Colour Issue No.12 by Colour Magazine

ISSUE 12 FALL 2021

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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At this point, if you’re an avid reader of Colour, I’m sure you’ve gotten a bit tired of my letters from the editor. It’s alright, yank me off the stage with a cane or throw tomatoes at me, I promise I won’t mind. But if I could say a few words that have already been said: thank you. For your trust in me to create this space on this often horrifically white campus (am I allowed to say that?); for your time in reading this, making this, designing this, celebrating this; for your support and reassurance while we re-remember how to do all that it takes to release a magazine when it seems like all the knowledge has been lost with those who graduated in the years PP (Pre-Pandemic). I can’t express my gratitude enough for everybody, past and present, who has made Colour what it is, and everybody in the future who will look back at this magazine and think, I could have done better. Because you certainly can, and you will. So grab your comically large cane, and I’ll gladly give you your well-deserved spotlight. With love for the winter, Colleen Avila Editor in Chief Colour

CONTENTS

able of co

tent

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE TEAM

BODY MEMORY

LA MANO

THE FIRST GREASERS

“TOO GROWN” BLACK GIRL TO INSECURE BLACK WOMAN

FOR MAMA

WELCOME.

PORTRAIT WITH AUGMENTED FOURTH

WORK IN PROGRESS

WHY WE SHOULD LOOK TO PLUTO TO DETERMINE GENERATIONAL SHIFTS

APPLE PICKING PAVED FEMALE SIN

UNTITLED

Maleah Downton Copy Editor Emma Stout Social Media Director Loren Lacruz First Year Rep

Marc Ridgell Content Creator Melissa Villegas External Events Director Audrey Church Treasurer

Erika Wallace Content Creator Brian Cui Designer Kaila Holland Content Creator

Gladys Manzira Junior Photographer Colleen Avila Editor-in-Chief Artemisio Romero y Carver Content Creator

Ahmed Motiwala Senior Photographer Elizabeth Joseph Content Creator + Designer Jaitsiri Ahluwalia Content Creator

Nirali Somia Content Creator Cydney Bibbs Head Designer Tiangelique Dunigan Content Creator

Omaer Naeem Content Creator Eliana Jenkins Copy Editor Sofia Gutierrez Designer

Rachel Paulk Senior Photographer Mashal Naqvi Content Creator Montel Gbewonyo Head Designer

Not Pictured Jebron Perkins Internal Events Director

Mahtab Chaudhry Content Creator

JJ Coley Content Creator

Umar Hanif Copy Editor

Elaine Choy Designer

Kavya Patel Content Creator

BODY MEMORIES

Body Memories by Nirali Somia design by Colleen Avila

Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? Ocean Vuong

Everytime I go to type something on my computer, or write something in my notebook, I can’t help but notice it. It’s peeling at the edges, little strings of white skin dangling off the corners. It lays there, horizontal across the pointer finger of my right hand, a little line of red. It’s shallow and likely won’t scar, but it’s still fresh enough that I wince at any slight pressure. I still don’t really know how I got it. I think it was when I was fiddling with the cap of the pink svedka shooter bottle that is now sitting idly by the sink in the bathroom. It’s still there, empty. I brought it with me one night, a night that was filled with the anticipation of loud music and sweaty bodies bouncing together under bright lights. It

was one of those nights that always seems better before it actually happens. I downed the little pink bottle sometime in the middle of it, probably around 11:26 pm (that’s generally when I tend to get bored of the world around me on those nights). Then I went to sit on the small couch in the corner and munch on starburst. I wore jeans that night solely for this purpose; so that when I inevitably got tired of the deafening speakers and the couples making out aggressively on every sofa, I had a shooter and four cherry starbursts to keep me company. It’s probably some of the best company I’ve had in weeks. The night will likely fade from my memory sometime around the time that the little red line has disappeared from my body.

I wonder what our bodies would say if we had the chance to ask them what they know. I wonder if they would remind us of moments we had forgotten, moments so far back they feel as if they never even happened at all. I wonder if they would help us know ourselves through the marks

NIRALI SOMIA

of memories we don’t hold in our minds anymore.

As far back as I can remember my family has celebrated a hindu festival called Navratri. Navratri literally translates into nine nights. It is a ten day festival for the goddess Durga, the goddess of power and energy. For two consecutive weekends in October my mother would iron long skirts with intricate patterns. She would lace up my blouse and help me decide whether gold or silver bangadi matched the jewels better. Sometimes, on special days, she would divide my hair into small sections and run a straightening iron through my thick curls. I would always watch in awe as the waves became a sleek shoreline. Then she would place her hands on my shoulders as we both looked at my reflection in the mirror, “You look so beautiful Lala.” Once we were ready my sister and I would pack squares of white chocolate into a little bag and load into the car around 9 pm, smiling giddily in anticipation for the night. The music could be heard from the parking lot; it booms out of cracks in the familiar gym, as if even the thick walls couldn’t contain all the joy. The space is always packed, there are people everywhere, all dressed in glittering sarees and chaniya cholis. Everyone is dancing. Those nights everyone is always dancing, their bodies moving in tune with the beat as if there is a string running through everyone in the tiny gym, uniting them together. The nights would always end with my sister and I fast asleep in the back of the car, our feet sweaty and tired, and our bellies full with white chocolate. Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about how the body stores memory, and I’ve realized that it

does it in so many ways other than the ones that can be seen and touched. I auditioned for a dance team recently. A garba dance team, the dance traditionally done at Navratri. At the audition they taught us a little combo, and when the music started to play I was surprised at how quickly my body recognized the familiar beat. My feet tapped the floor and my legs seemed to move on their own. The steps came easy, as if I had done them a million times before. After all those nights in that familiar gym I still thought I hadn’t committed the movements to memory, but it turned out I had, just not in the way I had expected.

The power of touch has always surprised me. I’ve noticed the memories associated with it are always stronger. If I close my eyes I can feel the wood of the dance floor beneath my pounding bare feet or the crochet needle gripped between my thumb and my pointer finger. I can feel the

BODY MEMORIES

“The Kiss”, Gustav Klimt, 1908.

NIRALI SOMIA

slight pressure of the rings on my hands or the touch of my soft gray blanket on my bare legs. I can feel the chairs in my kitchen at home pressing into the bottom of my thighs or the light flutter of my makeup brush smoothing concealer along my cheeks. I can feel my fathers arms as they wrap around my shoulders, and hold me tight.

scars that take months and years to heal, they are the memories my body doesn’t want to remember, but does anyway. They are the way my body remembers someone’s touch, even when their arms don’t reach for me anymore. Even now sometimes, my arms tend to itch, as if my body is begging me to recall the things I wish to forget.

There was a study done at the University of California San Francisco titled, “The phenomenon of hand holding as a coping strategy in adolescents experiencing treatment-related pain.” As a part of the study, individuals underwent various treatments and reported their perceived levels of pain experienced. The study concluded that the individuals holding hands with someone experienced less discomfort than the individuals that weren’t. How wonderful it is that the mere feel of someone’s hand in yours can be enough. But isn’t it strange that the ghost of someone’s touch can be enough to cause the pain it was supposed to heal in the first place?

The body holds so much memory, maybe even more than the mind. It remembers things we have no recollection of, and evokes memories of the things we do. But, our bodies are also reminders. They remind us that we have a history, full of both the good and the bad. They remind us that the day always walks away eventually, that life is all at once wonderful and disappointing and temporary. They remind us that cuts, like moments, eventually come to a close, and scars, like memories, represent a past and not a present. And most of all, with a gentle twitch of the hand or a soft itch on the inside of the left arm, they remind us that we are ever so human.

I’ve found I tend to look at almost everything in the world through a heavy rose tint. But, the memories the body holds are a lot like the memories the mind holds. There are some so overwhelmingly lovely, the ones I want to hold in my hands forever, the ones where the sun is a blanket on my back and the breeze feels like an answer. And then there are those that are not. There are those marks on my body that remind me of times when the walls felt like they were closing in and every door felt heavy and locked. They are the

LA MANO

La Mano Modeled after Langston Hughes’ “Harlem” What happens to a hand unshaken?

by Audrey Church photos by Rachel Paulk

Does it wither up like calluses of uncradled palms? Or crack like a broken vase— shattering the bliss of the flowers it will never bloom.

Manicured lawns are painted by tainted hands— Packaged goods are sewn by ripped fingers— Groceries are bagged by bruised knuckles. What happens to a hand unshaken? Maybe it just breaks— forever fractured by the hands it will never hold.

Or does it become gold?

design by Colleen Avila

AUDREY CHURCH

THE FIRST GREASERS

The First Greasers by Arte Romero y Carver design by Sofia Gutierrez

sometimes I can smell my grandma’s house it’s a bad smell

I guess I should say it was my grandma’s smell right cause Angie carried it with her outside of the house but see the smell belonged to that place. she was only pulling it out into the world, only hiding it in a funeral

I lived in that house once, I think. I think it’s where we race hotwheels down the driveway, where my cousin decks me on halloween, when the roaches still have a sense of propriety. when I go to visit Aunt Joe, mummified but alive, she has her hallucinations but never the smell. I think. that smell scares me into a good high school and a better college. scares me into the arms of nice middle-class girlfriends. scares me enough that I still don’t speak Spanish

ARTE ROMERO Y CARVER

Aunt Audrey says that Angie won’t leave the house anymore so I talk to her through a window with bars, like confession. maybe she’s run out of lard for the tortillas, so now the house is eating her. or not. I smell that house in saint louis when I leave the dorms and open a fridge in a two-bedroom hospital

I was doing laundry earlier and smelled it on me I can’t tell if it is the smell of death or home.

“TOO GROWN” BLACK GIRL

“too grown” black girl to insecure black woman by Maleah Downton I am 20 years old. By all means, I am considered grown. An adult in full bloom of my independence. My bittersweet days of childhood, far gone in my past. Yet, still, I fear this title. This declaration of my maturity. I’ve run from “grown” my whole life. Dodging and ducking every time it aims its deadly barrel my way. See, as a Black girl, I never wanted to be grown. “Grown” threatened me my whole childhood. From birth, we Black girls are constantly deemed as too grown. Our bodies, too grown. Our mouths, too grown. Our minds, too grown. We’ve always been too much. too loud. too fast. too angry. too smart. too grown. I could never be just a little girl. Innocent, soft, delicate. No one ever thought I needed protection. Somehow, they believed my Black skin equated to armor.

Being a “too-grown” girl has hurt me. Making my skin its shooting target, It has left me grated with insecurities. My body–too curvy and too grown. My too-grown body, at fault for the harassments by grown men. My mouth–too smart and too grown. My too-grown mouth, the reason nobody feels I’m worth listening to. My mind–too conceited and too grown. My too-grown mind, always making my life hard, and never being satisfied. Every aspect of my being, judged as “too grown” and graced with shame. Who am I now? To attempt to embrace my maturity, To find confidence in these parts of me that I grew to despise. All I see now is a “grown” woman who is too much. too fat. too mean. too dark. too ugly. too insecure.

MALEAH DOWNTON

I never experienced girlhood. Instead, it was stripped and replaced with womanly expectations. Expectations a young girl could never meet And never forget. Where do I go from here? Never being just a child and never being just grown, I’ve existed in the extremes of too much. Childhood trauma morphed and shaped my present identity. Once a “too-grown” black girl, Now I am a too insecure black woman. ashamed, inauthentic, and unprotected with a shattered armor of skin. design by Colleen Avila

FOR MAMA

For Mama Their faces are marked with sun-spots, from childhoods of playing hide-and-seek across the neighborhood, jumping from roof to roof, and cooling down under lime trees. Their hands are strong and supple, from years of oiling our long black hair, washing colorful clothes with cold well-water, and creating mouth-watering meals seasoned to perfection. Their stomachs are soft; we lay on them and giggle as they close their eyes for a moment’s peace. These are our mothers; brown and beautiful and bold Women who were their father’s cool morning breeze, who were their mother’s faithful companions. Women who used to be girls, whose lives were sunny and simple and sweet. Women who sipped their chai and dreamed of one day escaping their sisters’ shadows, having a life of their own. But one day, life stole them away from their safe haven small towns. Women who were only twenty-one were shipped overseas, determined to create a home with a stranger. Wisps of wisdom were their parting gifts- sisters whispered stories of how to keep a man happy, how to be the ideal wife: graceful, perseverant, and above all, self-sacrificing. Their lives devoted to us; their days spent preparing lunches and ironing suits and matching hair ties with outfits for school.

by Mashal Naqvi design by Elizabeth Joseph

They were told their purpose was to be a good wife, a good mother, but nobody warned them about the lonely nights in a strange new country, the isolation of living without their sisters, the harsh winter winds that would nip at their skin through thin shalwar kamiz. In this foreign country that slowly became home, their ears ached for the sweet tones of their mother tongue, shoulders yearned for the softness of their Ammi’s touch, eyes wept for the morning light filtering through peach-colored curtains in their childhood room. Mama wept until she had no tears left; she picked up her baby and held her tight. It’s been twenty five years, and she has found her space. She has daughters now who remind her of her sisters, who grew up braiding each other’s hair and sharing clothes and holding each other through heartbreak. She is confident; surrounded by others like her who hold the same past as she does: naivete and hardship and bravery. We look to those women and we see courage, we look to those women and we promise ourselves to embrace the independence they worked so hard to win for us. We turn to her and we are in awe, for even through all the pain, all those tears, her warmth and kindness touch every soul and her heart is pure as gold.

MASHAL NAQVI

WELCOME.

by Eliana Jenkins design by Colleen Avila

“Damn.” With the slightest shrug of our shoul-

like music to my ears, sensitive from the unbearable

ders, that word was all we could muster as we pitifully

silence of my freshman year. Having been cooped up

accepted the spectacle that marked the end of our first

in a single room on the South 40 my first year, my body

party of the semester. Even with our makeup and baby

needed a severe recharge and a sweaty release: a true

hairs still flawlessly intact, the final moments of our

re-introduction to my friends, my peers, and to the part

night were spent reduced to the dark corner of the bar,

of myself I lost over the past year. Looking back, Wel-

eyes glued to the irresistible, yet cringe-worthy demon-

come Week surely provided some of the most unforget-

stration of teenage sexuality. Students under the spell

table, memorable experiences of my college career, but

of blue LED lights and beer cans paid us no mind, as a

not in the way I intended.

clear pathway suddenly emerged as our cue to leave;

At the onset of the notorious Week, my

my friends squeezed through the sweaty bodies of ten

friends and I got high off the hype like a drug. Deprived

out of control couples merged together; their faces

of normal college interactions, Welcome Week became

pressed mouth to mouth, skin to skin, searching all

an addiction. The anticipation possessed us like

over each other; drunk off of fleeting, passionate lust to

demons, throwing us into a fit of energetic screams as

the accompanying soundtrack of Sweet Caroline. Just

we excitedly convened promptly after classes in one of

for the abominable music selection, as if she wasn’t

our suites. Getting ready to the sultry voice of Megan

plastered already, my friend ordered another drink she

Thee Stallion, our hips moved in a melodic trance to

didn’t want, sulking as she guzzled another vodka Red-

the beat’s command. We switched and swapped tops

bull before sauntering into the Uber we called fifteen

and bottoms, debating on what looked best on who,

minutes earlier. Cramped in the backseat, even the car

as party clothes flew through the air to create a messy

freshener dangling above the dashboard couldn’t mask

pile of chaos on the common room couch. Cramming

the stench of regret sweating out of our form-fitting

eight girls in front of a dirty bathroom mirror was no

dresses; the defeat in our eyes was too obvious to hide

easy feat: brown powdered makeup brushes scattered

behind our surgical mask. Glaring out the window on

on white countertops, gold Fenty highlighter stained

the way back to campus, desperately searching for a

the crevices of the sink, and minty foam wads of saliva

shred of dignity, we thought, were we really going to go

splattered from our glossy lips in the pool of faucet

through this again tomorrow? In the name of inclusion,

water. In between discussions of the guys we hoped to

of course we were.

see that night, the girls we hoped not to, and the great

Welcome to welcome week: the seven-night

time we expected to have, we simultaneously failed

long party where “everyone’s going to be,” promising

to prevent mascara tears from streaming down our

to provide some of the most unforgettable, memorable

face–laughing too hard about good times in the past,

experiences of your college career. As a spirited extro-

the monstrosities of freshman year, and future regrets

vert getting acclimated to in-person activities, a night

of going out on a Monday night. Finally satisfied with

filled with music, dancing, and new faces sounded

our appearance, as we piled into and out of the UberXL

ELIANA JENKINS downtown, we entered our first party of the semester ready to meet the new faces around us, experiencing

happened. Something did happen though. The bitter,

the blissful euphoria of LED lights and loud music, hap-

sour potency of the girl’s drink stained not just my

pily enjoying the beat of EDM, together.

clothes for the rest of the Week but seeped through the

However, like any high, the excitement slowly

six nights remaining. The issue that began that night,

wore off. The issue began on the first night with a swift

that had been building up through little annoyances

beckoning hand motion by two boys–athletes–I had

here and there, finally reached its climax on the fourth

met the previous semester. Careful to avoid the wrath

night at Marquee Restaurant and Lounge.

of the small gathering of girls a few feet behind me

Marquee is owned by my friend’s family

clawing for their attention, as much as I tried to keep

friends. During the second semester of our first year at

my attention on them, the piercing glare of one girl, in

WashU, Marquee became our safe haven and second

particular, commanded it elsewhere. From a distance,

home. At Marquee, the bouncers warmly smiled at us

her eyes fixated on me, sizing me down to nothing, as if

when we walked in, the waiters knew our 2 AM orders

I was her prey and she was ready to pounce. As the dis-

of Chicken and Waffles with two slices of maple bacon

tance between us closed, her eyes darted to the boys.

on the side by heart, and the DJ knew, instinctively,

Without speaking a single word to me, like I was a

just the right time to play the “The Cupid Shuffle” to get

ghost, she interrupted our conversation to address the

everyone dancing the night away. Most importantly, my

boys directly, with one hand trailing one of their chests,

friends and I never had to wince anytime a rap song

and the other gripping a plastic cup filled to the brim

started playing; we never had to side-eye certain faces

with liquor. Her persistence in dismissing my entire

in the crowd, get on our tippy toes right before that

existence was distracting. I knew I was going to lose

awkward encounter with a dreaded slur, and sigh when

this competition for attention, but as I turned to leave,

we heard an angry “Who said it?” In Marquee, the cus-

her beverage plummeted out of the plastic cup onto my hair, dripping onto my chest, then drenching my shirt. Feeling the cold liquid seeping through my top, onto my skin, I could no longer hear the music but the deafening sound of awkward silence. Trying to convince myself she didn’t mean it, I walked briskly to the bathroom with my friends trailing behind me. As I looked in the mirror, thinking the show must go on, I plastered a smile on my wet face and refused to let the confrontation ruin the rest of Welcome Week, returning to the dance floor nodding to the music as if nothing

tom was to exchange compliments, nail technicians,

an unknown group of guys, the only room left for us

hair salons, and beauty supply store recommendations

was a ledge under a tiny spotlight. The small ledge

with the other women there, always acknowledging how

barely fit us all, but the spotlight shining down on us

beautiful they looked because, if not us, who would?

was a reminder that perhaps, we weren’t as small as

Marquee was our special place where we could see

we felt. As we finally began to settle into a good time,

and be seen, for we arrived knowing we were wanted

a chilling voice behind me destroyed every possibility.

and left knowing we were welcome anytime.

“We don’t know you guys, get down,” demanded this

Marquee as a part of Welcome Week, how-

voice. I ignored him. Again, “we’ve reserved this spot,

ever, didn’t sit quite right. Strutting into the venue as

it’s ours.” I ignored him, again. Then, with a final “get

usual after waiting in an unusually long line, our con-

back down there,” I whipped my head around to see,

fidence sunk to the floor. Stuck between hundreds of

closer, his posse of brothers in Ralph Lauren polos

drunk, stupored students, stumbling into my personal

and boat shoes. With a forceful nudge, his cold hands

space, my friends frantically searched for the booth in

pushed me to where he thought I belonged: down on

which we usually sat. Strange new voices screamed

the floor beneath him.

orders at the waiters too distracted to smile our way,

Until that moment, I didn’t want to believe

slaves to the demands of tone-deaf students. The ca-

what I subconsciously already knew, what my friends

cophony of shouting clouded our judgment: we couldn’t

and I tried so hard to look past, and what my parents

see anyone or anything. We were strangers in our own

warned me about. Was this boy not the same person

home experiencing what felt like a foreign invasion,

my dad told me would only pay attention to me when

and when we finally reached our booth, conquered by

the DJ decided to play a rap song? Who, the next day,

ELIANA JENKINS

As eight dark-skinned girls who showed up together and left together, we stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of fair faces. No matter how much we smiled and tried to initiate conversations with new people just like everyone else, energy was rarely reciprocated, because despite being together, we were alone. Welcome Week was no longer a welcoming experience for me as a WashU student, but a harsh introduction to the reality of being a black woman at a Predominantly White Institution (PWI). It became a week-long reiteration of the fact that I did not belong on this campus. The feeling started out subtle, crept up on me like someone trying to scare me on Halloween, but hurt like a full blow to the gut. I’d often catch myself that same week staring longingly at my phone screen at a different world, watching my cousin at Howard University and my best friend at Spelman College having the time of their lives among other black and brown students, wishing I was at a HBCU. If anything, I definitely would not be experiencing the dismissal, discrimination, and downright disrespect that my friends would stare right past me into nothing, like I didn’t

and I encountered. Disappointingly, just by the second

exist? Wasn’t his friend the same person who, after

week of the school year, our attitudes towards WashU

being invited to a Greek event, asked my friends “Are

parties manifested in a letter written by my friend to

you guys really WashU students?” We didn’t complain

herself following the final night of Welcome Week: “Hi

when the DJ refused to play any genre outside of EDM

future [name], I just wanted to let you know that this

because of the desires of the “majority.” We didn’t

will be your last white party of the school year. You

complain when a girl tried selling one of us an event

always feel ugly and undesirable and you never have

ticket for 50 dollars before selling the same ticket to

fun. Please remember this for future references. Best,

a sorority girl for $20. We didn’t even complain after

[name].” WashU parties and white parties should not

the Sweet Caroline spectacle our first night, leaving

be synonymous, but after Welcome Week that’s what

the bar feeling like social outcasts in a high school

they became.

chick flick. So, in a rare occurrence, when a girl with

As a response to my friend, I just wanted to

long dirty blond hair, white claw in hand, followed by

let you know that you will not let this ruin your social

a blue-eyed boy impatiently waiting to dance with her

college experience. You are, and will always be beauti-

who looked at us like we were a waste of time, asked

ful and wanted in my mind, never failing to be the life

us if we were having fun on the last night, all we

of the party. Please remember that for future referenc-

could muster was a communal sigh. We couldn’t lie

es, in this space we call home, we don’t need others to

anymore. Despite it being a welcome week, we were

welcome us– we’ll welcome ourselves.

not welcome. Not because we were socially awkward,

Best, Eliana.

or unattractive, or mean. We were just–well–black.

PORTRAIT WITH AUGMENTED FOURTH

Portrait with augmented fourth by Mahtab Chaudhry design by Elaine Choy

Sun-swaddled and burned bare, I ran my tongue over fresh sores, probing. The sweet ache framing my sunken stomach, soothing its pains. It came in waves, the rolling emptiness of it, each time no less solid. The forest’s weary bones shuddered, tilting towards grief. Each elm gave a tender tug to my hair, the branches kissing my face, leaving it slick and torn. My feet, too, felt each stone’s welcome, the tough skin of them grazing the earth’s solitary wounds. Running, still, fingering the pangs of past and savoring the chosen hurts of now. Half-starved and hearing the memory of smoke, I stumbled through oaky embraces, crawled through underbrush, arriving at a clearing. The whisper-grey remains of fire hung about the trees, clouded the remains of — people. Three. Caved-in throats slashed, delicate ribs crushed. Sick sprayed along the woman’s sunken skull. She must have watched the others. Their skin was mottled now, blackened and peeling where flames grazed it. Rotting. But only just.

MAHTAB CHAUDHRY

Their rank stink clung to the air, the unforgiving musk of it thickening my breath. Tell you a secret.

The whole terrible truth of it, what I won’t ever tell to my mother or God or a priest or even to you. The smell of those burnt-up bodies was everywhere. I hadn’t eaten in five days. The truth is simple. It made me hungry.

work in s s e r g o r p by Erika Wallace design by Colleen Avila

Construction site: Be careful It’s dangerous in here There’s fury and agony Mixed with sorrow and terror There’s dreams and nightmares Two sides of a coin That fight to the death, constantly

Welcome, everyone To a mind in distress These walls hold the stories Of trauma and tears Caution tape marks the spot Of each scar, each bruise Look around You’ll find them everywhere

Inside, you see the destruction The broken pieces astray Outside, you’d never know Her mask is iron clad, impenetrable Hardly revealing the battle within So keep this secret And keep it close Don’t ever give it away

Wait! You can’t leave now There’s more to see tonight When the world gets quiet And the thoughts speak up Overlapping, louder and louder They make you wonder How did she survive in this place so long?

Sometimes the bad Overshadows the good But that’s next on the list Of the things we’re going to fix Every day, we’re here Working harder and harder To pick up the pieces And put her back together again.

Don’t worry though It’s not all dark There’s light here too Laughter and smiles Days of astounding joy A twinkle in her eye When her family is near Hopes and dreams That shine from within

WHY WE SHOULD LOOK TO PLUTO TO DETERMINE GENERATIONAL SHIFTS

Why We Should Look to Pluto to Determine Generational Shifts

by Tiangelique Dunigan design by Elaine Choy

Taking a deep dive into everyone’s favorite non-planet … Or is it a planet again? Who knows these days… First, let’s take a deep dive into Pluto’s importance in the world of astrology. Pluto is named after the Roman God of the Underworld. It takes about 248 years to orbit the sun but can spend 12 to 31 years in an astrological sign. It rules the sign of Scorpio and is exalted in the sign of Leo. Its position in one’s chart lets them know what areas of life must be transformed during their time on Earth. The book of rulership by Rex E. Bills shows Pluto being associated with a number of things but for this context, it’s important to note that Pluto is associated with: •

Annihilation

Gen X. Millenials. Gen Z. We’ve created names and

•

The astral plane or astral world

dates for every shift in generation. The question is

•

The subconscious workings of the body

who is deciding this and why do they have such power

•

Great catastrophes

to do so? Don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely important

•

Control

to have distinctions between generations to observe

•

Legacies

cultural and personal divisions amongst age groups,

•

Rebirth

but I think there is a more qualified body to hold such

•

Renewal

an important job. What better than the celestial body

•

Revolutionary upheaval

of the dwarf planet Pluto! You might ask why a tiny

•

Transformation

planet (or non-planet) should be the deciding factor

•

Turning points

for determining whole generations, and that’s fair.

•

The unknown

Astrologists have been studying Pluto and its influence

Since Pluto moves so slowly, it is often shared by

on generations for years, and their work tells us exactly

members of a specific generation and it is considered

why Pluto is best for the job.

a generational planet. For example, I have Pluto in Sagittarius in my chart, while my mother has Pluto in

TIANGELIQUE DUNIGAN Libra in her chart. She is a Millennial and I am a part

generation as most associated with being fixed

of Gen Z. Pluto’s energy defines the problems and challenges of entire generations and looking at the sign in which Plu-

or stuck in their ways. •

Pluto in Scorpio (1983-1995) •

The second half of the Millennial generation.

to is in shows social and personal divisions between

Scorpio is associated with intensity, passion,

members of different generations. For example, Pluto

secrets, the subconscious, vindictiveness and

was in Aries from 1823 to 1853. Aries is the planet of

deepness. It is also associated with what’s ta-

action, ambition, leadership, competition, and impul-

boo which includes things like sex, drugs, death

siveness. During this time period, the United States

and rebirth. It is a fixed sign and Pluto is at home

has several moments in which they try to compete and

in this sign. During this period of time in America

gain control of the remainder of the entire area that

specifically, a lot of governmental secrets were

is now known as the continental U.S. One of those

being exposed. The Cold War, scandals involving

moments is when they go to war with Mexico for acqui-

sexual encounters between high profile mem-

sition of parts of its land (which included Texas, New

bers of government (Clarence Thomas and Bill

Mexico, and several other states and locked European

Clinton (not the Monica Lewinsky incident but

countries from access to it. American citizens spent

Paula Jones)) and the drug epidemic or the era

many years after competing for land in the west. The

of the War on Drugs (things that are considered

acquisition of these parts of land changed the trajec-

taboo) occurred during this time. Ballroom

tory of the United States in its beginning in taking its

culture and conversations about sexuality and

claim as a world power. There are many other exam-

gender rose to prominence as well during this

ples of Pluto exerting its influence on society.

time. There are a multitude of examples of how Pluto’s

Some other examples of Pluto in a sign being a repre-

shifts in signs affect generations. We could trace back

sentative of a generation:

centuries! Yet, generations still aren’t determined by

•

the sign Pluto is in. It’s quite unfortunate consider-

Pluto in Sagittarius (1995-2008) •

•

Generation Z. Sagittarius is a mutable sign, be-

ing this. Pluto’s influence is quite powerful and quite

ing associated with higher education, rebellion

frankly, we, as a society, really should be looking to

and culture. It brings in the age of the internet,

Pluto to determine the start of new generations. In

social media, and a larger shift towards pursuing

general, I think we should consult astrological events

higher education and large-scale globalization.

in many other parts of our lives and society but I doubt

Gen Z is also considered to be a very mutable

that is something that will happen. Astrology is quite

generation, often very flexible in their outlook.

an interesting topic, and with younger generations

Pluto in Leo (1939-1958) •

taking large interest in it, I believe that although it may

Baby Boomers. Leo, a fixed sign, being associ-

not become popular on a societal scale, it won’t die

ated with children and birth rates (explains the

out.

baby boom), high society, royalty, entertainment and the center stage brings a large decline in the film industry compared to the generation prior. It does however bring Civil Rights issues to center stage. Since Leo is fixed, it makes sense that the other generations see the Baby Boomer

APPLE PICKING PAVED FEMALE SIN

apple picking paved female sin apple picking paved female sin fruit borne and garden sacrificed for mouths of men from trees at eckerts i gorge. stolen dirt-dusted apples belly full with guilt and gastrin eating becomes a trap. cheekbones whetted, soft empty stomach. waist carved by absence, body soaks up oxygen in lieu of wasted space. if i quell every desire and pretend i didn’t swallow knowledge

by Elizabeth Joseph design by Sofia Gutierrez

ELIZABETH JOSEPH

i can cease to exist. If I throw myself in beige burlap sack and reveal magic trick metamorphosis, I can disappear. Pretend I am distinguishable from the monster, like I’ve ever existed without it. Pretend that I am not a woman, despite remaining in this body as if denying desire isn’t an x-linked trait. I am a house haunted by myself. Knowledge is cyanide seeds in an apple. Biting them chips my teeth but i swallow anyway.

UNTITLED

Untitled by JJ Coley

and i, too emerged from the foliage different and older but not quite brighter felt closer to God bloomed into a new version of myself beautiful, but hardened not even the fires burned the same that summer, somehow lost the spark that made them so vibrant i changed along with the leaves lost my spark along with the fire became one with nature, one with growth and loss i too, had witnessed too many seasons in one year too much strife and too much hardship and turned a new leaf, stronger to look towards the future

JJ COLEY

image by Rachel Paulk

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ISSUE 12