked up, every night I’m staying faded. 9
Thinking about the good times a young girl contemplating. Cold nights missing my carnal locked up serving time. I’m not feeling right, a true story of a young Latina. Lonely days struggling ways, hardships I can’t even explain. I’m an outcast in my own world. Can you relate? On my knees, Lord please lead my family out this wilderness. Señor te ruego que con todo mi corazón elimines este dolor. Father take away the pain, I’m feeling all this hate. I find myself in a cell thinking my life has become a living hell. I ask myself, “am I next?” Who would’ve thought the man up above heard my cries, a miracle in disguise. He wouldn’t let me go down cause with his blood he paid the price. I’m better to my surprise. Today life is nice. The process I’m feeling it, but the work I’m putting in I’m killin’ it. Family made it out the jungle, perseverance got me through the struggle. I thank the bad and the good, life’s a never-ending rumble. I’m humble, my queen’s sitting next to me, my brothers free, and heading to a safe place. My face has a smile, I’m optimistic. Faithfully he’s leading me to the next chapter. My voice will bring others laughter, truly yours, Jyniece. Stay tuned for the next chapter.
10
In the Dark, in the Cold RIO CORREA “At the end, all that’s left of you are your possessions. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never been able to throw anything away. Perhaps that’s why I hoarded the world: with the hope that when I died, the sum total of my things would suggest a life larger than the one I lived.” -Nicole Krauss, The History of Love They were boxes of memories. My sister kept a collection of guilt trips. No, it was just decades worth of trauma shoved into boxes. I could try and be poetic about it, but that’s what it was. When I was younger, my sister moved in to “take care of us” my older brother and me, after mom left dad. Her role, as she put it, was to “help dad out.” When really, she was an adult body in the apartment when dad was working. Dad always favored me, and he made no effort to hide it. And my sister made no effort to hide how much it bothered her. Even though she was supposed to be there to care for my brother and me, I became an afterthought. Like many Millennials, I grew up with television as a surrogate, and so usually I would stay in my room and watch movies. But wait…gather round children, I want to tell you about this magical place called, “Blockbuster;” Blockbuster (or Hollywood Video) was a benevolent place that was lit AF on a Friday night. Before Hulu and Netflix, you went to Blockbuster. Ah, the good old days. The thing is, my sister was like a Blockbuster living in our basement. So, we hardly ever went out to this wonderful 11
place after my sister moved in. She had stacks, racks, and facts of DVDs and VHS tapes back to back. So naturally, if I wanted to watch something, I would have to ask my sister… Or not. Asking my sister meant preparing yourself for her. If she were in a bad mood, you’d have no shot. You might as well sneak in and try to grab one that she wouldn’t miss. But that’s the thing, grabbing one wasn’t as easy as slinking downstairs and not getting caught. Nope. My sister is a hoarder. Which is fascinating, because the only thing she ever kept organized was her DVD collection. Eight bulky DVD racks, the cases glistening in the dull room light. The happy faces looking out from the spines. But the shelves were in the back of the room, damned off by a sea of boxes, piles, and clutter. Sometimes I felt like she kept the clutter there just to keep me out. The DVD racks were stacked impressively along the wall. This was the one part of her that she kept organized. Everything was alphabetized and in separate genres. So even if I could get to the racks without causing an avalanche of crap, I would have to make it look like nothing was taken. One thing I can say my sister taught me was the art of not getting caught. But I wanted so much more. Instead of reciting monologues from the movies, I wished I had a better relationship with my sister—like those I saw in those movies. But no matter how much stuff was in the way or spilling out of boxes, she somehow knew when I took one of her DVDs. It was like she didn’t even have time to talk to me unless it was to correct something I had done wrong. I always wondered why she was more invested in keeping up with her collection than me. I guess that is why I have every streaming device and I pay way too much money to get movies and shows on Amazon Prime. I have a thing with movies and shows being spoiled. So, what do you do when the person who came to “help out dad” was only there to save on rent? She always favored my brother and her stuff. Oh well. 12
Be your Own Advocate KIM SUAZO What does an advocate really look like? Are they standing up in front of millions of people with their fist up, or are they letting their bully know that enough is enough? When I think of being an advocate, I think about a BIG ASS protest filled with people of color fighting against the injustices they’ve experienced in their community. I think of an African American woman speaking out on violence, raising awareness, and roaring, “Me Too!” as she stands in solidarity with her Hispanic comrade. When I think of an advocate, I think of anyone and anything else but me. As a child, I was not courageous or outspoken. My parents had four girls, I am number three. I was described as timid, shy, awkward, and quiet. In my opinion, that does not sound like someone that would be worth calling an advocate. As I got older, many of those fearful characteristics remained. I am introvert, meaning I have a very strong dislike for conflict. I have vivid memories of being bullied and called, “square, “Oreo,” and “blacky” for no reason. I remember thinking, what the hell did I do to you? With yo ugly ass. You need to take out those dusty ass braids and stop sucking your thumb! I had comebacks, but in those moments, I always froze. Me, an advocate? Hell no, not me. It was never in my cards to deal with conflict head-on, especially if I felt hurt. . I feared I would sound stupid and come off as complaining. Instead, , I wrote in my journal 12
about every emotion I felt, but never expressed. When I was angry, happy, scared, irritated, in love, or even jealous, the writing was my comfort. I knew paper would never hurt me, as harshly as the people around me. However, one day, I woke up. Although my narrative was tucked safely in my notebook, I could no longer hide my emotions. I felt the urge to express experiences. I knew my voice mattered and needed to be heard. I never knew I had it in me, until recently when my sisters, parents, and I met to discuss my parent’s divorce. Emotions were at an all-time high. I felt numb. Both of my parents were discrediting each other’s 30+ years of effort. They argued back-and-forth about who invested more money and/or time than the other. It was ridiculous! My Dad proposed that they sell the home we grew up in and split the cost. My Dad was in his feelings; he was ready to throw everything away, simply because their marriage was a done dada. I thought to myself, What about my sisters and I? This neighborhood is up and coming, and where in the hell are we going to live? Is he stupid?! As low blows fell from their lips. I was reminded of the incessant bickering that changed the course of my life. Gathering volume from my gut, I said loudly, “Can ya’ll listen for a second! I have something I want to say!” My Dad responded to the tone of my voice, “I am your DAD, no hablas asi conmigo!” My younger sister fires back, “Let her talk, she has something to say!” My younger sister has always been my support. I thank God for her. With nothing be space, opportunity, and emotion, I speak, “Dad, how do you think it makes me feel to hear you want to sell the house we grew up in? You are not considering how that would affect your daughters. We’re still your daughters. Look at the way you are talking to Mommy. You know women pick men like their Dads, right? You live in Seattle, and you only come over to pick up your mail. That hurts Daddy. I love you!” It must have been God because all my emotions came rushing like a monsoon. There was beeping, then silence. The call dropped. 13
I took a deep breath and slowly released it. I had never stood up for myself. The timid, shy, awkward, and quiet girl was sick of being overlooked. Yea, I am a little peculiar, but so is every other Joe Blow in the world. What I have to say is important. On that day, I learned that my words are important, and they hold value. My family never knew my true emotions, because I would often hide behind a mask. I could no longer keep quiet. An advocate is a person who publicly supports a cause or policy. Through my life experiences, I have learned that you must be your own supporter, before you can expect someone to support you. That experience empowered me to stand up for myself. On that day, I took the first steps towards being my own advocate.
14
About Brown Girls Write Brown Girls Write is a grassroots self-care initiative aimed at helping women and girls of color reflect, heal and thrive through self-expression. Join us on our mission to inspire 100,000 women begin their healing journey. Visit us at www.browngirlswrite.org
15
