Spoken Black Girl Magazine Issue 2: Resilience by Rowana Abbensetts

G I R L

ï¿½R

B L AC K

ISSUE 2 | Resilience

S P OKE N

BLACK WOMEN AND MENTAL HEALTH IN HIGHER EDUCATION

Content.-

Poetry

4. Exodus Watermark by Astrid Fergueson

9. The One Who Dares by Allison Jones 12. Rapture by Najya Williams 13. This poem is black or it’s just a poem by Gabrielle Ford 14. I Am Beautiful, I'm Black, I am Queen by Adrienne Prather 15. Aiyonna by Tiffany Nicole 17. Pushin’ daisies by Blkcowrie

Poetry .

Photography Allison Jones Valentina Alvarez

Higher Education

Essays.

39. The Plea

by Shana Chunn

18. Black Women and Mental Health in an interview with Zahida Sherman & Brittney Miles

Fiction.

Essays .

by Rowana Abbensett - Dobson

30. You Will Win If You Don’t Quit

32. The Waters of My Life Taste Like This 34. Love and Recovery 36. Rest as Resilience

Editors

Rowana Abbensetts- Dobson Latoya Sinclair

Najya William by Monique Nixon

by Natalyn Bradshaw by Cynthia Wright by Teresa Mupas

Design

Valentina Alvarez

Contributors

Astrid Fergueson, Allison Jones, Nayja Williams, Adrienne Prather, Tiffany Nicole, BlkCowrie, Shana Chunn, Monique Nixon, Cynthia Wright, Teresa Mupas

Dear S bg Friends,

Never did I think I would be writing my letter to you while quarantined at home in the midst of a pandemic. It’s not just that I never thought I’d live through a pandemic, although I can admit that I never seriously considered what that could mean until now, it’s more that I never realized I would still be so committed to this work even when everything seems to be falling apart. It’s often said that art imitates life, and lately, life has been calling for this thing called resilience, a theme conceived before the pandemic was even a thought in our minds.

This new issue is arriving right on time.

Then COVID19 hit New York. We all gradually began to accept that traveling across boroughs to meet up and do a photoshoot was too risky. What is a magazine editor to do in this case? Well, I had Estella send my favorite of all of her dresses, this bright green and blue Ankara fabric wrap dress with geometric patterns made in the Ivory Coast, through the mail. Having one of my amazing photographer friends come to visit was out of the question.

I had to make do with my husband Daniel’s photography skills, which it turns out, were much better than expected! We walked five minutes from home to our local park, keeping our distance in masks and gloves The experience was liberating. I was making art at a time Number one was to showcase more writers when it seems like fear is being pushed and creatives. The new issue definitely harder than love, pleasure, and joy. delivers on that promise, with Smiling felt revolutionary. For a The deserted handball court was our studio. moment, I was able to escape the feeling 20 writers, editors, I was making art at a time when it seems like fear is of repulsion to everything around me. photographers, mixed media being pushed harder than love, pleasure, and joy. Truthfully, being outside lately has felt artists and designers, Smiling felt revolutionary.” like walking brazenly through a war contributing to the project. zone, a danger zone. I was afraid to touch anything. Afraid to be close to I wanted to improve the overall other humans. Afraid of intimacy with experience of reading themagazine by going digital. the world. I was also reminded of the function of art - to document the times and make people feel It was important for me to work with a Black woman fashion something new,perhaps even see the world from a different designer to be featured in the new issue. I wanted every aspect perspective. I knew that I had to push through and produce the of the magazine to reflect pride in the Black identity. new issue of Spoken Black Girl Mag. That’s why I teamed up with Bronx based designer XO Ndolo for the fabulous dress I’m wearing in this photoshoot. The world needs art right now. And the world needs mental health advocacy. During these solitary times, when we have more time The story of this photoshoot is one of waiting, with our own thoughts than ever before, our mental health false starts, downsizing, and adaptability. as a community is being put to the test. Earlier this year, I envisioned a huge photoshoot What have we learned over the years? featuring a handful of designers with various looks and models to be displayed all throughout The Spoken Black Girl Community has been championing the magazine. self-care for years now and this body of work is truly Art is energy giving - it inspires hope, and that’s what we all need right now. I had several goals for the new issue of Spoken Black Girl Magazine.

I quickly realized that organizing a shoot of that size would take a lot more planning and funding than our shoestring start-up budget could afford. Finally, I decided to work with one designer, Estella Ayuk, the fashion genius behind XO Ndolo, and we set up a time and place to shoot.

representative of our resilience.

I hope to present you with a publication that will refill your reserves and remind readers of all that we are and are capable of being.For now, I wish you and your loved ones an abundance of health. I pray that all of your needs are met. I pray that you find solace during difficult moments and that you find love in all of its hiding places during this time of uncertainty.

A lways Love,

Rowana

Poetry.-

E xod u s�Wat ermark� by Astrid Fergueson

We grow like purple Hosta’s through the drought in the shadows of our heritage. We get divided when we outgrow the pretty daisies. Like implants, we get plucked spread across appearing _ Exodus watermarks. Our children no longer bloom in one place. They change their color, stems to green, so they can appeal to grass. The mirage of growing closer to the lawn. Maybe, the landscaper won’t separate us again. Is this camouflage hope or Wishful cries for unlearning visibility.

Si s t er hood

Models -. Zeenie Summers, Alessandra Azevedo, Mareana Dantas Photography by Valentina Alvarez

“A person is the product of their dreams. So make sure to dream great dreams. And then try to live your dream.” I was told that there was a problem with my dreams. With how they centered themselves,

BY ALLISON JONES

THE ONE WHO DARES

squared shouldered, in front of my desires refusing to be moved. It made me wonder if I’d dug my feet into the wrong pool of ambition.

So, who dares to question my precious dreams?

Then the memories come rising to the top,

Who has lived my hardships and carried my burdens?

intertwining themselves amongst my ankles. And I think of what the Mother said to the son, and remember, life for me ain’t beenno crystal stair. There were the tacks and the splinters. The torn-up boards. Bare. I kept climbing, reaching new landings,sometimes completely unaware of what was to come. And yet, I kept pushing.

Who has wiped my tears and pressed through my pain? Who has looked at death looked it square in it’s dark welcoming face And battled it’s temptation in my place? They want you to believe that your past only lives where it was born, and it’s not true. It trails you like a lion trails it’s wounded prey. Stalking And ever coming. If I can manage a dream If I can manage hope If I can manage to believe in a silver lining After the wars I’ve fought Then I will. And they’re the plum fool And I’m still the one who dares. 9

Rapture| by Najya Williams It’s seven past midnight / There’s a crackling in the sky / I mean a nuke in the sky / There’s a bed of nine dead lilies in my face / I mean a bed of nine dead bodies in the mosque / There are scared children clinging to my skirt / I mean scared children looking for a familiar hand to hold / There are empty voting ballots / I mean empty voting booths / There are no hospitals / I mean not enough hospitals to house our souls / There are ires everywhere / I mean no clean water to whet a dog’s tongue There is hell all around me / Demons crawling up my thighs Encircling my throat / Grandmamas praying my soul free / Being caught up in the rapture by their knee highs / Mamas laying hands on wombs / Made barren by genocide / Siblings clinging to the scraps of foreign flags / Native here is worse than foreigner there / Hopes cast up on a raining cloud of acid / Burning into the skin of the pulpit / Legislators crying rich, feeble tears / Soaking the bodies of the poor and marginalized in gasoline Sorrow soon finds life in me / Guttural sobs fight their way from my chest / Burning patches of airless daggers into my lungs / I can feel the chariots stir within the rosary resting in my hands / And just before my hands move to my mouth to swallow the beads whole / And escape the misery / My eyes catch the glimmer of an old oak tree / Being hit and cut and assaulted with this divine collection of a people / As I caress its rings with my eyes / I am drawn to the network of roots clenching violently to the flesh of the earth / Silently promising to never let go / And I ask myself If a tree can stand rooted in disaster, who am I to run from it? My heart leapt / we will not back down / My soul cried / we can’t back down / My legs began to buckle / we can’t afford to back down / My eyes were called by the sun / we need you to not back down / My body lifted / we are counting on you. And then I woke up. / My ancestors fed me this dream / So I can feed a country that is too blind to eat. //

I Am Beautiful, I'm Black, I am Queen I am black and beautiful I'm clothed and dressed in royalty. Queen is my name I am the representation of history. I'm cocoa butter, mocha, caramel, honey, chocolate and come in a variety of hues. I am the embodiment and reflection of a black woman. I am fierce, brave, strong, educated and beauty is indeed my name! I am a wife, mother, entrepreneur, educator, friend, help mate, sister, teacher, writer, poet and doctor. You see I wear many hats, everywhere my feet decide to walk I will follow! I will move to the beat that I hear, I will dance to the music I play, I will soar like an eagle way up in the sky. I will rock my curls, wear my tresses, Model my fro, caress my locs, wear my twists, flaunt my weave with pride. I will rock my stilettos and strut the essence that is me. Because I'm a Queen a beautiful, successful, you go girl, you motivate the world girl, Queen! I am and will be forever proud of my skin, proud of my heritage, proud of the way that I walk, Proud of the way that I talk, the way that I dress and the essence that is me. The way that I carry myself with dignity and respect. I will not hide what I possess on the inside. I know that beyond a doubt that I am and will always be a talented, gifted, beautiful successful Black Queen. I Am Beautiful, I'm Black, I am Queen

I am Beautiful,

I am Black I am Queen! by Adrienne Prather

by Gabrielle Ford

this poem is black or it’s just a poem When the mess of wool on top her head is just hair.

her brown eyes do not stain the whites. her throat does not betray her everytime she speaks. no one asks for her birthplace or to cut her open

to see black blood coursing through her veins

and is crimson as she bleeds. they don’t ponder the truth of her teeth -or cling to those white beads on her tongue where lost words collect. her mouth is not a gateway to a quiet hell, she was not born in flames. she didn’t need to replace her heart with a sunflower to prove the sun can make things beautiful with a dark core. when she is just black, just radiant, just mystical enough to make you believe the fairy dust sprinkled about you isn’t your own sin. when she’s just woman and pure and love -a tight embrace, hands locked in place,the grease between braids,the hand wiping tears away and planting flowers where they land. when there is no war raging in her hand lines. when she can own her autonomy.

she is black. she is woman.

she is 14

A iyonna

by Tiffany Nicole

Aiyonna. Aiyonna. Aiyonna. The Name speaks. Blooming.Developing. Flowing. Flourishing. Expanding. Reaching. Defying gravity. Shining.a In Purpose On Purpose. Does a flower have to contemplate blooming? Nah. Will a flower choose or limit her color, shape, size, leaves, thorns, pollen, or time to grow? No. She just does. Naturally. And is ever-so-elegant in doing so. A flower begins as just a plant. Simple as any other. She is first a buried seed. Full of potential, yet unseen. She must endure darkness and grow from what she accumulated while under cover. In this cove teeming with minerals and moisture, she strives to reach above ground;

But her soil, or "dirt" as she calls it, has

EVERYTHING

Now she can thrive...

to sustain her and cause her to multiply.

Finally the soil is beneath her, pushing her higher. This elevation has exposed her to the elements, yet she continues to expand.

Maturity is upon her as she stretches. Ballooning from her youth.

As a seed, she sheds her outer shell and becomes fully vulnerable. She begins to take root. She nestles in. She commits to stay in the soil of her placement. She draws to herself all that is required to push. Beyond.Breaking limitations. Rising above. She emerges. In all of her self-sustained, authentic, organic, photosynthetic power she grew.

Now Light is her Source of Life. She was designed to develop, exist, excel, produce, and incubate the power to win and create from within.

beauty

Budding with and Promise, her territory is enlarged. Her impact swells. Posture heightened. In the perfect time, she blooms. Bursting with colorful new Life. Precious. Delicate. . Unique. Incomparable to any other. She Lives. Undefined. Inflorescent.

Strong

Her buds proliferate with Promises fulfilled. Soft. Fruitful.

Magnificent.

Magnetic. Full of wonder. Ripe in bloom and ready to be pruned. This is Aiyonna. Aiyonna is You. 16

pushinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; daisies: i believe in life starshine and clay this fiber will fight on, will ivy the walls of our season of oppression, dark metal and tears to misalign a soul have to go through many deaths to become who you are i am a brutally soft woman there is a girl inside and early new-born kisses and dark heat words set up atmospheres, electrical fields, charges are you looking at the flower or is the flower looking at you?

by Blkcowrie 1. i believe in life ~ Assata Shakur

7. i am a brutally soft woman ~ nayyirah waheed

2. starshine and clay ~ Lucille Clifton

8. there is a girl inside ~ Lucille Clifton

3. this fiber will fight on, will ivy the walls of our ~ Kyla Marshell

9. and early new-born kisses ~ Dionne Brand

4. season of oppression, dark metal, and tears ~ Martin Carter

10. and dark heat ~ Audre Lorde

5. to misalign a soul ~ Alice Walker

11. words set up atmospheres, electrical fields, charges ~ Toni Cade Bambara

6. have to go through many deaths to become who you are ~ Cree Summer

12. are you looking at the flower or is the flower looking at you? ~ Ebele Ajogbe 17

I n t e r v i e w b y R o wa n a A b b e n s e t t s - D o b s o n

B l ac k Women

and Mental Health in Higher Education

Black women

have taken on the momentous task of carving out space for ourselves in institutions that were not made with us in mind. Academia and higher education are among the most promising areas of growth where we are still gaining traction in the struggle to change the landscape from one which we must survive to one made for us to thrive. It’s not uncommon to hear stories of Black women dealing with microaggressions in higher education settings and facing barriers to equal pay and promotion. From Black women students who deal with the discomfort of being the

“only one” in white academic spaces to Black professors who must shoulder all of

African American history or literature to make sure our stories are represented in academic spaces, to the administrators bearing the full weight of diversity and inclusion initiatives within predominantly white institutions.

stress

Women of color are under an alarming amount of in these spaces that they have entered for the sake of advancing our people, uplifting the work and legacies of people of color, and caring for people of color on campus who are

vulnerable

and alone.

We are always made to carry the entire weight of representing our communities.

But in the words of Lena Horne, “It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s how you carry it.” I was fortunate enough to talk to two Black women at the forefront of their given fields. Zahida Sherman is the director of the Multicultural Research Center at Oberlin College and Brittney Miles is

PhD student in Sociology at the University of Cincinnati. I asked them about how they prioritize their mental health and self-care while carrying themselves with style and grace

Zahida Sherman

How do you remain resilient in the face of racism and sexism in higher ed? How do you refill your cup? What keeps you motivated or inspired? I just feel fortunate that the Black women in my circle—or even the ones I have exposure to in higher ed—are really inspiring and determined. So I think we kind of feed off of each other. Like, my current institution is run by a Black woman; my friends are directors, executive directors, Vice Presidents, and associate directors. Yes, misogynoir is real, but we’re still stunting. It’s like...we really keep each other lifted.

What strides forward have you noticed in your institution and across the nation when it comes to diversity and inclusion work? The strides may be that D&I is on the table as an ongoing priority, whereas 10+ years ago, it was

harder to get people to understand its value. But I think institutions are still wrapping their heads around inclusion and belonging. Most people still think that a higher number of POC magically leads itself to increased quality of experience, and those people feeling valued by the institution, when that’s far from the truth. Organizationally, most institutions are still run in a way that penalizes people of color. And most leadership roles are still

overwhelmingly white. I can be surrounded

by POC at work, and that might make me feel better socially and psychologically. But if leadership is still white and not committed to more inclusive racial representation, we’ve missed the mark. So, until institutions are willing to rework who they are and how they communicate to POC that they’re as valuable as white students (and employees)—we have a long way to go.

inspiring and determined. So I think we kind of feed off ed—are really

of each other. Like, my current institution is run by a Black woman; my friends are directors, execu-

tive directors, Vice Presidents, and associate directors. Yes, misogynoir is real, but we’re still

stunting. It’s like...we really keep each other lifted. When it comes to refilling my cup, I have learned the value of just getting away lol I really didn’t start taking vacations (for the sake of vacation) until the last year or so. But it’s something I’m really committing to because traveling with the sole purpose to

enjoy myself, relax, eat and drink well, and recharge has been so amazing. I really wish I had started this sooner.

I would also say that practicing mindfulness in ways that are real and practical for my life has been really transformative. And this was something my therapist got me into after I was stressing about not having every aspect of my life intricately planned. For me, mindfulness has entailed becoming an indoor plant mom, surfing, breathing when I’m stressed out, and taking a couple moments a month to sit down and journal my thoughts and feelings about what’s going on in my life. One of my pitfalls is that I can get so caught up in the “busy-

ness” of my work and personal life, that I don’t check in with myself to prioritize my wants and needs. Mindfulness—whether it's surfing for an hour or watering my plants, helps me do that.

Who do you go to when your professional/ academic life begins to impact your mental health?

My mom, my higher ed black female

friends, and my therapist lol But seriously, those are

my go-to’s because they understand exactly how I feel and help me think about solutions. I always feel safe expressing my frustrations, anxieties, or even failures to them, and that’s super important to me.

Do you feel like the school administration understands the challenges you face or is open to hearing about the challenges you face?

Understands? Probably not as much as they’d like

to. Are they open to it? Probably. I think the harder challenge is for an institution to think about what they’re willing to change. Sometimes we’re great at listening, but awful at acting because of the time and sustained energy it actually requires.

What resources are present on your campus to support your mental health? Are these services inclusive and diverse? My job offers pretty good health insurance that includes coverage for mental health, counseling/therapy specifically. I see my therapist once a month and pay about $30, which is unheard of. I was really intentional about having a therapist of color, so I spent a lot of time researching ones in the area. The one I landed on had fantastic language about identity and culture in her profile, so that was super attractive. And she’s a POC, so I was like, yes! She’s the one!

How does your background of working and going to school in predominantly white spaces help you connect with diverse students in your work? Oh my gosh, it’s super helpful because I know what my students of color are going through. I know the

microaggressions, I know the pressure they feel to represent, I know the hidden anxieties of even code-switching. That shared experience has always

helped me connect with the students and advocate for them, because I lived their experience! So, where as they may have to work up the courage to share their

racialized experiences with whit

administrators or faculty, we begin from a shared understanding based on experience. Has there ever been a time when you felt like leaving

higher education due to your mental health? Why? What were the circumstances? Thankfully, no. But I have watched the battles that Black women in leadership face and wondered about my threshold for stress, anxiety, and misogynoir. 21

Brittney Miles

How did you decide to focus your research on Black girls? Tell us about the journey to where you are now. As a Black girlhood scholar, I chose to do work that made sense to my lived experience and the world of women in my life like my mom and sister. There was

never any specific cataclysmic moment, I just started wanting to see myself in the research I was reading and learning and schools. Black women and girls spend their lifetimes navigating a world that wasn't made for us and that rarely wants to listen to us, and my research is just one of the ways I can help propel

our voices

and stories forward.

Have you ever come up against obstacles or resistance because your research focuses exclusively on Black girls? On vary rare occasion has anyone questioned the work that I do with Black girls. More often, I am

strength-based

questioned about the approach and wondering if I'm blind to negative traits or issues that arise in the data. I try to find new ways of seeing and understanding Black girl meaning-making about the world. I'm tired of

one-dimensional narratives of Black girl lives. I think the participants in my research are tired too - and we're tired of being tired.

What are you hoping to achieve with your research? Thirty years from now, what change in the world would you view as progress for your cause? I'm hoping to progress towards

revolution

that stirs the perpetual unrest in Black women, while simultaneously bringing about an inner peace and resolve. I want Black women and girls to be able to move through the world knowing that they are valid and the things they know are true even as the rest of

the world gaslights us. The purpose of my research is to create a record, a genealogy, of Black girl/woman knowledge. So much of what we know has been forgotten or only rest in our bones. For me, my research is a

reclamation. We're reclaiming something that's

for us and us alone. We so often have to be so much to so many people, my research asks, what happens when we are first and foremost

everything to

ourselves - that's where the change and progress

will hopefully take place. Though, as a sociologists, the work must be relational. Even as we progress in our own growth and strength, we're choosing to care for ourselves to be better able to care for those who depend on us. 22

How do you remain resilient in the face of racism and sexism in higher ed? How do you refill your cup? What keeps you motivated or inspired?

Remaining resilient in the face of the same shit I deal with in every other facet of my life is the very survival

The trick

tactic I've been learning since birth. of any workplace is not convincing yourself that somehow this place, this job, this community, these people are above perpetuating racist and sexist violence against Black women (or any other marginalized folks). It's not a call to be pessimistic but instead a recognition of the real at this moment in

time. Higher education tricks you into thinking that the lot of "well-read" folks committed to educating (usually for social change) is so learned that they could never - but they do and history tells us that they have.people, they sustain me in their brash hope and radical calls for change.

Who do you go to when your professional/ academic life begins to impact your mental health? As a person with mental health issues, they manifest everywhere in my life. I can't divorce myself from

mental health

negative impacts on my anywhere I go, it's constantly impacting me. However, surprisingly, I retreat into my research when things get tough. My work gives me hope.

What can higher ed institutions improve upon when it comes to not just increasing diversity, but achieving an actual feeling of inclusion on campuses? Higher education institutions can start listening. We don't need a feeling of inclusion but instead

actually inclusion.

Excluded and marginalized folks need to be able to make and shape policies and procedures, as well as be in positions of power to execute them. But, I'm not saying anything new. People of color have been writing extensively about this for

over a century.

Essays.-

“You Will Win If You Don’t Quit” by Monique Nixon

A while back, I came across a powerful yet intriguing broadcast of the Potter’s Touch with Bishop T.D. Jakes. For those who don’t know, The Potter’s Touch is a weekly program aimed to inspire and uplift while offering solutions to today’s tough problems. I am always eager and open to receive an inspiring message from God because it’s so much calamity going on in the world. I have a need to stay uplifted in order to keep pressing on. As I attentively listened to Bishop Jakes, there was one sentence he spoke that struck a chord and sounded like sweet music to my ears,

“You will win if you don’t quit.”

Now I have heard my share of sermons, but this one was quite different. It hit home for me. He elaborated more and urged those going through something to be unmovable and stand no matter how hard it seemed. “Perseverance builds stamina, patience, and strength which will prepare you for the next challenge or test. Move your situation, don’t let it move you!” Bishop Jakes voice was a booming and commanding force. His message moved me to tears as I was gently reminded of a time I almost threw in the towel and relinquished everything because I lacked perseverance. While studying to complete the requirements of my graduate degree, I vividly remember wanting to abandon the course set before me. I could see a light at the end of the tunnel, but it was the blinding glow of the “Locomotive of Life” plummeting straight towards me. Each freight car on that train was weighed down with the overwhelming trials and struggles of my life;

“Single motherhood,” “Anxiety”, “Financial Woes,” “Brokenness, “Defeat,” amongst other cargo that was too heavy to carry alone. Although I had a supportive system, I felt guilty leaving my son with them for hours upon hours a day. I worked 40 hours a week and attended graduate school full time. All of this weighed me down. I was done; literally. I remember gloomily walking into my graduate advisor’s office and handing him the pink withdrawal slip. He lightly took the slip from my hands as if it contained poisonous venom and stared at me in utter shock. For more than an hour, he not only asked thought-provoking questions, but he also motivated me by bringing up my past accomplishments and achievements. “Why are you quitting? You have only two semesters left.” He gently reminded me. “Do you know your grade point average is 3.7?” You’ve come a mighty long way, Monique. I’ve seen your growth in this program. You’re going to make an amazing counselor.” Dr. Turner lamented. “You are a wonderful mother and sometimes we as parents have to make sacrifices. You’re creating a life and future for him; I promise he won’t be mad at you for that. His words were coated in truth.

His electric blue eyes danced with disappointment against the sunlight beaming through the opening from the dusty blinds in his office every time I attempted to make a complete sentence with my weak and vague excuses and comebacks. “I know but… “I will return and finish next year…” “I am tired of… My advisor reached into his rusty filing cabinet and pulled out a manila file folder. He took the pink withdrawal slip and tucked it neatly inside the other papers. I wanted to cry because I didn’t want encouragement or inspiration; all I wanted was his John Hancock on the paper so I could quit and move on. “Hang in there because I believe in you.” He encouraged me one last time before reaching out to firmly shake my hand. After what seemed like an eternity in that tiny office, I finally put away my white flag and retreated re-evaluate my life plan. From that lesson alone, I gained patience and strength. Most of all, I was victorious because I did not quit. That last sentence gave me hope. It gave me just enough strength to keep going. Seventeen years and three degrees later; here I stand. I survived! The moral of this story: Don’t give up! How do you know what the end will be if you quit? I can be the first to admit that it does get hard sometimes, and we can often feel alone because we think no one understands our plight. Trust me when I say someone before you has been in that same exact situation and made it through. Guess what? You will too. There is victory on the other side of that mountain. The sunshine does shine again after that tumultuous storm. The next time you want to throw your hands up and wave the white flag of defeat, take the towel and wipe the sweat from your brow and remember: “You Will Win If You Don’t Quit.”

Poem Digital Collage

‘The Waters of My Life Taste Like This’ by Natalyn Bradshaw

Love and Recovery by Cynthia W ri gh t

I would consider this a nontraditional love story. Honestly, I’m not sure love is the right word, but I struggle to find the exact sentiment to define it. So, love will have to do. In 2018, I was thirty-six and afraid of my own shadow. Terrified of being seen, a constant stranger to everyone in my life and myself. Nights filled with numbness, pseudo-deep conversations, impulsive situations that found me in the stairwell (I think) at a friend’s Christmas party making out with a guy I just met. His hands were up my dress and I could barely stand. I don’t remember much from that night. I came to in my room, my dress still on like many nights before. My body hurt as I tasted the remnants of tequila and wine that still coated my mouth. I looked around for my phone to check the time and couldn’t find it. Another phone lost. Just as lost as me. I sat up and took in the stillness of my room and I started to cry. I rarely cried at that time; it was just something I didn’t allow myself to do. It felt like the heavens burst inside of me as tears cascaded down my face. Suddenly, a strange resolve came over me, a sense of surrender.

“I’m going to learn to love myself. Even though, I don’t know how,”

At first, I was scared to stop drinking. I white knuckled my way through sober January in 2017. Ecstatic when February 1st came, so I could finally indulge again. Now, I wasn’t sure I would be able to make it a month, never mind go past that. However, I came to find out that stopping the urge to drink was easy. Learning to love myself was the hard part. I considered myself a self-assured person but now facing life without the liquidy embrace of my one true love — I wasn’t sure what to make of myself. Life felt different, I felt different. I struggled to connect. Hanging out with friends at bars who were hesitant to drink in front of me as I would mistakenly order vodka and soda only to correct myself and ask for cranberry juice.

Who was I? How could I

protect myself now?

I crawled the first few months, taking it one day at a time. I found the love of the gym. I needed something...anything to keep my mind busy.

I mumbled as I choked through tears. I kept repeating the phrase over and over until I believed it enough to let it sink in. I decided that January 1st, 2019 was going to be the day. I didn’t want to be a train wreck anymore.

Yet, that wasn’t going to be enough to heal me. I couldn’t out train the damaging thoughts, my faulty programming from childhood and it was only a matter of time. It all came rushing back on a warm spring day after an abrupt ending to a night out with a friend that I loved and trusted. I wanted to drink so badly. I wanted to not feel but as I looked at the ceiling that night —

I remembered my vow. So, instead —

I chose to love myself through the darkness. For the first time, I saw myself clearly. I would be okay. Soon after, I noticed that I was sprinting. Not hiding, not running away in shame. I embraced the good and bad. Friends that I loved (romantically and otherwise) hurt me, I discovered that I hated my career, which I worked so hard for. I mourned the version of myself that I had to let go of in order to move forward in my recovery. However, I discovered a love for the present moment; moments that I often buried while cavorting in dive bars or while drinking bottles of wine alone in my apartment. I discovered my values and embraced them with such a zealous fervor as I rebuilt myself from the most broken that I have ever been. I was finally free. It was there the entire time, waiting for me.

My resilience.

Rest as resilience by Teresa Mupas

May this be an offering to all those ancestors who had to bleed, suffer, die for our people to keep living. For the bloodline to be passed on . May this be a prayer that we may restore the justice of the world, so that our ancestors can rest in their power, so that our descendants will never know such devastation in their bones. May this be a tribute to the bullet wound my grandmother showed me under her shirt.

“They [the soldiers] were looking for your grandpa,” she’d said, “And I wouldn’t say where he was, so they shot me.” The scar of the wound, imperfectly round like an island: an honoring of the skin that regenerated, the mind that endured, the heart that loved, the Spirit that supported her.

Because in my bones, in my skin, in my veins I can feel the resistance, the urging for liberation. It is here, within my body, resilience is written. Layered in its crevices and felt in my gut. I used to believe that resilience was the type of strength that was found through pushing through. Raised by immigrant parents and in a household that valued completed chores over naps, I understood that work came first. I understood often there was very little choice in that matter when, as my mother cooked tinola and sinigang for dinner, she’d tell me stories of the childhood of being pushed into barbed wire fences, warring neighbors, and sharing a bed with all her siblings in a one-room house. I understood when she would wake us up at 4:30 on Christmas morning to open the gifts she’d worked so hard to buy us, then head off to the hospital for a 12 hour shift.

When I entered adulthood and started working, I believed resilience was getting through the day: ignoring the moments of dread, the moments of panic, anxiety, and self-deprecation. Ignoring myself and my emotions- this is what

I considered to be strength. I would have dreams set in dark places with lots of corners and concrete. Parking garages, shadowed buildings, tight spaces. I’d be chased and chased to the point where my legs would give out and I’d have to use my hands to pull my body forward. The chasing would never end.

I’d wake up still feeling like I was being chased. These dreams - that is what pushing through the signals my body threw at me, rushing through lunch and driving and errands- felt like. It felt like constantly being chased while chasing something, in darkness, never knowing when the running would end. I would neglect my body, push down feelings for when I’d have more time (which I never did), and silence the heart’s cry to be nourished.

And I would keep running in the name of work. In the name of priorities. In the name of survival. One day, during a prep period at my full-time teaching job, I sat at my desk, staring at a blank plan book and a full day of classes. I could feel the tick of the clock on the wall getting closer to the bell as the anxiety crept up my arms and trickled into my fingertips. I remembered my dreams of being chased. I could feel my legs giving out. I could feel my heart break and become just as heavy as my legs. I began to lose my breath, the kind of loss that follows continuous running. A looming quality of danger spiraled up from under my tailbone and draped its weight around me.

It was then that I stopped. And I felt all these things

- the anxiety, the dread, the confusion, anger, frustration - and I allowed all of them to

course through my nervous system. I took three deep breaths into my belly. The thoughts kept going, what if a student walks in,

I don’t have time for this, I need to keep going, there’s so much to do. Three more deep breaths.

What kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t get this all done, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t get this all done. A horrible one because then I’d be behind and I’ll have to spend the weekend catching up. The emotions kept coursing through, but as I kept breathing, my body began to realize I wasn’t forcing it to run anymore. I took three more three, deep breaths, and the muscles began to melt free. The body began to relax, to release. And I wept. I let the tears fall all over my desk, the stack of tests I had yet to grade, the plan book, the keyboard. I let the tears fall, packed my bag, and went home. Five years ago, a year ago, six months ago, going home midday would have been unheard of for me. Blasphemy. Last school year, I was one day away from Perfect Attendance, and I was proud of that. But one that day, I went home and I took a nap. And that was when I finally learned that there comes

to allow ourselves to feel, to allow, to surrender. To rest. It was a point where we have

that day, I began shifting from surviving to thriving mode, and began prioritizing rest and not feeling so guilty about it.

It was that day that I began to learn that resilience is in the recovery time. It is that shift from fight or flight to stillness. It is in the quiet moments, in the silence between where, if you settle yourself just a little, the veil is lifted and Spirit can start whispering, nurturing. They can speak to you in those moments. They, whose resilience was the skin that regenerated itself despite the wounds, whose Spirit held on so strongly that the skin agreed, the blood recirculated,

love was made and then again and again through the generations until you came along.

As womxn of color, resilience is in our very existence, in our breath, in the pauses that are long enough to catch the whispers. Resilience is written on our skins, layered in our bones, able to re-cover us in a blanket of wisdom, of support, of love. Below are the womxn whose work has helped me most on my own rest + healing/rest as resistance journey. It is to these womxn I humbly bow and offer my deep gratitude. And to them: thank you for your work, for your Spirits, and for teaching and leading our communities in how to care for ourselves and each other. You can find them all on Instagram: Dr. Rocio Rosales Meza, @drrosalesmeza Tricia Hersey, @thenapministry Dr. Jennifer Mullan, @decolonizingtherapy

Fiction.-

Novel Excerpt By: Shana Chunn

“The Plea” 39

Brooklyn 1990 Beep! Beep! Beep! My mother’s voice rose high above the blaring smoke alarm. “Maya, get up, you got five minutes in that bathroom. ” I laid in bed, annoyed that my headscarf used to preserve my freshly pressed hair had come off during the night. It was tradition that every holiday, picture day or first day of school my hair was straight. I’d suffered the agony of a hot metal comb touching my scalp not once but twice and my mother insisting it was not the comb but the heat and melting hair grease that burned my head. All of this to turn my spirals straight. I tied my headscarf, dragged my bare feet across the floor and inserted myself into the frenzied scene. Robert, my mother’s boyfriend, planted his feet squarely on the linoleum floor and for the first time was forced to look up at my mother. She stood on a chair and waved an album cover to quiet the smoke alarm. “I’m serious Regina. I don’t want you talking to Carlos.” “I don’t have time for this. The kids about to be late for school.” He turned away sharply focusing on the pan of charred sausage. “So now what am I gonna eat?” “I told you I ain’t got time for your mess this morning.” Noticing my lingering presence at the entryway of the kitchen my mother said, “Don’t be in that bathroom all day” while continuing to wave the album cover in front of the smoke alarm. Our bathroom window overlooked a courtyard with a birdhouse. Each morning before the people walked the pavement, before delivery trucks trudged up and down the street, I listened to the birds sing. Grandma Pearl said there is no better sound than nature. I remember when Grandma Pearl used discarded wood from the art gallery to build the birdhouse. I painted the roof blue, the sides green and the perch yellow.

“Maya, get out that bathroom. James let’s go!” I walked to my room leaving wet footprints in my trail. “Maya, my mother said, letting out an exasperated breath, “you gotta dry off completely before leaving the bathroom.” She schlepped the mop across the floor and placed the handle against the wall. “Look what I got for you.” She searched the pockets of her robe and presented ribbons in the palm of her hand. “Oh, they’re pink.” “Of course, they are silly. Your ribbons got to match your outfit.” She pointed to a pair of hot pink shorts and a white shirt draped on a plastic hanger. She secured the ribbons around my two ponytails and took a step back to admire her work. “Well” she said with her hands on her hips, “don’t you look pretty?” James appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a towel with beads of water dripping down his back. “Can’t believe you’re starting the 4th grade, she smiled faintly, and James is starting the 2nd.” “Ma, did you make breakfast?” “James baby, I’m sorry,” she said while lathering his skin with cocoa butter. “The breakfast burned so y’all eating cereal.” She spoke in a low soft voice while cupping his chin with one hand while brushing his hair with the other. “Tomorrow you’ll have a big breakfast with grits, biscuits and eggs” Still holding his chin, she forced his face into a smile. She then ushered us into the kitchen where James grabbed a large salad bowl. “Use a regular bowl. If you want more, you can have seconds” “But ma, I could eat all of it now.” “James,baby use a regular bowl.”

He poured the cereal and ate ferociously, holding the bowl to his face to slurp the remaining contents. Robert entered the kitchen shirtless and barefoot with black dress pants neatly hemmed at the ankle. He handled himself with great care but with us, he used brute force. “You’re not gonna keep disrespecting me in my house.” “I don’t want to talk about this now,” my mother said while kneeling down to tie James’ shoelace. The bell rang, adding to the dissonance of our morning. James’ friend Sean waited unaware of the chaos unfolding behind the door. Grabbing our backpacks, we hurried out of the door eager to be where the sun shined. The same sun that shines on the greatest people in the world shines on me too. And that makes me feel like all of my dreams, big and small are possible. And then my spirit is grounded when I think about my mother. “Y’all go ahead. I forgot my keys.” I ran back to the apartment and the coolness of the air could not suppress my rising body temperature. The door was cracked. I heard the screams and threats. I walked in and loudly announced my presence, hoping this would interrupt his vitriol. “I forgot my keys!” My presence went unnoticed. “He lets me sell clothes in front of the store. We need the money.” “You need to stop talking to him. I see how he looks at you.” “What are you talking about?” I walked in my room pretending to search for keys that were attached to lanyard strings fashioned in the shape of a cobra and tucked away in the small front pouch of my bookbag. However, I continued to look for what I already possessed. “We got a cut off notice for the lights. I can’t lose money because of your insecurities.” 42

“Ain’t no insecurity. You just need to have respect.” “Respect for what? The lights about to be cut off and we are two months behind in rent.” “Look, you know I’m out here looking for a job.” “So, in the meantime, let me sell my clothes.” “I don’t got a problem with you selling clothes, it's Carlos I don’t like.” “But we need the money.” “I’m not asking, I’m telling you.” “I do what I want.” er’s waif-like figure to levitate, crashing down helplessly on the wooden coffee table. The same wooden table that required the strength of three men to carry was now splintered into broken pieces. I wanted to stop them. But they argued a lot and each time I intervened, I was told to stay out of grown folks’ business. I walked out of my room, trying again to divert their attention. “What you say?!” he yelled, veins pulsating on his forehead and neck. His eyes glossed over;void of reasoning. “I said I do what I…” He drew his arm back and delivered a punch that caused my moth “You fucking bitch” he sneered, standing over her triumphantly. Her beauty laid sprawled across the floor. Some people covet beauty, some hoard it, and others seek to destroy it. I lunged toward him with a fury I’d never felt before. I wanted to show him he couldn’t hurt her. I punched wildly, hitting him, hoping to punch right through him. I wanted to draw blood. I wanted to leave my mark. He flung me into a wall. I grabbed a leg of the table and raised it high above my head. “Now what you gonna do with that?” he laughed. “Maya!”, my mother yelled with a loudness I thought she was incapable of, given her condition.

“Maya, go to school baby, go to school.” “Yeah you better go to school, little girl.” Defeated. I retreated into my own tears. “You even got your kid disrespecting me. Look at what you made me do” he taunted while putting on his starched shirt and freshly shined shoes. “I ain't got time for this bullshit” he said while stepping over the mess he made and slamming the door behind him. I huddled near my mother, afraid to hug her fearing I would make something break. “I’m calling the cops. He’s going to jail.” “No Maya.” “Well, I’m telling Grandma Pearl.” “No Maya. Don’t tell her. Don’t tell anyone, including James. I will fix this.” “But Ma, why are you letting him get away with this?” “He’s not always like this.” “Maya don’t tell anyone.” She looked desperate and her command felt more like a pitiful plea as her words lingered in the broken space. “Maya, you gotta promise.” “I promise.” In that moment, I learned to keep secrets that would gnaw at my inner peace. In my silence, I felt complicit in damaging her life and my own. The burden of the promise would later cause me to lie, to say I was okay when I wasn’t. And if people seemed skeptical, I would put on my best performance. My inability to tell the truth left me without friends or confidants. My hatred for Robert grew deep like the roots of an old tree. I hated everything about him, how he waved to the old ladies on the stoop and the meticulousness of his dress and appearance. He had everyone fooled and I wanted to expose his true character. I hated that he could be so evil and people did not know the truth. But what I hated most was that my mother didn’t hate him. I never wanted to be that weak.

Contributor B ios Astrid Ferguson

Blkcowrie

Shana Chunn

Astrid Ferguson is the momma of both Molt and The Serpent’s Rattle. She is an Afro-Latina (Dominican and Haitian descent) poet who resides in the outskirts of Philadelphia. She was born in Dominican Republic and migrated to the United States with her parents at a very young age. Growing up between the states of New York and Pennsylvania she dealt with language barriers, troublesome childhood, violence abuse and adversity. She uses her writing to motivate women, mostly Afro-Latina women to ﬁnd and harness their voices. She is a life coach, blogger, writer, poetry performer, educator, podcast on I mean... can we discuss, and motivational speaker. Her hope is to inspire women with her writing and all business practices to love living for themselves despite their trauma.

A homegrown poet and outsider to both academic and spoken word orbits, blkcowrie seeks to foment beauty to cultivate collective empathy and conjure anew who we/i&i are. Her debut book of poetry is forthcoming from RiverShe Collective Arts. blkcowrie is quirky, poor, Black, queer, disabled, womanist, and of size. She is also an intuitive butterﬂy scribe still wet from the chrysalis. Her pen moves to the music of water and ﬂowers while wandering and wondering at the soul’s journey. Published in ESSENCE magazine as a young teen, blkcowrie attended Cave Canem’s highly-acclaimed series for emerging writers for 3 consecutive periods (2018-2019). A former career community organizer and a lifelong radical activist, this daughter of a Black Jamaican immigrant and a southern born Black U.S. Army career soldier learned early that the world is wide and multifaceted; to survive it one must become intrepid.

Shana Chunn is a NYC-based high school English teacher and Columbia University alumna. She is working on her debut novel, Savannah, that draws heavy inﬂuence from her coming of age experience in 1990’s Brooklyn and her family’s southern roots. Through this work, she explores the endurance of the human spirit, the wisdom of elders, triumph and loss, and the power of a singular voice.

www.astridferguson.com

www.blkcowrie.blog

Contributor B ios Natalyn Bradshaw

Adrienne Prather

Monique Nixon

I am a multidisciplinary artist and writer living in Southwest Virginia. Before transitioning into a focus on writing and visual art, I was an opera singer and a music and voice teacher. I enjoy painting, photography, writing poetry, and singing. I also love SciFi, watching basketball, and having long chats about art and culture. My creative interests stem from my desire to express vulnerability in ways that draw people in and encourage self-reﬂection and awareness. It’s that vulnerability that I’ve come to recognize and value highly. It’s helped me face some difﬁcult things and started me on a process of healing and dismantling internalized oppression. My creative practices have become a vital part of my self-care and have brought me much joy and opportunities, for which I am grateful.

Adrienne Prather is an Atlanta native who enjoys writing and reciting poetry and is the author of Reﬂections of Love, an inspirational poetry book and Encouragement Cafe a self-help book to encourage and strengthen Educators. Prather's poem Dream on Dreamer was featured in Rolling Out Magazine. Her testimony was written in a book entitled, I've Got a Testimony. Also, Prather's poetry, Ruler of Everything was featured in the Rejoice Atlanta newspaper. In the lifestyle section of the Clayton Neighbor newspaper, Adrienne shared her gift of poetry with the world in an article written about her. Adrienne graduated from Atlanta Metropolitan College with an Associate of Arts Degree in Mass Communications and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Journalism from Georgia State University. At Ashworth College, she received a Diploma in Writing Children's Books Program and proudly graduated with Honors. Encouraging and motivating others is what she is called to do.

Monique Nixon is an experienced mental health counselor who is fully committed to educating and informing others with the hope of ending the stigma against mental illness, especially in the African American community. Monique is a mother, Black Woman Storyteller, and friend. In her spare time, she loves to watch movies about love, life, and the pursuit of happiness.

Contributor B ios Teresa Mupas Purugganan

Tiffany Nicole

Cynthia Wright

Teresa Mupas Purugganan lives with the smell of ginger root in her nostrils and her mother's stories in her soul. She is a wanderer of planet earth, a writer and poet, yogini, auntie, sister, cousin, daughter, and teacher. Born in the shower of a tidy suburb of Detroit to a set of hardworking Filipino parents, she now lives in gratitude in the kingdom of Hawai'i.

Tiffany Nicole is an Iowa-native and ďŹ rst generation Honduran-American author. As a self-publishingpreneur, she shares her passion for writing through poetry, songwriting, and teaching aspiring authors to be conďŹ dent in their own unique works. Genuine book lover and Creative Spirit, Tiffany Nicole has penned two books and created group classes encouraging women to embrace their inner strength through Faith after trauma. Through Creative Encouragement, Tiffany Nicole has been graced to teach aspiring authors to self-publish. She is also actively involved in using social media to increase awareness about Domestic Abuse prevention and creating safe spaces of healing for women who've experienced it.

is a writer who has been crafting stories since she can remember. During the day, she works in project management at a NYC ad agency, where she cut her teeth on every type of marketing project imaginable. At night, she crafts stories, her focus being on stories from her life as a queer, black woman. www.cestcyn.com

Contributor B ios Allison Jones

Valentina Alvarez

A woman who considers herself a Steel Magnolia, Allison was born and raised in the great state of Texas. A lover of the arts, good music, and a friend to all things geeky. When she isn’t photographing clients, she’s watching obscure documentaries, visiting the museum, or hanging out with close friends. Crazy in love with adventures and laughing louder than normal, Allison makes it a point to act out her joy. She’s a tea drinking, Disney obsessed, cinephile, who laughs at her own joy and still doesn’t understand the concept of shame. You can ﬁnd her working on one of her many ventures such as her blog The E Stands for Extra and her women’s empowerment organization Chic Fiasco. Allison is with the love of her life, Andrew, and they share life with their dog Nala and kitten Kuro.

Valentina is a visual communicator, photographer, and designer born in Caracas, Venezuela. She grew up in a very free environment with her family. Her parents and aunts used to organize trips to different towns and areas of the country. From rural environments, to indigenous areas, and towns with Afro-Venezuelan populations, Valentina grew up enjoying and participating in folkloric festivities. For this reason, she grew up valuing coexistence with people from different macro and micro-ethnic groups that form the Venezuelan population. Captivated by the music, dances, and rhythms of the Caribbean and Latin America, she immersed herself in multicultural knowledge. She learned to love geographic diversity, from the plains, to tropical jungles, and the beaches of the Caribbean Sea. This raw beauty inspired her to be a designer.

www.allisonejones.com

In 2011 she traveled to Ireland and established herself as a freelance photographer. Her work seeks to highlight strength and beauty, especially of women, in their daily life, in union with nature, and beyond stereotypical parameters. Throughout her experiences, she has combined photography with art, poetry, music, the ﬁght for the environment and against oppression. Valentina currently lives in Portugal. www.valentina-alvarez.com

Summer 2020