Colour Issue No. 11 by Colour Magazine

ISSUE 11 SPRING 2021

ditor e e m the editor th o r rf e t et ditor ee h t

lette r fr

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

There is too much, isn’t there? Or that might be just me? I find it hard to believe that we haven’t gone through many lifetimes already in our late-teen-some, twenty-some year old bodies. It’s too much. It seems like I’ll repeat myself into oblivion, calling out, “it’s too much”, forever. Even if it doesn’t stop, I’ll hope that you’ll hear it and call back for me to just listen and nod. I’ve heard the joke over and over again, a recount of how we used to say “if only I had time” only for us to be confronted with a global pandemic which has made us halt or change so many of the things we used to do. Now that we have “time”, we still haven’t done any of the things we said we’d do, the joke goes. I don’t need time though. I need peace. Contentment is holy, I think. So if you can manage to wrangle a moment of peace to read this, I hope you enjoy it, and feel it spent well.

With love, Colleen Avila Editor in Chief Colour

CONTENTS

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE TEAM

GHAZAL FOR NOBODY, ENDING IN HEARTBREAK

MOTHERGARDEN

I AM DIGGING SPLINTERS OUT FROM UNDER MY NAILS

“(UN)PRECEDENTED! NEVERTHELESS,AN EXPERIENCED BAD BITCH

A SUNFLOWERS INK

FOR THE BEES THAT WERE NEVER HELD

MY LOVE

14 LINES: EXISTING SIMULTANEOUSLY IN LOVE LETTERS AND SUICIDE NOTES

DESI FOR A DAY

LA IGLESIA

AN ODE TO BREATH

KAMRAH

GROUNDING ASPECT

colleen avila

genesis mcree

rachel paulk

sarah auches

maleah downton

jj coley

ahmed motiwala

e a m t he t eam the t the team

sola adeyemi

umar hanif mahtab chaudhry

jebron perkins

anika kumar stephanie chu

tori harwell

paola santiago omaer naeem

nirali somia

rida qureshi audrey church

ryan ricks marc ridgell

Ghazal for Nobody, Ending in Heartbreak by Ahmed Motiwala design by Sarah Auches

“the leaves believe such letting go is love such love is faith such faith is grace such grace is god i agree with the leaves” lu c ille c lif to n

and that war ends bloodless and bodiless in the past, forgotten. the echoes of drums meld with the night’s still air, forgotten. keep the motherland close in mind soul and heart. memories are all we have left, or have you forgotten? have you pondered upon a budding love undone and fruitless? recite words of a holy tongue, do not let them be forgotten. the Moonrise still looms over desolate Palestine, her illustrious beauty cannot be ignored nor forgotten. your voice smooth silk, soft whispers in empty rooms, cold silence lingers when they are forgotten. two homes, on and in the earth, an ancient history. greenery sprouts alive from both, they are not forgotten. chastised for stolen squares and smokes in the day, would you have one with me? by night all is forgotten.

AHMED MOTIWALA

those homes were taken furnished, all we have left are keys. the Exiles have fled Jerusalem, their plight God has forgotten. today two faces shown in the mirror, in loving embrace. tomorrow it will be empty, reflections are always forgotten. the qawwal writes your ghazals here, O Father, but to him, his Mother’s melodies are all forgotten. knuckles bloodied and broken, brown bodies buried by brotherless brothers, sins stay unforgiven and unforgotten. promises of yesterday and today and tomorrow. broken in Babylon, do i wait for you or am i forgotten? they ask for the Motiwala, the One of Pearls, the Jeweler i tell them his stones are unturned and his pearls forgotten.

MOTHERGARDEN

Mothergarden

Written by Umar Hanif Design by Colleen Avila

The peris told me – taking no care to be gentle: Bring your sacrifice (you are allowed one), make your request in a low voice, do not amble, there is no negotiation. In their statue garden, where the stone idols speak through peris, the air wanders off and doesn’t say when she’ll be back. She will tarry among sites of marble and granite, tendril-strangled, and unused. She lingers amidst a menagerie of statues — all hybrid creatures – a Mantis Shrew with buck teeth and pincers, a dragon with the face of an eel, ten stone chickens with a variety of legs, and a Man Bear bellowing from the center. The statue which had most given itself over to the foliage was a boy only visible from the waist up, as if being birthed from the ground below. He is calm in the face of the vines choking him. Elsewhere, two marble men held each other by the waist, one sobbing and one laughing. Emperors long forgotten, winged babies, a Sun God, a regiment of solemn soldiers — and I came to join them. * * *

We were mothers and so filled hours with each other, swapping stories in the idle hours of sunlight, while children prattled in the corner. Discussed was any life that was not a mother’s. “The garden is supposed to be past the old water tower,” As she spoke, Maria — Roddy’s mom — used her spider-leg-fingers to snap open pistachios lightning quick, filling a bowl of shells in a blink. “But if the buildings become unmarked you’ve gone too far. You won’t find anyone in that district to give you directions. Indra went there and came back to find her ex-husband (you remember, she would have purple spots on her arm) had passed in his sleep. Last year, Curran from the university, the one who took care of all those puppies, the last thing he’d done before fucking off — sorry Michelle — before heading off to fuck-knows-where and explore the world was visit the garden. Before that, he was pinching cigs from the K-Mart, he was so destitute.” A programmer’s wife: “Jinn, then. Wish-granters.” Nearby, my boy tapped my foot and I dropped a pistachio into his outstretched hand. Ungrown feet scuttled across to the other side of the room. The story-telling mother shook her head: “They’re not a charity.” Instead, trades were arranged. Indra gave up her mother’s shawl. Curran’s dog was found in the garden a day after the owner disappeared, flies buzzing around the dried gap in its neck.

UMAR HANIF

“Mama. Mama.” Across the room, my boy’s face was red with hurried blood. His fingers slipped around the tiny crack of the pistachio, failing to find an entry point. His sister was faster than me to him: A chubby mass in a Youth XXL hoodie whipped to his side and I lost his eyes. * * *

“Our masters say, you’re free to return,” the peri blocking my path said, “when you’ve thought of an offering.” The peris had fluttered around my person and found nothing. Confused, they asked if I had hid my offering, if this was some sort of joke. They placed their bodies — none wider at the breast than the end of a spatula — in my line of sight, as if to block my irreverent gaze from their masters, the statues. I don’t see peris — not in town, in the neighborhood, not straggling around gas stations — they’re bound to the statues — serving their will. What would happen if I took them from their post? I could snatch one in the palm of my hand and mad dash, disappearing into an alley. Don’t prisoners released after too long behind bars find themselves itching for the inside of a cell? Their brain-shape is stuck that way. “I’m not greedy. I only want to give.” Maybe that was when they caught on that my stare was a leer, hungry for their everything in marble and granite: Etched joines, etched creases, etched bellies. I asked them, tender and tired, if I could be turned into a statue. * * *

His sister left me in increments, inching away with steps too small for the naked eye, until they rolled together into an irretrievable gap. She couldn’t make brunch, she was volunteering for Thanksgiving, she had missed the email asking if she’d come to Curran’s funeral. I woke up one morning and no trace of her remained with me. She had been the one to watch warily from a distance. He grew sickly and precious for weeks at a time, needing my constant attention and care. But of course they needed me both. I was their oldest friend, a surveying soul — knew them before they knew themselves. Only I could keep them from

MOTHERGARDEN

wandering, starve them of indulgences, confine them to the straight and narrow. And the bruises and cracked glass and sleepless nights and heavy eyes would, I hoped, be seen by them as a fine cost for securing their future. It was a Sunday when he knocked on my door. She was there, standing sentry by his side — the first time she’d come to my door in years. The edges around his mouth were red and peeling from his eczema and flakes of skin fell off as he said he’d come to get his things. I looked only at the boy. “What do you see?” He was grown now, wasn’t he? Tying his own shoes, cooking his own meals. What could he see? “Am I a villain? Do I look like a villain? I would die for you, you know that? I would saw through every bone and cut off my legs for you.” * * *

In confusion, it turns out, the peris’ wings angle awkwardly, the left higher and the right fluttering faster. “We could kill you. Cure your son. Get rid of your daughter.” They didn’t object to my request, only proposed alternatives. I shook my head. I was nearing my last leg — I could feel it in my knees. I needed my children to feel me, always — to know something of me lingered in this world permanently. “My children run around with parts of me.” I lament. “First it was things I gave — my name, my nose. Then they began to burp like me. Sing like me, flinch like me. The cadence in their questions is mine but they think they can run past me. They need to remember me, I need to be preserved.” “But it has to cost you something-” “I am giving you everything.” The operation happened before I had a moment to understand it was happening. I was paralyzed, but it felt nothing like that. I was wrapped in half-sleep with no desire to wake from the stone slumber. I realize later what I have given the garden. They come to plant their sorrows and flowers, but I find neither peace nor anger in their eyes. I do not recognize anything except the garden. I cannot locate the frail boy before me or his bitter companion in my memories. All I know is I am in pursuit — me and my granite bones in an endless chase, and with no sense why.

UMAR HANIF

MAHTAB CHAUDHRY

i am digging splinters out from under my nails

by Mahtab Chaudhry photo by Ahmed Motiwala

Now that the taste of your name no longer rattles in my mouth, I can admit that you are gone. Can allow myself to imagine your unseeing eyes and suppress a flinch.

Now, you will never—

And the elm trees will still— But your figure just— Sometimes I trace teeth with my tongue and imagine saying your name. Cup the space around my ears and picture reeling in the words you might say back, catching and holding them close, guarding with serrated claw and corded shoulder, something precious to cherish. Please don’t tell.

Forget the moment of anguish, leave the knife on the table, toss the newspaper. Let’s jump back to the trees, where we are ageless and sun-warm and everything is wild. You tell me to meet you by the elms, and I do. But it can never last, and I am drawn back to the tender cruelty of now. Imitating your shade, dreaming your bitten fingers and bloody mouth. I go to the trees and wait for you to come. You don’t come. I keep waiting.

CYCLE OF ABUSE AND FORGIVENESS

UNPRECEDENTED!

”(Un)precedented! Nevertheless, An E x p e r i e n c e d B a d B i t c h .” .” by Marc Ridgell

He feels the base, rumblin’ his heart and openin’ up his soul. *insert one unbothered no-hair flip in front of friends* [the thirsty GBF-yearner’s POV—let’s call her the Karen Jr. #1]: Why does Zander act like that? He’s so extra and dramatic but I love him— “Oooh! kill it sis.” *insert an almost no-hair flip* [Zander’s POV]: Zander stops. He spots a Karen Jr. across the quad in her natural state. But, this is the acceptance for being flamboyant that he’s used to—“Thanks, girl!” *insert a no-hair flip with a sub(conscious) booty pop out because you just got a lil’ confidence from the unneeded validation of a white girl* [Karen Jr. #1 and her Karen Jr. ass posse’s POV]: They converse and skiddle-skedaddle like Skittles among each other—in their XS monochrome tank tops and (uneth-

ically) thrifted jeans—whispering, but Zander hears them say, “OMG he’s so cute. I want to be his best friend.” *insert that signal to your Black friends that it’s time to leave the park because they know what’s up* [the Zachs and Matts and Tylers with them—the lowkey homophobic white boyfriends of the Karen Juniors—POV]: The Zachs and Matts and Tylers look at each other simultaneously then look at Zander and do the nigga nod to him— giving Zander their acceptance because their girlfriends are obsessed with him. *insert awkward nigga nod because Zander doesn’t know how to be a nigga—even though he’s still a nigga* [Zander’s POV]: Finally out that park. 65 seconds? Damn a new record. Across the street, Zander and his Black friends see that new vegan café that was once an abandoned housing project with robust graffiti on the side of the bricks—there’s also a yoga studio on the second floor and a startup

MARC RIDGELL

on the third. But—a Black Lives Matter sign in the café window? Shit, Zander and his friends might just have to enter. *insert Zander no-hair flip again before the skedaddle in the café* [Zander’s Black friend #1 POV:] “$8 for a small green iced tea?” [Zander’s POV:] “Sitting down with their Macbooks, I see the girlbosses with their Starburst pink scrunchies, sipping some $11 celery apple juice.’’ On the left, Zander spots the cashier giving the muscular, gunstrapped cops 20 percent off on their Black coffee (smells like Nestlé)—and then he sees the men in shirts, ties, musky cologne, and rolexes wrapped around their wrists laughing with the police. “Chile, let’s go to 7-eleven and call it a day. I can’t even use the bathroom in

here ‘cuz I don’t wanna buy shit.” [Zander’s Black friend #2 POV:] “Period, let’s get the fuck outta here ASAP!” *insert 14 collective steps out that vegan café, 13 minutes of walking, 12 crack-ups, 11 golden-hour selfies, 10 dollars worth of 7-Eleven junk food (for Zander AND his friends), and 9 sips of a big gulp Sprite (strong like Mickey D’s)* He feels like electricity, walkin’ down the avenue unbothered, and hears his sexy Ciara playlist in his head, unphased and unilaterally anti-neoliberal in this gentrified ass block—ass city. But Zander’s just sitting (well, walking) pretty.

image by Anika Kumar and Stephanie Chu

A SUNFLOWER’S INK

a sunflower’s ink maleah downton

Every inch of my skin writhes in pain upon the first prick. Burning. The sensation consumes me. My eyes dart for distraction— the wall, the painting, the chair, the mirror. Despite my efforts, the pain persists asserting its presence with each stroke of pressure. Burning. Watching in terror as the etched stencil mutates to ink, I question the pure stability of my sanity— Why again did I want a tattoo? Initially, the decision seemed smart. Logical even. My pro-con list and Pinterest board of ideas supported this choice. As the newest member of adulthood, I deemed it my duty to take part in this cherished rite of passage. The permanent alteration of one’s skin under the presumption of art. It didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time. My choice of tattoo was simple—

MALEAH DOWNTON

The sunflower Symbolizing strength, perseverance, persistence, happiness. Its benevolence personified everything absent within my life. Everything I aspired to possess. Deep down, I hoped its powers would imprint onto me. Wishing. I imagine myself as the sunflower. Serene—at peace. Standing tall in my garden of happiness, following and chasing the sun’s smile. Wishing. My stencil has fully merged into an outline. The pain begins to relax in tempo as my skin numbs to the needle’s intensity. Its sharpness dulls like a used pencil. The permanent alteration of one’s skin under the presumption of art.

A SUNFLOWER’S INK

Looking now with the silenced pain, I take in the artwork sitting atop my dark skin. It’s beautiful; Marveling at its glory, the ink seeps past my skin— I can feel it. Its warmth. Its vibrance. With the outline in place, the artist begins to bring the piece to life. Green. Yellow. Orange. — the colors are natural. Homely. A smile creeps across my face. The pain turns mute in the shadow of the sunflower’s brilliance. Obverting my stare at the artwork on my skin, I revert back to the mirror.

MALEAH DOWNTON

Reflecting. The ink has made its way through my veins— It reaches and grasps my soul. Love; the sunflower radiates my self-determination. In the mirror, the sun shines back on to me. Reflecting. Within the sunflower’s ink, carried the potion to my inner self. My inner sunflower. Developing roots atop my soul, at last, it finally sprouts.

JEBRON PERKINS

for the bees that were never held by Jebron Perkins image by Anika Kumar and Stephanie Chu

CYCLE OF ABUSE AND FORGIVENESS

Beauty in the eye of the beekeeper ‘Ugly’ stings the soul of the peace seeker Beauty severs ties tethered by forever ‘Ugly’ children born holding scarlet letters Beauty is the lines of the spells that can’t be cast The outline of a future murdered by the past It is the venom running through snakes That wreak havoc in the gorgon’s wake ‘Ugly’ is a metaphor for an unmade reality An eternal ascension withholding the apogee A tree planted in the soil of indifference A manifestation of your own deliverance Beauty loves like broken glass loves fresh wrists How rusty hooks love the mouths of fish The way us humans love mother earth Just like the cursed love the curse ‘Ugly’ loves like hands worn as a necklace Nine lives lived a little too reckless The spirit of freedom wholly invoked A conscious rejection of society’s yoke Beauty makes you bulletproof From the evils of this wretched place But ugly makes you invincible From beauty’s violent ricochet To be undesired or beyond compare ‘Ugly’ finds no beauty there

TORI HARWELL

My love

by Tori Harwell image by Anika Kumar and Stephanie Chu

Fuck prying eyes, my love is spot-lighted with a kiss on the cheek. Consummated with the tremble of a heart murmur that long ago seemed to disappear. Held in the crook of my neck—tears slipping into our mouths as our lips part. Maybe it is a taste of a salt whispered goodbye Glinting like the polish of a public break down, One screaming to be seeing but not molested. My love is gripping the idea of innocence With white knuckled fury. It is saying just let me kiss the soul that I adore without judgement. It is chalk on the ground. All I am asking is that you don’t wash away my love with your temptation or storms of bibled righteousness.

NIRALI SOMIA

14 lines: Existing simultaneously in love letters and suicide notes by Nirali Somia

1. 2. 3. 4.

inspired by Doc Luben I’m sorry. I tried to tell you so many times. You mean the world to me. There’s just something about words and the way they flow. Things that are too heavy to crawl up the tunnel of your throat, are so easily spoken through the tip of a pen. 5. I wish it didn’t have to happen this way. 6. Time lasts both a second and an eternity. It sneaks up on you and suddenly that thing you knew was coming, that looming reality, is standing there right in front of your eyes. 7. There’s a lavender candle in my bedroom. I can’t smell it without thinking of you. 8. In some parallel universe, far far away, nobody leaves. 9. There’s a hill behind my house. One morning I layed on my side and let gravity hug me tight. At first it was exhilarating, the air twirling the strands of my hair around its slim fingers. But it morphed into dark, wet dirt clawing at my skin. The gashes never fully healed. Why does everything seem so beautiful until you’re fully submerged? 10. I saved the last message you left. It’s the only one left in my inbox. I don’t know why I did it. I suppose it was so I could hear your voice whenever I wanted. 11. There’s this constant ache in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t think it would hurt this much. 12. Do you ever have to remind yourself how to breathe? 13. In the summer, the world glows green with golden rays, and everything is filled with promise. It feels like I can do anything, be anything, say anything. But winter comes and promises end, and summer only lasts a second, after all. 14. I love you.

DESI FOR A DAY

Desi for a Day: The Commercialization & Appropriation of Brown Culture in the US

by Rida Qureshi design by Colleen Avila

Chai in India—good chai—is darker than my

I’ve asked relatives if they’d like a cup of chai

skin. It steeps in tea leaves and spices for ten min-

so often that the question is second nature, leaving my

utes, boiling and cooling over and over again until the

mouth just as quickly as Assalamualaikum. It’s the one

smell of star anise and clove singes your nose hairs

Urdu sentence I know I won’t stumble over.

and burns the bottom of your pot. Good chai calls you

back twice, three times a day, making an addict out of

lessly as my father learned the news over the phone

anyone. A thick skin forms on top if you leave it out for

and froze. Stoic. Afraid to cry or move or breathe. How

even a second, so good chai is guzzled the moment

do you help someone grieve a life you barely knew? You

it comes off the stove, burning your lips and staining

don’t—so I made him a cup of chai instead.

your teeth. Leftover tea leaves at the bottom of your

cup scratch your throat on their way down. Good chai is

sorry, I love you, and I care about you, all in one sip.

When my grandfather died, I watched help-

Chai is how my family communicates; I’m

painful and perfect.

Every family’s chai recipe is different, and ev-

I remember feeling so happy when I first

ery desi family thinks their recipe is the best. Learning

heard my friends talk about getting chai tea lattes from

my mother’s felt like inheriting a family secret—a milk-

Starbucks. After years of being terrified to bring desi

to-water-to-tea leaf ratio whispered between ancestors

food to school, it felt like my classmates had finally

with a smirk and a wink. When I know how much sugar

matured past the days of cringing at my culture. Com-

to add by instinct, I can feel Nani’s hands on mine,

ments about the smell of my lunch, raised eyebrows at

guiding me through the same measurements she

the hair on my arms, tugs at my hijab, and mockeries

makes thousands of miles away. “Chai aati,” my mom

of my parents’ accents all felt like one bad dream.

proudly announces whenever my cousins ask about me

on the phone. Chai comes to her naturally.

Starbucks, I was convinced I had been given the wrong

So when I ordered my first chai latte from

RIDA QURESHI

Indeed, profit is the most important aspect to take into account when analyzing cultural appropriation in a capitalistic society. Who profits when cafes sell golden chai lattes, when boutiques steal traditional Indian textile designs, when White-owned restaurants serve chicken tikka masala?

order—that the milk-white, sugary, spiceless drink in my hands couldn’t possibly be chai. But as my white friends raved about their iced drinks, it became clear

er traded her sarees for pencil skirts, my dad shaved

to me that my culture would only be acceptable in its

his beard, and I stopped using my birth name. It’s hypo-

most white-washed, diluted form. The mockery of my

critical to claim that our sudden tokenization is “woke”

culture had not stopped. It had evolved.

and “culturally appreciative” because we have so little

culture left to appreciate--in truth, tokenization today

In the last decade, white America has finally

realized the value of brown culture and, predictably,

only reduces desi culture to the palatable aspects we

found a way to profit from it. It has taken the values,

curated, the ones we knew wouldn’t get us killed. It

symbols, and customs us desis were taught to sup-

rewards a harmful coping mechanism. It encourages

press and has scrubbed them with bleach, stripping

the ingrained desi-American mentality that we must be

them of impurities like history and spirituality. White

profitable to survive.

America says that, for once, I’m allowed to be brown—

as long as I do it the better, whiter, more palatable way.

take into account when analyzing cultural appropriation

What’s most frustrating about White America’s

in a capitalistic society. Who profits when cafes sell

newfound infatuation with desi culture is that we are

golden chai lattes, when boutiques steal traditional

already the most diluted versions of ourselves. Our

Indian textile designs, when White-owned restaurants

success as the model minority has always hinged on

serve chicken tikka masala? Who reaps the benefits

one crucial skill: our ability to quietly assimilate. Years

of our exoticization? If the recent string of anti-Asian

of colonization have taught us that as long as we keep

hate crimes in the US has made anything clear, it’s

our heads down and seem useful, we’ll be spared from

that Asians have nothing to gain here and everything to

the worst harm racism can do--so after 9/11, my moth

lose.

Indeed, profit is the most important aspect to

RIDA QURESHI

While Vanessa Hudges wears a bindi to

Coachella, the Jersey Dotbusters beat brown men to death with bricks just for living next door. While Rihanna poses nude in a Ganesha necklace and gets Arabic tattoos, temples and mosques are destroyed in conservative states. While Gucci dresses its white models in hijabs and turbans, dozens of Muslims are massacred in mosques and Sikh boys are brutalized in middle school locker rooms. While white women make millions from yoga videos and books on manifestation, Indian-Americans carry generational trauma from colonists who deemed those same practices uncivilized and demonic.

Towelhead, tech support, terrorist, when we

do it. Exotic and exciting when they do it. How are we suddenly not good enough for our own skin?

When South Asians enter predominantly

white spheres, we are constantly faced with choices as to how we must present ourselves. Do we ‘play the diversity card’ and strategically self-Orientalize, making ourselves out to be rare and oppressed? Do we lean into the model minority myth and emphasize our academics, our discipline? Or do we follow our parents’ lead and embody the whitest, most acceptable version of ourselves? Being our unadulterated selves is a privilege that we do not have--a risk that past precedence has taught us to never take.

My frustration stems from issues much more

complex than a Starbucks chai latte. I’m mad about exoticization because it predicates my value on how well I stand out from the crowd, how exciting of a spectacle I am--differences I’ve been taught to fear my entire childhood. I’m mad because, every day, white people pretend to invent “new and improved” caricatures of my culture and are praised for it. I’m mad because my culture is only one of many that endure the same treatment in America. I’m mad because lives of color only seem to matter when white people have something to gain from them.

I hope you’re mad too.

LA IGLESIA

la iglesia by Paola Santiago design by Colleen Avila

la iglesia stands empty now, and her cobblestone courtyard would lie whose branches are embraced tenderly by against cracked and aged pavement which serves both as a suffocation and as earth to hell to damnation to sanctity and back to where the ahuehuete wait, the old men of the water, eternal sentinels of Eden’s garden.

where Sunday after service was once punctuated by vendors’ cries of prices baratos and tapestries bellezas ringing throughout the pueblo and city-life noises, inca doves cooing from atop sun-faded gazebos and passersby grasping their children by the hand as they signal for un taxi, the stray dog lapping sticky sweetness melting from a forgotten paleta, paper kites drifting lazily across the skyline and observed by old men peeling ripe mangoes on a bench. in the evening, music from mariachi bands overflowed into the streets, and children and couples would begin to dance.

a bronze statue, jesus lies prostrated on the gro yet his gaze is pointed towards the heavens, and only by the sun, el sol, golden rays glancing off and brown bodies, into brown eyes and across b mi mama y mi abuela, whose lips form the same to a hollow god in an empty square.

barren if not for the ahuehuete trees, y slender vines even as their roots struggle

s the path from

ound-d his silence is challenged of brown metal brown weathered hands which belong to e prayer whispered breathlessly

PAOLA SANTIAGO

AN ODE TO BREATH

An Ode to Breath by Audrey Church design by Colleen Avila

You, I’ve been thinking recently about the power of breath? You? No. You don’t have to. For you don’t bear the weight of the deep sorrow and grief of a mother who fears for her son’s life running in a hoodie or the father who longs to have his daughter not be hypersexualized by the simple curves of her body. You don’t have to think that way. But you can breathe—easily, I presume—without thought—for the years of discrimination, exclusion, hatred, where two sides of myself could not swim in the same swimming pool—does not wrangle its hands around your neck. You don’t need to think that way. I do. Breath. Inhale, exhale. Again, again, and again. An art considered so simple, we are born screaming with the skill. From the baby’s first wail indicating a sign of life, I am here, she shouts, instructed to calm once placed on her mother’s breast. Beat, beat, beat goes the mother’s heart. What if the wailing doesn’t stop? What if the baby’s breath doesn’t return? What if she is constrained by the moment she wakes to her last breath by the restrictions of a society steeped in the principle of suffocating her?

AUDREY CHURCH

What if? “I can’t breathe,” he shouts. “I can’t breathe,” he pleads. “I…can’t…bre-” You know who I’m talking about. Do you? Not just one, two, three, but many black lives ended by the very nature of them being seen as a threat for simply existing. Yet, now you know how it feels to not be able to breathe freely. You know how it feels to be afraid to walk outside. You know what it feels like to have a piece of cloth covering your mouth and nose to prevent you from contracting a deadly disease. What if the deadly disease resides within your neighbors’ eyes? Your own eyes? What if the lethal virus resides within the reds and blues of the Confederate flags that still wave outside the homes of your friends? What if? What if the mask you wear over your face is your only form of experiencing the centuries of oppression and restriction that Blacks in America continually face. For when I walk into the dining hall and see the look on faces of the predominantly Black staff, I see dedication, I see resilience, I see a human being. What do you see? The system has forced Black people to wear a mask of

silence for centuries, now you get a minuscule taste of it. Can the staff who serves you your food exhale? Can they breathe? I bet their bosses can. So remember, each time you don’t say thank you, you slowly constrict the breaths from their already beaten lungs. Because I know, that for those of us who do exhibit gratitude, that we allow them to exhale. The power of Black breath has become a commodity so flippantly traded. We are like penny stocks to the high dollar. What if our breaths were as valued as yours? What if? So, I dare you, say his name; say her name; say their name, shout it from the rooftops. Say it so boldly that they cannot help but listen. That their breath is taken away in astonishment, in awe, in respect. So next time you breathe—think of your ribs constricting, think of your lungs expanding. Think, I dare you, of all those who cannot breathe anymore. Sincerely, Me

KAMRAH

Kamrah

by Omaer Naeem design by Colleen Avila

I am the backside of the curtain Folding in on itself Out of sight Obscured. My mother, the armchair Sturdy, beautiful, reliable. Sometimes comforting, sometimes not. My dad, the fireplace Not always burning, sometimes stagnant. My oldest sister, the carpet, As unfortunate it is, She dealt with the embers And the armchair Pushing, pulling, scaring. The next sister, a mirror. What everyone wants Is what everyone sees, Naturally. My beloved brother, The dust settling in the room Everywhere and nowhere I worry. This is our room The room my family built

OMAER NAEEM

GROUNDING ASPECT

GROUNDING ASPECT an Armour x Colour collaboration words by Colleen Avila photography by Anika Kumar and Anjali Reddy featuring Lu Folsey Jared Wilson Nafkot Seife Faith Phillips

Liberty and soil bleed the same fertile brown; neither is owned, but maintained - loved, raked through, kissed and fought for, rained on, turned into spirits. Both are our livelihood. Both are owed to us. Brown earth freedom will always be revived where it has been lost… I suppose that we all have different definitions of freedom. Here liberation is space. Liberation is reclamation. More than that, it’s fun, rest, finally, no more wild west colonizer cowboys, city slicker slimy businessmen. Here we are powerful, not finally, but visibly. This all has been ours this whole time. With brown as our grounding aspect, we explore reclamation of these two figures and fashions which brown and Black people have been disremembered or unincluded from in the white American imaginary.

ARMOUR X COLOUR

GROUNDING ASPECT

ARMOUR X COLOUR

I AM NOT HERE TO BE ANOTHER BROWN (PERSON) TALKING ANOTHER BROWN (STORY)

out my ass spilling to you everything about myself that you want to hear. i’m sure you’d think it’s rather cool, innit, for me to eat myself up the way you want me to (because) you think i’m delicious, don’t you. (delicious and disgusting are more similar than you think.) you can take one bite! even if it’s bitter you’ll come back for one more, just one more, just one more, just one more because it’s fun to bite on something sharp. i am brown sludge like muddy earth so why don’t you step in it? or put a little in your mouth! (stepping and eating are more similar than you think.) i invite you to! because i know you would do it even if i didn’t :) this is not a reclamation, but a warning: not to you but to me. i’ve had enough of brown-cow-dom gushing out brown milk from a brown teat (the joke here is, the milk is white.) lassoed and corralled cow to stallion to dog, pig pen, parasitic insects and rattlesnakes on terra cotta landscapes that stretch for miles and miles and miles (more than you can imagine i bet.) i’ll take lots of different shapes that confuse you and make you whimper (i’m more than you can imagine i bet.) you might own me, but i can take you out in one bite :)

@COLOUR.MAG COLOURMAG.WIXSITE.COM/READ 314-884-8537 COLOUR@SU.WUSTL.EDU

ISSUE 11