Believe | Charcoal Magazine Issue 5

In October 2019, we posed the question “what do you believe” to the Charcoal community, hoping to discover what drives us to exist as we do. We spent months curating content for our fourth, printed issue, believe. Our timeline was set, but much like the rest of the world, we did not anticipate the ravaging effects of a global pandemic to unravel our plans and halt the production of this issue.

In March, we packed our bags and returned to our homes around the world for what would become months of isolation during a global quarantine period. While the world stopped, it became even more apparent that belief is paramount to our existence. What does it mean to believe? How do we practice our beliefs? What do we believe?

This series of pages bound together to form Charcoal’s fourth, printed issue explores these questions, but rather than present concrete answers, we find a complicated demonstration of what it means to believe. This issue centers hope, love, vulnerability, and power. Through these themes, we explore our humanity, and internal and external motivations that affect who we ultimately become.

As we celebrate this fourth issue, we want to thank you, our community, for believing in us and this publication. Charcoal could not continue without your support, and we remember this every time we come together and think “what’s next?” Thank you for your trust and faith. Here’s to issue four and many more.

Peace, Charcoal 2019-2020 Executive Board

Editor-in-Chief, Archelle Thelemaque, COM ‘21

Creative Directors

Bradley Noble, CAS ‘20 Cameron Cooper, CAS ‘20

Art Director Tulasi Sundaresh, COM ‘20

Chief Financial Officer Thalis Perez, QST ‘20

Chief Marketing Officer Nashid Fulcher, COM ‘21

Social Media Director Melody You, COM ‘20

Special thanks to the 2020-2021 Charcoal Staff and E-board for their contributions to this issue.

Seyun Om, CFA ‘23

Abigail Gross, CAS ‘23 Angelina Wang, COM ‘21 Jessica Zheng, CAS ‘21

Cover Image

Hikma Lukomwa, SAR ‘22 photographed by Bradley Noble

Publisher

Charcoal Magazine

Printing Puritan Printing

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Models

Shamayam Sullivan, CFA ‘23

Chike Asuzu, COM ‘22

Rob Felton, COM ‘22

Jailyn Duong, COM ‘20

Brittani McBride, CFA ‘22

Aya Badran

Sarah Elmosbah, SAR ‘22

Afnan Tabidi, SAR ‘20

Zakiah Tcheifa, ENG ‘22

Atiyyah Mayale-Eke, CAS ‘23

Hikma Lukomwa, SAR ‘22

Tiara Burton, CAS ‘20

Lena Otalara, COM ‘20

Muskaan Khemani, CAS ‘22 Karen Antony, COM ‘20

Staff Writers

Ayomide Ojebuoboh, SAR ‘20 Lauren Richards, COM ‘22 Olivia Woke, QST ‘20

Solange Hackshaw, COM/CAS ‘21 Jennifer Ojilere, SAR ‘23

Production Assistants Brittani McBride, CFA ‘22

Contributors

Evelyn Bi, CFA ‘23 Faith Allen, BU Staff Member Casey Ramos, COM ‘21

Thank you to Remy Usman and Adia Turner for taking the leap four years ago. Charcoal is what it is today because of you.

Charcoal issue #4 is dedicated to Erin Edwards. We’ll continue to tell your story.

Love and Intimacy

CAMERON COOPER MANASVITA MADDI

Between life’s ordinary moments, we find love, seen as both a force that binds us together and the intimacy that keeps us there. A touch, stare, or flick of the hair is enough to signal that we belong here, in these everyday moments that serve to remind us we’re alive. On a regular Sunday afternoon, we captured the whispers of intimacy that exist between us. SHAMAYAM

You read these words in silence

They do not scream at you with the intensity as they do for me Grip your face and press their fingers deep into your skin with nails that scorch like hot coals

For me these words are dangerous

They are a declaration of the dread surrounding me and a herald of what’s to come They are not just signs of the time but bellowing bursts of a bullet towards my skull wishing to eradicate every thought, word, and action I can muster

These words scare me and the fright reaches up from my depths and burrows within my throat It blocks any sound I may speak and leaves a tear on my cheek All encompassing, I can’t help but think ‘How long until you live just as me?

With knives in your back and hate in your ears and your reflection on the tv screen shouting your fears

I can’t breathe! You shot me! You shot me! I didnt even do nothing! I don’t wanna die too young. I love you too.’

You do not believe these words because if you did you would think twice before putting your hoodie on at night your hands would stick to your sides at the sight of a blue badge and your voice would be hoarse as your pleas piled up at the feet of politicians who nod their heads then nudge you to the side

I cannot cry

I cannot weep That water grows no trees Instead I wait for the rain to turn puddles into pools and empires into oceans until there is no breath to waste And while you struggle for your life you take a look at my face Steel. Straight. Silent.

To you, the pain is new For me, I have been here all along. |

|

Rob Felton (COM ‘23) is a sophomore in the College of Communication, minoring in Visual Arts. Artistic expression has always been his most valued method of interacting with the world around him. He devotes much of his life exploring the numerous ways he can articulate his thoughts and emotions in new and exciting artistic avenues. Whether it be poetry, photography, drawing, or any art form he has yet to dive into, he brings passion and intention in his expressive endeavors to tell the stories that are important to him.

“It is common practice in American culture for the white community to approach issues that face people of color, known as POC, with dismissiveness and detachment. Whether it be out of hate, fear, ignorance, or an amalgamation of feelings, the pleas of POC tend to fall on deaf ears when addressing the country’s majority. This attitude particularly extends to the tragedies of police brutality.

Police brutality is more than a news headline, but an indicator of the real tragedies and fears that the Black community specifically faces. It is more than just a Black issue, it is a human issue. Once our society as a whole accepts that statement as fact, we will be able to create solutions to these problems and grow together rather than widen the divide. Too often are Black people isolated in their issues; forgotten, abandoned, and treated as victims who must also become our own heroes. Non-Black people are not expected to relate to our issues, but in order to help aleviate our experiences, they must believe in our experiences.”

Through the Broken Glass

I was already in a bad mood, lying on my apartment room floor, wrestling with thoughts of disappointment, frustration and insecurity. Then, I heard my suitemate yell through my thin apartment walls, “You know Kobe Bryant? Kobe Bryant is dead.” What? I was confused, so I stood up, immediately went to my suitemate’s room and listened as she told me what happened. A few seconds later, my second suitemate came inside, we huddled in the tiny room as we stood in silence and disbelief.

Kobe’s death jolted me awake from my pity party, and the cliché “life is short” rushed through my head. I returned to my room in shock. Moments later, I found out that Gigi, his daughter, was in the helicopter, too.

Then my heart sank.

For a few days, I was numb. I didn’t want to feel too much. I didn’t want to feel too hard. Until, I spoke with someone about a completely unrelated topic—my acne. Then, the tears fell and the overwhelming, painful emotions consumed my body. When I returned to my room, I cried…for seconds, turned hours then days.

Until I decided it was no longer time to numb the pain—it was time to embrace not only Kobe Bryant’s death, but hope. It was time to embrace hope and purpose again. I was ready to confront the reality that life is short. I had to decide what I was going to do about it, and how could I continue living in hope and purpose at the same time.

Corinn Linkowski, an 18-year-old girl who passed away in a tragic car accident, inspired me to not give up on singing because her low vocal range reminded me of mine. Jarrid Wilson, a pastor who spoke boldly about mental health and committed suicide last fall, has made me even more tenderhearted towards those who are wrestling with mental health. Olive Heiligenthal, the 2-year-old daughter of a worship leader, led me to question, yet simultaneously, trust more in the goodness of God.

And Erin Edwards: she may not know this, but she helped me write again. She helped me find out about Charcoal. For so long I put writing on the back-burner, and although I could never write like her, I desire to continue her legacy as a storyteller who speaks up for marginalized communities.

Through the pain of their deaths, I finally see hope. I see purpose again. For me, my faith and hope in God have been the biggest factors that have helped me to see light shine through the broken glass. I have found purpose in loving God, loving people well and walking in my talents again.

I now have the images of those four people on my phone screen with the verse “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the lord”. This screen reminds me: I will continue to sing, write, and most importantly, hope. I will continue to hope.

I will not live the rest of my life blocking the light from shining through my broken heart. |

Power In Cloth

BRADLEY NOBLE PHOTOGRAPHED

BY

“Thinking of the word ‘believe,’ I thought immediately of religion, and then the topic of the Hijab. Many Muslim women, as well as some other religious women, wear the Hijab as a part of their faith, but for me and many others, head scarves also hold cultural significance. Cloth in the form of hijab, head ties, wraps and scarves are used for a number of reasons that transcend beliefs, and I wanted to depict that in a bold and colorful way. Adorning your head in cloth is a powerful statement of strength, boldness, and pride — it is a part of who we are, and I believe it should be celebrated.”

- Atiyyah Mayale-Eke (CAS ‘23), Charcoal Staff

MODELS

AYA BADRAN

SARAH ELMOSBAH (SAR ‘22)

AFNAN TABIDI (SAR ‘20)

ZAKIAH TCHEIFA (ENG ‘22)

ATIYYAH MAYALE-EKE (CAS ‘23)

HIKMA LUKOMWA (SAR ‘22)

EVELYN BI

So small and peacefully unripe, half-finished yet I see me. I hold the edges of the world while standing at its center, The wound I knew so well closed at last, and for good! What you create I can love for I am not so easily whittled.

Unfurl and arrange yourself until you fill the space you deserve Because you’ve always known that you have what you need And even then, know to grasp that garden close The home you longed for finally within reach reprimanding: You hold the edges of the world while standing at its center. |

Sometimes I wish I had a voice like Mosiah’s Ripping through blue plains touched by dew I sit down, a weary spot in wilderness bewildered And it hums to me in a way you just can’t imagine Mama, I’m a bull weeping at the red That rises, emerges from shapes as timeless and true As bones in the womb of the desert Which shift as I sift through everything I know

He sings of all the stuff I love best. Buzz on, Song! ‘til I’m black and blue To exalt with the only words I know how to say Not grasping why I continue to search and chase and howl

For I, among the bounding herds, still crawl to get places Or at least I feel this way; exchange one End for a new beginning, one pearl for another, Then let them float gently to the surface.

So from an endless roaring stream I burst Up and out onto the golden shore, head full of water Shoes, eyes, legs, lungs, forehead dripping Yet still I sing, a dot in my neighborhood park With my eyes on the red that rises. |

| Evelyn Bi is a junior majoring in graphic design. She writes poetry and primarily made fine art (printmaking, oil paint, graphite, film photo) until she began working with digital and print in the past three years. In her work, she explores the forms and concepts that have stuck with her since childhood, such as the idea of the sacred, the meaning of an archive in a digital-driven world, truth in comfort, and how to engage a viewer via hiding messages and transparency. She is passionate about creating open dialogue about mental health in the arts.

“I wrote these two poems freshman year: the first in response to a strange new feeling of growing into the home that is myself, and the second in response to how mental illness and self-doubt made me feel anxious around great work and made me question the value of art. As a Chinese artist, it’s difficult to contextualize myself in a field where everyone I learn about in art history is white, and the only great design philosophies I am taught are by white men. Having grown up in a culture that is not really celebrated in the same way as other immigrants, there is a feeling of isolation even among people of color — a jealousy of “louder” cultures more embraced by US history. There is shame in confusion, in emulation of styles and voices that are not my own, that makes me feel like I’m crawling and just getting by, even when on the outside I seem to be creating great work. The red that rises represents the setting sun, a nameless but knowable truth I’ve yet to reach, that feels like a red cloth associated with bullfighting. But I’ve learned to allow myself to take a step back, and let myself breathe and remember I have everything I need already. Writing helps with checking in with myself, finding out how I really feel about certain things, and solidifying things I might not be strong enough to say out loud.”

belief is growing up saying that the wind & the snow shattering across your backbone at 5am when you stagger to your work is better than the bond of religion that makes a mother an island, a series of door slams and screaming & a corpse father so hell bent on sacrifice, he surrenders you -his child never to be seen never to bury your face in his tweed coat and breathe in the hymnal notes of his scent, the bulletin crinkles at the corner of his eyes to believe is to realize that reincarnation is but the death and birth waking rhythm of our days A resurgent resurgam “I shall rise again” a pushing the dirt off kicking back covers waking up alone

In warm coils and spirals under the earth Ground water water of the ground

While on the mountains, the rocks spit out streams and it flows through rivers charges off the heights of endless cliffs explodes like silver shrapnel and beats into a pool below to be gathered to channel and twirl and twist until it is sent to the sea did not all the water take the same journey? to return from where it came? how different is the life of the groundwater which is held deep in the earth’s belly knows the dark walls of soil and that of the mountain springs which has leaped high and silver, kissing the air, plummeting in screams and sharp punctuations yet it traverses the same miles, to end in the same place To be taken up again To be released To be sent home. To believe Is to see These cycles of life Are just a homeward journey Of which belief Lies in the ground Lies in the mountain Lies in the sea Lies in the end of a sentence we barely remember beginning. |

My Sunshine

CASEY RAMOS

When I was little, I thought being “mixed” meant your skin looked like cookies and cream.

Only later did I realize that being mixed is less like two colors on one canvas and more like mixing waters of two oceans.

And only later did my sister, overwhelmed by the complexities of race, develop the idea that she “doesn’t see color.”

I ask, If you don’t see color, who’s standing in the mirror?

We are confusing and maybe the slopes of our eyes and the curves of our cheekbones don’t make sense together. Maybe our jaw says something different from our lips say something different from our hair. We don’t need to make sense.

When you were little, and you let the snow feather on your shoulders as you danced, didn’t I tell you you were silver?

If you don’t see color, where is our family?

Think of our skin as a canvas of experience. As a testament to emotion. I tell her, don’t try answering the questions they ask you. I tell her, Don’t ask yourself their questions when you’re alone. I tell them, If “American” means checking one box we cannot help you. I ask them, Can I help you?

When someone tells you they don’t see color, ask them what they are looking at.

If I could tell my sister one thing, it would be that the veins in her cheeks look like lower petals in the sunlight. That we are the blues of Boracay beach and the lush greens of the Amazon. The whites of sampaguitas and the browns of splintered seashells.

When you were born, didn’t they tell you you were platinum?

We were created by the force of the Earth straining against itself. Continents colliding. Seas shrinking. There is always a stray current. There is always a motion, a pulse.

We are so bright. Didn’t they tell you we are diamonds? |

| Casey Ramos is a senior in COM majoring in Film and Television and minoring in Deaf Studies. She was born and raised in Queens, New York in a Brazilian/ Filipinx household. Growing up against such a diverse backdrop is what fuels her writing, which often centers on language, race, and sexuality. Nearing graduation, Casey has finally stepped foot into her dream industry of video games, where she hopes to be a writer for interactive stories and perspectives that have yet to be represented.

“This piece was written in reaction to a conversation between my sister and me about her claim that she does “not see race.” This happened a mere few months after I had to teach her that we weren’t white, as she was dealing with being classified and questioned about her race by strangers at her school. All too familiar with the confusing emotions of being questioned about my nationality by strangers, often accompanied by weird comments like “Oh so you’re not really _” or “Are you sure you’re not [insert something I’m not here]?” I’ve become fluent in speaking about what this is like for me.

Situations where I feel safe or even eager to connect with people about race affect what it feels like to sit alone with myself and all the labels I occupy. This is what brings about the question “If you don’t see color, who’s standing in the mirror? Rather than grayscale, why can’t we instead recognize the beauty in color?

We’re still very much works in progress, but the point is that we don’t measure progress by how palatable or easily understood we are to someone else. The goal is to exist far beyond these many boxes and take our own shape. I am learning to make art of my love/hate relationship with ‘difference’ within and without. This piece was one of many that marked my steps along this journey.”

PHOTOGRAPHED BY

MANASVITA MADDI

“I grew up listening to stories of Goddess Kali, the destroyer of evil. Whether it was killing the demon Daruka or fighting Lord Shiva, one of the three most important gods, Goddess Kali never stood on the sidelines when there the world was in need of a fighter. She is the epitome of power, strength and femininity. My mother used to tell me that Goddess Kali resides in all of us, in our courage and defiance of injustice.

Our world is at a crossroads. We live with rising concerns of climate change, inadequate governments, mental health issues, and reducing resources. I believe that the Goddess Kali in us all will help us move away from this path of self-destruction and pain. I want us to have strength and courage, and to feel inspired to fight for the world we want. Because the most important belief I have, or that I want to have, is that the world can be a better place for all of us.”

-Manasvita Maddi (CAS ‘23)

MODELS

MUSKAAN KHEMANI (CAS ‘22)

KAREN ANTONY (COM ‘20)

There was a time I feared happiness. The jovial emotion would grace my mind and I would dread its touch. Every second it lingered foreshadowed a crushing sadness that would quickly follow.

Happiness was fleeting. Happiness was shallow. Happiness’ beauty lied in its distraction from the heaviness.

I think it was its lightness that I feared; it came and went like the wind, twirling and dancing through the branches of my thoughts, only to dissipate and render them scattered. I couldn’t cling to it, it didn’t offer weight like sadness did. It was unpredictable in ways depression wasn’t.

I tried to take advantage of it when it came. I’d try to convince myself that it was here to stay, that it was genuine and purposeful. I would make as many plans with as many people as I could. I would try to cram my schedule with coffee dates, phone calls, workout classes, and grocery runs as though future commitments written in pen would force my gleeful mood to stay. I’d let my words spill out of my mouth, and my laughter take up space. I’d focus on the sunlight streaming in through windows or the rain falling into a puddle, and pretend the subtle occurrences were a revelation. I’d take in the creases and dimples of my friends’ smile and consume the exuberance of their presence. I wanted to ground myself in the moment, to cast the melancholy into oblivion.

But I was loved. I am loved.

My friends and family took notice. They saw value when I saw none. They sat by me, prayed for me, and stood with me. They didn’t let me succumb to the gray that enveloped me. The process was far more tedious and complicated than I am saying now -- and I admit, I am still in that process, I just can’t find the words to delve into it now.

It took time, but my perception of happiness shifted - is shifting. I hesitate to trust it, but I can accept it. I can hold it and know it has purpose and meaning for me specifically. It took time to come to this place. To view it as delicate and graceful, rather than fragile. It took sleepless nights, hours of late-night conversations, switching medications, prayer and tears, but healing emerged. The gentle nudges of those around me, slowly prompted me to examine how I defined happiness. They took my calls late at night and listened. They read what I wrote and asked the hard questions. They were a piece in my changing perceptions. I’m starting to understand that happiness holds a complexity and weight that weaves its way in and through my experience. I held it while I was young, and while its form has changed, it settles near me now.

MANASVITA MADDI

MODELS

| Acculturation means assimilation to a different culture, typically the dominant one. In this photo essay and interview, staff models Atiyyah, Chike, and Muskaan resist acculturation by incorporating sartorial nods to their own cultures into typical Western fashion. While campus can sometimes feel stifling with its conformity in fashion, Downtown Boston offers more room for expression. | CHIKE ASUZU (COM ‘23) ATIYYAH MAYALE-EKE (CAS ‘23) MUSKAAN KHEMANI (CAS ‘22)

assimilation to a different culture, typically the dominant one.

What is Acculturation?

I think it would be more than going into another culture. A lot of it is losing your own culture in that process.

-Muskaan Khemani (CAS ‘22)

My understanding of it is just like assimilation into whatever culture you might find yourself in. Whether it’s Boston, whether it’s America, whether you’re an immigrant, or it’s school, or whatever else it might be - how do you find yourself, identify yourself, in the environment - and whether that means losing a part of yourself or keeping it and making it part of that new community.

-Atiyyah Mayale-Eke (CAS ‘23)

For me, I would say it’s different aspects of people’s identities colliding and often conflicting with the societal standards of what identity should be. That can be attributed to generalizations or societal pressures.

-Chike Asuzu (COM ‘23)

How has acculturation affected you?

MK: I realized that I don’t wear my Indian jewelry at all, because it’s like, ‘You’re too brown,’ and it’s weird because it’s something I’ve never had to face in Odisha. I’d never been exposed to... it’s...it digs at your identity -microaggressions! I’ve never had to deal with microaggressions before coming here. Before the shoot, I didn’t realize how much I didn’t wear my Indian jewelry when I came here, how much I shied away from wearing traditionally more Brown things or Indian things just because of how it made me feel among other people.

CA: In my daily life, it’s me wearing a durag but not dressing how people might think those wearing a durag might dress. Also, my parents are Nigerian American, so it’s also me wearing traditional clothing casually because that’s just clothing that I wear, so kind of defining the standard for myself. It’s deciding that this can be what it is, that I can be in an entire suit and a durag and to me, this is still professionalism.

AM: Being a Black Muslim who wears a headscarf and is also of Nigerian descent, there’s a lot of layers that go into that. So, I guess, more so, the more evident one is how people perceive my hijab or headscarf. I feel like it changes depending on whether my scarf is down, or if it’s in a turban, or the rest of my clothes - if I’m wearing African clothes and a headscarf or my everyday clothes and my headscarf.

What helped you decide on you wardrobe & accessories for this shoot?

MK: I chose my accessories. I got all my Indian jewelry, and I had my mind set on the gold ones. I also chose the bindi because I felt I should put a bindi on. I sat down and picked out my outfits the day before, and I packed my jewelry in individual zip lock bags according to each outfit. I was very excited for it.

CA: Wardrobe was really anything I wanted to wear with a durag but felt like I couldn’t. I purposely wanted to make myself nervous; I feel like that was the entire point. We’re trying

to show that societal effect, those pressures, so I felt that if we weren’t uncomfortable, we weren’t pushing it hard enough.

AM: All of us wore formal like, more professional wear, like something you’d be expected to wear in a professional environment, but each of us had our own distinctive pieces that made it our own so that we’re not fully assimilating per say. I picked a flowy, silky scarf because we wanted to make it the focal point. Also, if I’m trying to dress up nicely, I tend to go towards that silky material. I don’t know, I just kind of thought it was a good idea.

What significance did the locations of the shoot play?

MK: Not initially but, I remember there were photos on an escalator at a T station and coincidentally there was an American flag behind us, and the significance came through with it, and I’m sure Cameron and Bradley thought of these before, but I remember that one specifically. It was a very interesting contrast between the two, which is what our shoot was all about.

CA: We wanted to be in a very populated area to show how swamped [acculturation] can almost feel, how confining it can feel. I remember a lot of amazing shots we took with people walking past us and surrounding us, whether it be just in the city or Atiyyah on the train, just showing how much pressure there is with identifying us and yet you see the one within it all trying to identify themselves.

AM: We took multiple different shots in different areas. I also took some on the T itself, and it was very crowded but I tried to position myself in a way that I would stand out. The message behind that was like, despite everyone around me, I’m still my own person and I do stand out in the way that I am.

When you see the photos, especially of those of yourself, what do you feel?

MK: I think, I don’t know if these were selected,

but the ones that Mansivita took towards the end, I really liked those because it was like I was asserting my dominance. I looked very confident in those, and I think that’s when I started think that’s when I started to really get into it. I especially like those pictures because I could feel the confidence radiating out of what I was wearing, which I think is very special.

CA: I spent so much time looking at everyone else’s to be quite honest. I think for mine, it oddly enough showed my general demeanor. There was this amazing shot that we did - I had to keep spinning in circles to get my coat flowing - where people were walking by me, and you could see the shadows and silhouettes behind and in front, [but] you just see me in the middle, but I don’t look lost. I look very assured. And I feel like that’s actually the picture of so many people of color, so many Black people, where you feel so, almost suffocated, by outside pressures and you are the only person holding yourself calm and still.

AM: I feel like I don’t really think of just myself, I think of back home. I have a really big Nigerian Muslim community, and most of my friends are just like me. When I see the photos, I think of me, but I also think of them and how they go through the same struggles and aspects of what I go through. I think of myself in terms of them.

Why is this photo shoot and, on a larger scare, representation important?

MK: I think the world is shifting towards a more inclusive space, but I also think at the same time, in an effort to be more inclusive, people of color are often grouped together and their experiences are turned into one, and that’s really not the case. Every marginalized person or group has a different experience, and I think it’s very important to keep that in mind. As an Indian girl, I don’t have the same experience as a black girl, and I know that they don’t have the same experience as me because we face very different

things. So I think seeing yourself -whatever that might be or whomever that might be -in media is a way for that change to happen.

CA: I remember even as a kid when I saw Barack Obama win his presidency, it wasn’t like, ‘I agree with every single thing this man says,’ but when you see someone who looks like you with that much opportunity, it broadens your capacity to think, ‘I can get things like that too.’ I think that’s all I want, especially in creative spaces where I’ve seen so many amazingly bright people feel like they just can’t go that route because it’s not the regular thing that people like them do. I just want to make those spaces for people to explore those things, to build themselves up so that even though we don’t have tons of people in those positions, maybe one day we can all be that, and there can be more people who can see us and think, ‘Wow, they could, I can too.’ I just want that to be the standard, where any type of person can appear calmly as art.

AM: When I think of me growing up and all the friends that I had growing up, I didn’t see a lot of us on whatever kind of platform. Representation is growing, it’s definitely growing; there are more Muslims in the fashion industry and more Black women in the beauty industry, but often times you’re not just one or the other, but a combination of a multitude of different things, so, me being able to be one example of that, I know I’m doing something, and I’m standing for something other than just myself, it’s a lot bigger than myself.

What do you hope this session communicates?

I know this is easy to say, but I do hope that people are able to see themselves in any of the three of us, and maybe there’s an inkling of hope that it’s okay to be okay with your culture that’s not from here.

-Muskaan

It would be keeping the parts of you that are important to you, and bringing that forth to the community that you’re in, rather than dispelling it to join it.

-Atiyyah

I want them to almost feel uncomfortable with how comfortable we tried to seem, in letting varying aspects of just any sense of culture we have conflict. So yeah, I kind of want, again, to push everyone’s envelope in a sense for them to broaden that capacity.

-Chike |

Smile

BRADLEY NOBLE

I look up and look left. I look right, and then I look up again. I look any way I can to avoid blinking. I must keep myself together!

Why is this so hard for me today?

Then, I see her picture in front of me, her joyful expression across the entirety of the screen. Suddenly, all of that composure I had worked to keep intact crumbled within seconds. I am officially out of my element. My heart starts to beat a little quicker. I cannot figure out what exactly to do with my hands as they begin to tremble, and I do not know where to look not to feel so exposed.

I am uncomfortable.

See, on any given day, I believe in the power of a smile. I believe in the overwhelming positivity it holds and the infectious energy it can transmit to those lucky enough to be in its presence. I believe in its power to heal to create a sense of warmth. But, right now, I am finding it extremely hard to smile, to be positive.

I smile because the world can be an extremely heavy place when you see young Black girls and boys shot and killed in our communities or incarcerated at such disproportionate rates on TV. It is unfair, disheartening, but I smile because I will not allow that to get me. I smile at people whom I know and even those whom I do not. And, if I am so lucky, and if the conditions are right, I just might receive a smile in return.

Today however, in this moment, my smile is not coming as frequent as normal. I try again, and again, and again, and nothing changes in the image staring back at me. The smile is trying to force its way between the thick tears currently rolling uncontrollably down both of my cheeks. In my ears, the pastor’s sermon softens and the echoes of my family’s words reverberate through my head, reminding me to stop. As a young black man, I have been conditioned to not show weakness, to show strength even when it stings to hold back tears that are ready to flow. But, I am uncomfortable, and I am hurting.

My body is shakes, and my breathes exit without, not steady nor calm.

I ask, Please, Lord, take this pain from me.

I am searching for that one thought that will bring me back, that will set my body at peace again. I want nothing more than to drown my thoughts out with loud music and the warmth of the sun. But, I am continuing to hit a wall, and I am exposed. There is nowhere to hide the tears falling down my face from the people around me in this room.

My friend reaches out and grabs my hand, gently. A couple of my tears fall onto the backside of her hand. I look up to apologize, but when I look up at my friend’s wet, swollen face, I am greeted with a close-mouthed smile. Something washed over me, and I returned it. But, in that moment of understanding and of solidarity, and in that smile, I saw the process of healing.

So, I believe in the profound power of a smile, on most days; however, today I will continue to cry.

But, tomorrow, I believe that I will smile again. |