Colour Issue No. 10 by Colour Magazine

ISSUE 10 FALL 2020

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Issue No. 10 of Colour Mag has been created in a pandemic. Issue No. 10 was created with heart, and with kindness; with lowered expectations, distance, stress, love, and solidarity. To you who helped make this, and to you who took the time to read this, thank you for your grace. As the empire crumbles around us I am reminded once again that we are all we have. I’m disillusioned by the university and by “productivity”, tired of perpetually thinking about so-called scholarship. I want to study you and I and us more than anything. I want to listen and I want you to listen. Maybe then eventually, we’ll become spirits, not shadows. As important as it is to be “important” though, really, I just hope you enjoy this. In a wonderful turn of events it seems that’s one of the most important things you could do anyway! So anyway.

Miss and love you dearly, Colleen Avila Editor in Chief Colour

CONTENTS

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE TEAM

AN EXAMINATION

BLACK JOY IS RESISTANCE

THE RENAISSANCE REDEFINED

MX. MONOCHROMATIC

HOME

THOSE PEOPLE, I CALL THEM MINE

NUDE AND NOIR

WALKING ALONG THE WHARF AT DAWN

STAYING

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;M NOT HERE FOR VALIDATING WHITE LIBERALS

UNTITLED

LEARNING MAKEUP AS WOMEN OF COLOR

JAITSIRI

THE TEAM

COLLEEN AVILA

RACHEL PAULK

EDITORIN-CHIEF

SENIOR PHOTOGRAPHER

OMAER NAEEM

TYLER BURSTON

CONTENT CREATOR

EVENTS DIRECTOR/ CONTENT CREATOR

GENESIS MCCREE

AHMED MOTIWALA

TREASURER/ COPY EDITOR/ CONTENT CREATOR

SENIOR PHOTOGRAPHER/ CONTENT CREATOR

THE TEAM

STEPHANIE CHUI

SHIYEON MONK

CONTENT CREATOR

ILLUSTRATOR

MALEAH DOWNTON

ELIANA JENKINS

FIRST YEAR REP/ DESIGNER/ CONTENT CREATOR

CONTENT CREATOR

SARAH AUCHES

MARC RIDGELL

SENIOR DESIGNER

CONTENT CREATOR

THE TEAM

AUDREY CHURCH

JEBRON PERKINS

CONTENT CREATOR

NATALIE VALLES

ANIKA KUMAR

CONTENT CREATOR

RYAN RICKS

JJ COLEY

CONTENT CREATOR

SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR/ COPY EDITOR/ CONTENT CREATOR

illustrations by Shiyeon Monk

THE TEAM

NOT PICTURED

(BUT JUST AS IMPORTANT) ASAPH BAY

CYDNEY BIBBS

CAITLIN KIM

SENIOR DESIGNER

SECRETARY/ DESIGNER

JALEN BOGARD

MILO SANTIAGO

JAITSIRI AHLUWALIA

CONTENT CREATOR

NIRALI SOMIA

NOOR BEKHEIT

LEENA BEKHEIT

FIRST YEAR REP/CONTENT CREATOR

DESIGNER

STYLIST

photos by Ahmed Motiwala

AN EXAMINATION

an examination tyler burston

my body different born into a conspicuous position i.e i was born interrogated: you just got here, but how close are you to your grave? how soon until you start to question your comfort in existence ? my body different from my neighbors’ because my health is a privilege. i’m not even entitled to that shit. i’m thanking god that i wasn’t imagined as a canvas for bullets, a symphony hall for the death knell that capital orchestrates. but it’s probably cause my parents played by capital’s rules. my body different cause i was hiding in the house when this city was more violent, or when the virus hit. sleeping in the back of that black truck between georgia and back. listening to my grandpa talk about his revolver before i knew what got him involved with it. what the pigs did to his body we don’t talk about.

i’m afraid to die but was actualized by death. i’m just not tryna bring it close to me. i learned to love my skin in darkness, mostly out of necessity honestly. my consciousness was an enemy colony. my body understood how it was perverted by the conflicting ideas i held. trying to figure out what a (black) man is when I don’t believe in Men and myself or sometimes even blackness. -a question poetry hasn’t answered yet

AN EXAMINATION

basic observations: my body a target my body a threat my body has a precarity to burn my body must be kept in check

design by Asaph Bay

AN EXAMINATION

my body different cause it moves backwards, slides from conspicuous birth to joyful comfort to understanding itself as safe up for now but maybe bloodstain worthy. my father loves money like it can erase the x on our backs but he knows it can’t. the same capital that protects us weighed on my great grandmother so to lift myself up is really backsliding nappy survivor to nappy token to nappy enemy of the state. but i’m not a soldier by choice or by circumstance i’m still the weak link. no violence just rhetoric. i don’t have a gun i have poetry and a revolution needs both.

my body too dynamic for my own good, constantly redefining its relationship to its own abuse. the lack of sleep and lack of fuel lack of justice a full belly and a fucked up family tree (schoolteachers, seamstresses, pimps, lawyers, women who were mothers and artists before they were immigrants.) the cop’s perspective my mom’s perspective my lovers’ too my body the shakiest holster for my spirit. a black entity like all black entities confused but cultured. something wealth sticks to and burns. another sack of brown skin in new jersey. something growing up in a room of 1000 mirrors and too used to being looked at.

TYLER BURSTON

AN EXAMINATION

my body theatrical an actor in a scene of subjection. the object of pessimism. an optimist by necessary of its own brain chemistry. my body beautiful but it’s sick because where we lay is sick. i’m just trying to keep my insides in the order they need to be for when either the reaper or freedom comes. they look too similar but I smile cause I know they’re not.

TYLER BURSTON

BLACK JOY IS RESISTANCE

RESISTANCE Black Joy is

Written and Designed by Maleah Downton

MALEAH DOWNTON

My heart is aching. Our heart is aching.

the definition of American Black reality.

As our movement for justice and equity garnered national attention, our pain didn’t cease. It multiplied. With every visual of Black death circulating across social media, we were traumatized. Shared among our peers as if it were just another meme, our anger bubbled as everyone around us hashtagged and “empathized” with their black screens.

How can I be happy when my people are in pain?

The pain doesn’t just drain out—it sits and mellows. It grows.

Pain acts in contradiction to peace.

As intergenerational trauma wove itself into our grief, we continued daily life enraged. Angered at your privilege—your ignorance. Angered at the co-optation of our movement for a trend. Angered at your performance. Angry because of the failure of justice. How am I expected to push forward when I am emotionally drained? Our uncontrollable tears of pain harmonized with our cries for systemic change. Yelling Black Lives Matter at the top of our lungs, we fought. We marched. We protested. City by city, our voices united against our oppressor. With cardboard signs raised as our weapons, we imagined our future could be better. Possibility entranced us. But, still, doubt engulfed us. Screaming “No justice, no peace,” we feared that we would never be at peace. We are strong Black people, right? Holding responsibility to our community, wellness was never a priority. Mental health in the Black community acts as a swear word. We can’t be weak. Our mothers and fathers weren’t weak. Our ancestors weren’t weak. In this movement, there is not enough space for us to be weak. We have to be strong, right? Strong isn’t easy. I’m not sure how much longer I can be strong. Balancing our identity of Blackness with that of the Black trope, we can never find space to be. Our existence is constantly contested by society. Treated as encyclopedias for all things Black, we are deemed both the saviors and educators in white communities. Pride and fear morph to form

My happiness is selfish. How does happiness align into the lives of people who aren’t free? It’s subjective. Happiness can’t exist in the absence of liberation and equity. As Black people are slain by police, how can I be capable of joy when theirs was stolen so easily?

As we embark on meditation for peace, trauma, anger, and pain release on exhale. Refueling mind, body and soul, self-preservation reignites the movement and pushes the fight to prevail. Consuming all things of Black creation, frustrations in society are channeled into the culture’s motivation and imagination. Joy is, and of itself, a revolution. Fighting for justice is not mutually exclusive to experiencing and expressing Black joy. The resilience in executing joy amid trauma, in the wise words of Audre Lorde, is “an act of political warfare.” In this current climate of social justice battleground, joy and light are both welcomed within these depths of despair.

The realms of joy and social justice share intersections. The realms of joy and social justice share intersections. The two exist simultaneously. Acting as notso-distant relatives, the two share in deeprooted heritage. In all movements of Black empowerment, Black joy stood at the center. Black joy is contagious. It is monumental. Hidden within Black joy are the capabilities to transform the world. Black joy is resistance.

THE RENAISSANCE REDEFINED

MODELS

AUDREY CHURCH

SHALAH RUSSELL

STYLED BY

PHOTOGRAPHER

LEENA BEKHIET

ANIKA KUMAR

CYCLE OF ABUSE AND FORGIVENESS

design by Cydney Bibbs

THE RENAISSANCE REDIFINED

THE RENAISSANCE REDEFINED

We are the art palettes of our ancestors. The brushstrokes of the cotton-picker slave, The antithesis of the Jim Crow segregation, The texture of the Civil Rights activist, The shape of the Black Lives Matter Movement. We are constantly redefining ourselves while remaining true to our history and heritage We are the Jordans on our feet, the Off-White on our backs, the Fenty on our faces With each new step, we add color to the grey surface underneath We are the Renaissance--from Michelangelo to Harlem--redefined.

MX. MONOCHROMATIC

mx. monochromatic it all started with light blue. then to deep yellow & then to hot pink. i don’t know when it started, but it definitely never ended. i just remember that it ‘twas one day— one cliche autumn day at one shop in tha’ lovely Lou— when I achieved the rainbow. rowdy rhubarb & original oranges yet youthful yokes so gradient grass but burlesque blueberries for victorious violets. feelin’ melanated? dress lemon. feelin’ bright? wear lime. feelin’ powerful? dress blackberry. & don’t regret it a damn time; need energy? wear pumpkin. need strength? dress mushroom. need (self) love? wear strawberry. whoever knew that these articles of clothing would make me feel seen, alive, a lil’ gay, & a lil’ paid. the way mx. verde hugs my torso & pairs with my forest olive shorts. it’s the way mx. rojo drapes under my neck & makes my skin pop. it’s the way that mx. azul comes in three different shades. it’s jus’ the way that mx. monochromatic’s closet transcends the capped rainbow & it makes them feel alive, loud, proud, moisturized, & picturesque. t-shirts may be basic but i feel like i’m wearing a tight, scanty, fancy, antsy dress. mismatching colors like a game of chess, the space in my closet looks like a mess. but i enjoy figurin’ out which color’s next! don’t be pressed at me, baby—you jus’ stay fresh.

Marc Ridgell

MARC RIDGELL

design by Colleen Avila

HOME 26

HOME

Omaer Naeem design by Maleah Downton

Growing up, I always thought that the phrase “home

Home is the autumn breeze hitting you while your

is where the heart is” was cliché, overused, and out

shoes crunch on the warm toned leaves. Lattes,

of touch. Home is where I grew up. It was where

pumpkins, and books – the only things on your

my family happened to settle down in. It was where

mind.

I found myself. It was where I fought, cried, and

Home is the snow piling on your car that you

accepted. Home is a toxic little town.

shovel off in the morning. Phones buzzing with the newest tweet by the ACPS Superintendent Today,

Home is the dew covering the fields in the morning.

December xx, 20xx, ALL ACPS schools are closed.

Sweaters to be thrown off in hours. Home is the sun beating down while hiking the

Home is driving up to Frostburg and going to

Appalachian Mountains. Barbeques at the park and

Mainstreet Books – only to buy a few vintage Vogue

watching your little brother wade in the lake.

postcards, the occasional speculative fiction novel. Home is taking your one and only friend to Clatter,

OMAER NAEEM

and talking for hours on end about whatever

and accolades. Never considering how it was for the

mundane issues are present. That, or complaining

other people like you. You didn’t talk to them, after

about your classmates.

all.

Home is waking up at 5am to get to the Y, then

Home is where you thought you did the right thing

school, then practice, then home – repeat x5.

by assimilating. You thought that would make you

Home is cooking something new as soon as you get

happy. Make your parents happy. Make you more

home from school for your little brother (only for him

successful (whatever that means).

to decline because he prefers McDonald’s).

Home is where you tried maintaining fake

—

friendships to feel okay on the surface level. Plot Home is where you never fit in.

twist: you weren’t okay.

Home is where you lost your culture.

Home is a town of 18,988 people – or maybe it’s

Home is where you tried so hard in every aspect

less, now.

of your life only to disappoint everyone – most

Home is where you thought you did the right thing by assimilating.

importantly, yourself. Home is where you plotted your escape. Home is where people called you terrorist, the f-slur,

Home is a place of closeminded, ignorant, and

and sand-monkey. You accepted it. You even joked

arrogant people.

with them. It was funny, wasn’t it?

Home is a place where you never mattered.

Home is where adults with power used you as the

Home is Cumberland, Maryland.

token person of color. You graciously took the roles

Those People, I Call Them Mine Ahmed Motiwala design by Sarah Auches

cold pastel pink tile underfoot inside, hot cracked concrete outside i remember all too well that home, my mother’s mother’s in a land of mothers and no fathers where the sun’s rays beat down hard on the port’s people i am among them a droplet in the ocean i call them mine they are me, they are me the gullee packed with schoolboys flaunting cricket bats and crooked smiles shalwars muddied at the baggy bottoms and firecrackers hissing at bare feet nani scolds them from the balcony spitting scarlet saliva to the side i am among them i watch keenly as the children resume their cacophony and nani folds away her triangle of paan i call them mine they are me, they are me

AHMED MOTIWALA

the seamstress in an open bazaar stall threading thin lines of red brown and gold into garments worthy of Mughal kings and queens draped shawls flowing in the warm breeze fallen leaves on an autumn day passerby admire the intricacies i am among them i notice the strings and spools and needles sprawled about i call them mine they are me, they are me the old man in the masjid in his plain white clothes stroking his snow-white beard reads from a divine book slowly rocking back and forth i am among him i press my forehead to cold stone my topi lingers in sujood reveling in his recitation i call him mine he is me, he is me

THOSE PEOPLE, I CALL THEM MINE

the acrid stench of burnt rubber mingles with the aroma of roasted corn kernels a pocket of newspaper split between two lovers a shared parcel of warmth i am among them i pass them departing from jummah they dissolve into the crowd surging around the street vendor whose ashen fingers prove a profitable day i call them mine they are me, they are me elder brothers reclining on the rooftop exchanging inhales of smooth apple smoke until the clip clop on the stone staircase alerts them of the Chaiwala’s delivery i am among them i take in the shisha’s breath and let their words lull me into night’s haze i call them mine they are me, they are me

the driver whose rickshaw bleeds bright reds and blues a three-wheeled comet shooting down Tariq Road he halts by an auntieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wave but quickly hums off for forty rupees is far too little i am among him i perch myself in the back as waves of the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sights crash into my panorama i call him mine he is me, he is me All Praise to the Most High that i am the gola ganda wala amongst rows of dozens more in Dhoraji Colony that i am the jeweler whose name derives from ancestors trading purest of pearls that i am the beggar whose open palms are for prayer and not for spare change that i am among them all that i call them mine that they are me that they are me that they are me and that i am them all.

NUDE AND NOIR

NUDE AND NOIR Eliana Jenkins

It was March, in that typically brief moment between showering and getting dressed when I took a minute to really look in the bathroom mirror, staring at my bare reflection which emanated a unique, self-fulfilling freedom I had never felt before. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d spent forever chasing that feeling. Before the pandemic, I thought I found it in music festival crowds, where I lost myself in the bass, screaming, and sweat. I thought I felt it on the roller skating rink, where I let my body glide across the neon painted floor to 90s throwbacks. I was sure I discovered it on warm summer

My s exposed, loose, is when I vulnerable, empo

days, gazing at the empty blueness of the sky and the yellow rays of the sun which absorbed me to the point I felt like a part of it Until came a lockdown, a grey overcast in my city for weeks, and a physical stagnance. The distraction of mindlessly immersing myself in masses disappeared. Quarantine gave me no choice but to stand still and find a liberation within myself. What was once an afterthought, became the focal point. In that brief introspective moment, I felt a gratitude for those good times pre-pandemic but realized that neither the places, people, nor environment were what freed me; my body did.

My mind, bod work in unison to p energy I use on ot

skin and uncovered am most owered, and free.

dy, and spirit protect my energy; ed to waste thers.

ELIANA JENKINS

We live in a society that fuels on the expended energy of black womxn to the point of mental fatigue. To be nude and noir is to experience a physical liberation based in self-love and acknowledgment of our existence in the present moment, while simultaneously being transparent and uncensored in the world we live in. Black womxn are expected to conceal and construe the things that make up our personality and physicality. Threats to our self expression come in the form someone saying Lizzo is “too big” to be wearing shorts that short. When someone tells me to cover up on a hot summer day. Why is my top so low? Why aren’t I wearing a bra? I must be a slut. I must’ve been asking for that long gaze from men I don’t know. The hypersexualization of black womxn is a barrier to being able to fully exist in a state of transparent nudity, both physically and metaphorically. Therefore, being able to ‘just be’ as a black woman is a luxury that I have to grant myself. I deserve the ability to appreciate my physicality while expressing my emotions and sensuality freely. All bodies are beautiful works of art and blessings deserving of normalcy and self-ownership. We don’t owe anyone an explanation. Our bodies, our property, our peace. So when I’m at home in solitude, relieved of societal notions attempting to define what or who I am, I make sure to strip down to the most raw, real, and genuine parts of myself in the mirror to reassure that I’m still here, I’m still living, and still surviving. I am free because I declare it. In the words of AOC, “It’s quite a radical act, it’s almost like a mini-protest, to love yourself.” I dare you to do the same.

design by Caitlin Kim

WALKING ALONG THE WHARF AT DAWN

walking along the wharf at dawn itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dark outside as mother and I begin our walk up peeling and splintered stairs, hands trailing salt-crust railings, wind harsh against our huddled bodies.

the sound of waves crashing is made gentle, muffled by the gray sobriety encompassing us as we wait along the edge of the world.

a communal silence overlays the dock, murmured undertones and hushed conversation. thin fold-up chairs seat bundled shadows from which hooded eyes peer made stark by lamplight fluorescence. deep lines crease the sun-browned face of a man who fishes before the sun cracks open ancient eyelids and wearily exhales eons-old sighs, leaning against a railing that stubbornly stands, gazing across inky blackness, waiting patiently, blindly, for the tug of a strained line

milo santiago

MILO SANTIAGO

halfway beneath the bench, a fallen moon silently weeps. she waits there, disturbed only by a gasp which ripples across her alabaster surface, gills gaping briefly before remembering that in space, all is still save for earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s perpetual rotation about its axis. a smile playing upon his face, the fisherman picks the stingray up by a wing because even below the surface, even where suffocation juxtaposes life, creatures find ways to fly. He slips this illogical bird under the railing; in this version of the story, God forgave Eve.

and so desperately I seek a way to return home. but I know that the moment I left, the lighthouse broke off from the cliff, falling down down down from grace, and now the little white house no longer hears the whispered greeting of dawn above the sea.

design by Noor Bekheit

STAYING

staying I The leaves are in love.

Blushing and giggling on the branches

cradled in the warm arms of the maple

they stay dripping in orange obsession until finally collapsing

weak and broken and full of holes

I used to try and save them,

smushed them between the pages of old notebooks

hoped the euphoria would somehow be preserved they

always ended up cracked and in pieces

still ringing with foolish red joy

too preoccupied to notice an absence

and I was too naive to know

a leaf on the ground is a leaf liberated

and a leaf stuck to a page is a leaf more dead than alive

Nirali Somia

NIRALI SOMIA

II Promises are social constructs.

Pinkies must untangle eventually

And the yellow wood is devoid of roads

You don’t get a choice in this matter

There are houses there now

Do you remember the trees? Didn’t think so.

Your grandma is crying She thought the river

would be there forever

III To utter “forever” is to tell a lie, for a ring on a finger

becomes a stone forgotten on the dresser

What do you know about staying

The world is plagued with a terminal disease in which no one is spared

And leaves fall

no matter how many notebooks you own

And trees fall

without you ever knowing they existed

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master” but you are no artist and loss is no painting

it’s a mere symptom in the pandemic

of staying

design by Sarah Auches

I’M NOT HERE FOR VALIDATING WHITE LIBERALS

I’m I’m Not Not Here Here For For Validating Validating White White Liberals Liberals Your phone buzzes — a notification from a friend, or maybe a stranger. It’s some sort of long-winded message talking about a racist incident this person witnessed, and how they didn’t know what to do about it so they did nothing, and now they’re asking you for advice. Or maybe it’s another long-winded message, this time asking for definitions for the most basic activism terms, or perhaps asking you how they can get involved with activism on social media, as if it is your responsibility to inform them. Or maybe it’s yet another long-winded message, using some form of “I see you,” or “I hear you,” or “I understand that I’ll never understand, but I stand.”

Now imagine that at least 10 more times. In doing that, you have successfully described a good chunk of my summer. Message after message asking me questions that could easily be answered with one Google search. Why is it that they always want to burden me with their questions, with their witnessed racist experiences? I’ll tell you why. It’s because they want validation. They want to show me how woke they are. By messaging me, especially when it comes to reporting other people’s racist behavior, they are personally getting up in my face and demonstrating to me just how committed to activism they are, how much they

Ryan Ricks design by Colleen Avila

aren’t like those “other” people. They want me to tell them that I notice that “commitment,” or, even better for them, that I approve of it. And let me tell you, I’m not here for that. I’m not here to give validation to the white liberal. No marginalized group is. For most of us, our entire lives we have been taught again and again that we need to be the ones doing the educating. We need to teach the oppressors, rather than let them teach themselves. We need to take the responsibility, not them. I can think of a couple specific examples of when I was forced to

RYAN RICKS

be the educator in high school, but I don’t think any are as insulting as my experience on my tennis team. As the only Black person on the team for the majority of my time there, I was the person who had to tell my teammates not to say the most stupidly racist things. There’s nothing like realizing that you’re going to have to babysit your teammates to make sure they aren’t saying something racist every other day, especially when most of the people saying those things were older than you. Perhaps that was a bit of a digression, but the point is, members of marginalized groups are always being forced to carry the burden of education and correction. And because of this, when white people finally begin their journey of becoming a decent human being, it is always us they turn to for the answers. It may seem as though they are genuinely seeking help (which is true in some cases, although what I’m about to say still applies) when asking us all sorts of easily Google-able questions, but what they’re really doing is pushing the burden of education onto us. Again. It’s the same thing just with a different paint job. After the fifth time explaining to someone why police brutality is an issue that specifically impacts minorities, you come to realize that maybe this is starting to hurt your mental health. At least, that’s how it was for me. Over the summer, I found that explaining some

I’M NOT HERE FOR VALIDATING WHITE LIBERALS

of the most basic concepts of racial inequality to white liberals was giving me a headache. In some cases, it was causing me to have to relive the collective trauma of the Black race over and over again, just so I could get my point across. And this made me wonder: Why did I have to be the one to do this? Why was I indulging the white liberal in their validation fantasies? How could I make it stop? As much as I really wanted to get the white liberals I knew to stop their validation seeking, there was (and is) nothing I can do to change the actions of those around me. That’s a kindergarten lesson that became abundantly clear recently. I can’t stop white liberals from coming to me for their validation cookies. So, I’ll just do the only thing I can do, I thought. And the only thing I could do was stop giving them those cookies. And that’s what I spent the summer trying to do. It’s hard though, to unlearn something that has been so reinforced. During this time I would look at my actions,

the way I talked to people or messaged them. And it’s insidious, the way that this mode of thinking, this idea that I need to validate and coddle white liberals, tell them that they’re being “woke,” creeps up in my life. This kind of thinking always appeared in my aforementioned Instagram Direct Messages.

that they still have a ways to go in their education, when they’re doing the bare minimum? Why was I even trying to give them cookies at all?

For example, whenever I’d wanted to message someone about their problematic behavior, which happened more than once, I’d always find myself softening my message with bits of gentleness and validation-giving. Suddenly my brief message turned in a large paragraph full of “I don’t mean to attack you” or “you’re usually doing pretty good,” or “I know you didn’t mean it in this way.”

The fact is, it’s as I’ve said before. As members of marginalized groups, we are expected to do this sort of thing. To congratulate our oppressors for starting the road towards being better, not even completing it. Early on, we’re told that the only way to get our point across is to be overly polite. While of course kindness and politeness have their place, there comes a time where you can’t soften your message, because all the reader will see are those little crumbs of validation, and none of what you’re actually trying to say.

Whenever I saw yet another message fall victim to these cop-outs, all I could ask myself was, why? Why was I trying to coddle this person when they have said or done something offensive, oftentimes something that specifically hurt me? Why was I still trying to give them praise when they’ve shown

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UNTITLED

untitled jj coley

The perfect child is not A child

Bones too little to know What’s been colonized Soul too old to know How to rest, relax, exist Freely

“BECAUSE I AM YOUR SON, MY APOLOGY HAD BECOME, BY THEN, AN EXTENSION OF MYSELF” -Ocean Vuongn

Small brown body Too little too mature Forced to grow up too soon

Knowing everyone is watching, The surveillance state preys On you Prays for your demise There are too many eyes on you but no one sees You fully

No one lets you be Young, a child Lets you ask for help, Makes you a priority.

JJ COLEY

Your mouth becomes weak You do not know how to speak Say what you mean You are always Ignored, silenced

When you are heard You apologize for taking Up space

And you become a writer because you desperately need To be understood But you also know no one will do the work of accepting you Except yourself

design by Noor Bekheit

LEARNING MAKEUP AS WOMEN OF COLOR

Model Stephanie Chui Photographer Anika Kumar

CYCLE OF ABUSE AND FORGIVENESS

STEPHANIE CHUI AND ANIKA KUMAR

We never looked like the makeup artists and models growing up. Shades were made for lighter tones; trends were fit for large eyes with lid space, smooth, untextured skin. Models for makeup brands have always been tall, slim women, with high cheekbones, plump lips, and mainly, nonPOC. As a growing youth, it’s hard to not compare yourself to the exact opposite of you that’s being played over in commercials, YouTube, and makeup stores. How do you put eyeliner on monolids? How do you find your shade among the 3 dark tones at the drugstore? How do you apply bright pink lipstick that doesn’t seem to fit right? No one ever really taught us this. We had to learn on our own. We had to learn that our beauty is highlighted in different ways of using makeup. The different facial structures make all the difference in a full face beat and even a natural look. The homogeneity of the beauty community has only recently been broken through with models that are WOC, male, and of all different shapes and sizes. This diversity has helped those interested in makeup become more comfortable in trying. For me, I guess in middle school I was super drawn to the transformation and expression that makeup is a tool for, and I reached this point where I wanted to learn more. I still don’t know what exactly draws me to this art form, but I think part of it is impermanence? I remember rushing home from school and sitting in front of the mirror for hours putting on and taking off looks over and over till my skin was irritated from the makeup wipes. I started exploring the world of YouTube makeup tutorials where I was immediately exposed to products, techniques, and other things that I felt I “needed” to get better and create

freely. Along with these tools and products, I think I subconsciously also started to feel like I “needed” a different face with features similar to the people I was watching. The “best” makeup artists that I was seeing had features so different from mine that I felt like the only way for me to reach that level was to also have those features. I hated my monolids. I tried to buy eyelid tape, I tried to stretch out my eyelids. In my head, I didn’t understand how I was supposed to do cut creases or any elaborate techniques built for non-POC faces. It’s taken so much time and reflection for me to really love my features. Whenever I go into doing makeup on myself or someone else, I try to go in with a completely blank mind and just improvise with what’s in front of me. I’m not very good with words, [laughs] but one loose thought that always crosses my mind is how I am drawn to certain shapes and certain shades that may be influenced by how I learned? I don’t know like even something as simple as a winged liner? - Stephanie Chui

MAKEUP ON POC WOMEN

When I was first introduced to makeup I was super into makeup tutorials, and religiously watched MUA YouTubers such as Jeffree Star. It was really ironic for me to see Jeffree’s more recent backlash because I have many memories of his doting on how pale and “porcelain” his skin was. I remember how awkward it made feel as he heavily implied that his shade was ideal. Whenever he recommended products to his audience with “deeper skin tones”, it still never went past other pale shades, like ivory, tan, creme, etc. I began to realize that he never considered - or didn’t care - that many of his viewers were POC. During this time most of my friends were into makeup as well, and many were buying drugstore brands that did not have many shade options. One of my friends even had a makeover party, and being the only black girl there, the makeup artist skipped my face and only did my eyes, as she didn’t have a foundation that would fit me.

I think I had a really interesting relationship and journey with makeup because my whole life I was told that makeup was meant to be subtle and modest from my immigrant side, and then on the other American side, I had messaging that was telling me I should wear this shade, or this color, or this product, all based on the white woman’s skin tone, so I really didn’t have anyone to push me into the bold makeup that I love to do today. I love wearing bold oranges, blues, yellows, reds but it took me a fat minute to realize that brown and nudes just simply weren’t right for me even though I was being told that from all sides and all media around me. I am really happy with where I am now on my makeup journey and with brands like Fenty and others making big splashes in the makeup industry, it’s not as difficult to feel seen as a woman of color and find the shades and colors that will actually look good on me. You just have to know where to look.

-Jasmine Stone

-Noor Behkiet

design by Cydney Bibbs

JAITSIRI

jaitsiri jaitsiri ahluwalia

dear you - who gave up; so fast, so easily and without a thought yes, i have nicknames but they are reserved for family - by blood, and by nature they are reserved for those whose tongues have fought hard to form the sounds to say “jaitsiri” before they’ve even considered anything else yes, i have nicknames but not for you who gave up because your ears didn’t recognize it and your mouth didn’t find it familiar not for you who disregarded it without a thought - the one part of me that encompasses everything that i am the one thing that is truly my own

JAITSIRI AHLUWALIAI

to give up on it to butcher it or to cast it aside is to throw away who i am. my name was given to me by my religion, my culture the values and guide by which i live my life a constant reminder of who i am and who i strive to be a sikh i am first and foremost a sikh; a kaur a disciple of both the world, and god god - omnipresent and omnipotent an endless entity beyond the cycle of life and death beyond the imagination of this world the human world where ignorance breeds not bliss, but cruel hatred and prejudice countered by the love and strength of powerful communities i believe in this community and the god that has given it to me

JAITSIRI

i believe in the values of naam japna to always remember God vand chakna to be selfless and share with others kirat karna to always be honest both to others, and myself i believe in humility equality respect for all and living my life nirbhau, nirvair without fear and without hate, jaitsiri kaur. it is a reminder of these values and a marker that i believe in them it connects me to my karra it connects me to my uncut kesh flowing down my back as a flag of sikh pride

a steel reminder resting on my wrist that i am strong strong enough to always do whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s right. it has taught me to not just accept my differences, but to embrace them to embrace my long unshorn hair my beautiful brown skin my tongue-tangling name and to always fold my hands together greeting fellow sikhs i see with a sat sri akal and a smile

JAITSIRI AHLUWALIA

it is a constant reminder, keeping me strong keeping me grounded in who i am, and what i stand for, and who i stand with so to you: yes i have nicknames but they are not my name i am jaitsiri it’s not jasmine jitsu jaisari or jet-siri it’s not “i give up” “this is too hard” “can i call you something else” it’s jaitsiri my name is jaitsiri kaur ahluwalia and it’s important you know that and say it right

JAITSIRI

at least you have respected her my name who i am me myself i itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s important that you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bulldoze it over or toss it to thank you, the side jaitsiri kaur ahluwalia

in the complicated maze of life where we all get lost trying frantically attempting to find ourselves i need jaitsiri as i grow i need my roots to keep me grounded to stay true to myself to know not just who i am but who i want to be. so let your tongue trip over it let the foreign taste sit in your mouth for at least you have tried

design by Asaph Bay

@COLOUR.MAG 314-884-8537 COLOUR@SU.WUSTL.EDU

ISSUE 10