Copper Sun, Scarlet Sea 2 by Columbia African Diaspora Literary Society

Copper Sun, Scarlet Sea The annual journal of the Africa-Diaspora Literary Society

Vol II.

Dear Reader: This Journal is for You. We started this journey with the hope that there might be a journal of work concerning the African Diaspora. After months of work, it is finally here. It is our hope that this is the first of many journals of its kind. Columbia University is a place that should provide all of its students the opportunity to speak of their own experiences. To those who submitted work, thank you.

Table of Contents Flying Kites

Randolph Carr

Aversion

Marquita Amoah

How does she fit those yams so tightly

Keenan Teddy Smith

New Groove: Who Gets Celebrated for Nostalgic R&B?

Kenneth Hicks

Our name is Margaret, Your name is Ken

DaMonique Ballou

Family Business

David Alexander

Diary of a Negromancer

Randolph Carr

Soulful music and raindrops

Paula Francis

The Real Housewife of the Big House and Her Lady in Waiting

Nissy Aya

Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not really black.

Keenan Teddy Smith

Door of No Return

David Alexander

For the Scattered Children of the African Diaspora, who were brought here To this place, this University, Hoping for comfort Finding none To those who thought this place would never be a place for them who thought their voice might never be heard May this be some small thing Some small Thing Telling you that you are heard that you are seen here That You Are Important And In some small way We Remember You

Letter From the President It was this time last year when we decided that publishing a journal would be our goal for the next year. We had been asked to revive ADLS, and at the end of the year we had only been partially successful. Before us, ADLS was a discussion group - a group dedicated to counteracting the ponderous influence of the Core Curriculum by (among other things) providing a syllabus of books and excerpts that would dilute the teachings of Contemporary Civilizations, Literature Humanities, Art Humanities, Music Humanities, and many other classes designed to instill in its students an understanding of western culture, western history, and western ideals. We wanted to continue that work, yet the culture that fostered the ADLS of before was a different one than the current campus climate. We needed to find a new niche to occupy, a new way to continue the mission of ADLS in a way that would serve to benefit and improve our community. A week before, while searching for new programs for ADLS, we had come across a journal of academic work, compiled by an editor for publication. After a few emails were sent either way, we decided to continue her project and publish her work in an online format. In the midst of the publishing process, we found that we had stumbled upon an idea. We would publish this journal this year and then we would create our own journal, dedicated to producing work by, about, and for children of the Diaspora here at Columbia. Columbia has no journal dedicated to this work. And yet it should. And so our mission became clear. Now, nearly a year later, we have accomplished our goal. Yet I would be remiss if I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t extend gracious words of thanks to those who have helped us along the way. To Olivia Harris, who helped us find our footing, pointed us in the right direction, and always kept us laughing. To Professor Marcellus Blount and Professor Farah Jasmine Griffin, who gave us guidance when we needed it most. To Shawn Mendoza, who on behalf of IRAAS provided ADLS with the financial backing to create this journal. To my own executive Board, Oluremi Cecilia-Anne Onabanjo, Somala Diby, Marquita Imani-Yaa Amoah, and Lorenzo Gibson, the intellectuals and driving forces behind this endeavor. And, again, to everyone who submitted work. Without you this project is only a dream. I hope you enjoy this edition of Copper Sun, Scarlet Sea. Sincerely, David Alexander President, Africa-Diaspora Literary Society

Flying Kites Randolph Carr To remember wrongly is but a gimlet in the gut, how were holidays before we wrote them I member when he would play, phantom rewinds We stored the VHS in the below of the black thing next to the letters, from the steel zip-code all memories are cold They stole our VHS player when they stole my Walkman, that wasn’t yet, quite retro, just old. And my dog didn’t bark Mom was mad and Dad, too he sent me a kite, The Sun is Free but still walk worried flying my kite, over, drones and dusty daytime into a blue box (trojan horse hollow) I paste memory together, this moment when and this would have been, if It’s a piercing feeling, quick, but all thoughts are fleeting

Aversion Marquita Amoah Part 1

The sweet sixteen her mother threw for her was the earliest party ever thrown (it started at 9am!) and when her mother asked why so early? She re-

“Leave the light on, please”. She was only three years old when her fear of darkness began to seethe in her. At first everyone thought she was just being a child. Many children have been afraid of the dark, and she was no different. Her mother kept every window open to allow natural light in the house, and the moment the sun went down, three lights were turned on to combat her fear. And for bedtime twenty night-lights flickered on, with multiple lights in some rooms. The house was a year-round Christmas light show and she was always happy. When her mother decided at age ten that she should outgrow her dark fear, all the lights were cut off. She screamed, cried, and slept for only twenty minutes that night because the darkness was too much to handle. But her mother had decided that enough was enough, and if she did not cut her daughter off now, she would spend her life’s savings on lights. After her mother explained the situation to her three days later, she agreed that she needed to get over her fear. And so she kind of did. The darkness was something she still feared but she formed new coping mechanisms towards it. When every light in the house went off, she condemned the dark, but promised to never let it infiltrate her. That promise alone got her through the night.

sponded by telling her mother that the angels only protect when they can see clearly because darkness could not comprehend her. Her mother thought nothing of the peculiar and religious statement, because at sixteen her daughter was finally not afraid of the dark. And three months prior, all of the nightlights were thrown away. It was at seventeen years old, when she got her first boyfriend. He was pale as crisp winter snow and he had Caribbean seas as eyes. When he touched her, she felt that he was a gift from God meant to cleanse her soul and life of the darkness around her. She began to spend her every moment with him and when her mother asked for just a little mother daughter time; she scoffed and walked away. Rebellion was her mother’s explanation. But when other family members heard, they became concerned. Five months later she allowed her boyfriend to enter her body and she remembered the promise she made to herself seven years prior. She had not let darkness infiltrate her; in fact she let light and love inside of her! She gave herself the ultimate Christmas gift. She could not wait to tell her friends about the experience she had. It was at Christmas dinner, which she was forced to attend, when her cousin asked her why the only people she ever hung out with were white. While everyone 10

at the table awaited her response, she got up to exit the room. But before she left she said, “Because they are simply better”. Her mother was devastated, what did she do to make her daughter believe that white people were better? What did she do to make her daughter hate herself? It was at that moment that her mother realized that her daughter’s fear of darkness transferred from surroundings to people. At eighteen she attended her first therapy session and the therapist asked if she knew that she was black.

Part 2 I was seventeen when my sister committed suicide; it was a month after her nineteenth birthday during sunrise. She shot herself outside with a pistol and my mother screamed until her lungs gave out. I froze and just watched my sister’s dark blood pool out onto the grass. Her funeral was everything she would have wanted; I mean my mother insisted everyone wear white. I wore a black dress; I was not giving my sister anymore light. People came sobbing and besides the family, everyone at the funeral was white. Even at the end she pissed me off. I was infuriated

She responded with,

that she took her life, that she was afraid

“The devil cursed me with this skin, but I am a part of the light.”

of the truth. I was livid that she could not

For the following months the therapist made her hold a mirror to her face to accept her skin and her beauty. But she already made up her mind, that her melanin-coated skin was a mistake. It was three months before her nineteenth birthday that her mother thought she made a break through. She broke up with her boyfriend, stopped hanging out with her friends, and started wearing dark colors. Finally she was accepting who she was and what she looked like. But what her mother did not realize was that she was depressed. And the more she accepted herself, the more she hated herself. But her mother had hope. I did not.

be brave enough to accept the melanin on her skin. And the worse part is that at the funeral, everyone kept whispering that she was mentally sick, that she could not save herself. Well I did not believe that shit, because my sister was brilliant and all she did was allow society to shape her simple fear of the dark into a full-blown obsession. She never cared that I looked up to her or that I wanted to save her. So halfway through the funeral I left, and took my darkness with me. My mother was the absolute worst. She became lifeless without my sister. I lost two people. My mother kept blaming herself, saying she should have seen the signs. That she should have allowed her to keep all the lights when she was little because then her fear would not have manifested into anything else. It was so sad; my mother

for hours would talk about my sister’s child-

allowing society to dictate who she was.

hood. But I knew my mother did nothing

She preferred ignorance to truth. But her

wrong because I was raised the same as

disdain towards the dark, made me em-

her. But, every year I watched my sister’s

brace it more.

obsession grow. She would only allow white

As I walked around the room and

sheets on her bed and if you came in her

bathed in her scent, I heard a crackling

room you were told to sit on the floor for

sound beneath me. I looked down. It was

fear of dirtying them. To- wards the end, no

her suicide note. A note we never looked

one was allowed in the room anymore.

for or thought she made, because we knew

When I was five, she gave me all of her black dolls and said she no longer needed them. I asked why she needed the white ones and she said she just did. And

the reasons for her actions. I picked it up. All the note said was: I will see you in the light, that’s where I am headed now.

when I was fifteen, she said that our mother was ugly because she had dark skin. We did

Despite everything, I hope she made it there.

not speak for a week and I started to realize

And now I will welcome the darkness in.

she had a problem. Just a few months prior to that incident, I could over hear her boyfriend saying that he loved her skin and my sister asked him to leave the room. So when my mother was searching for the answers, I told her that we both lost the battle before we knew it started. I promised her that I would make it past nineteen years old. My mother began to get better. I went inside her room a year after her suicide. Her room was very much like her: neat, spacious, and full of light. The windows were opened and the sun shone through. Nothing was touched or moved, as she was the last one inside, because my mother could not make it past the door without crying. For the past year I had slowly gotten over my anger for her and replaced it with pity and sorrow. She was not strong enough to deal with the consequences of 12

How does she fit those yams so tightly Keenan Teddy Smith in my bowl. Granny never explained, it wasn’t until we asked. Growing up with something so sweet that you don’t think twice. The spices without names, the texture recalling god; “we’re next to him,” she’d always say. He was in my bowl. Her West Afrikan length knows no bounds, reaching back to a time when we would never pay for hair, especially not Their hair. In her arms I could absorb the aroma: shea, cocoa, and honey hints, as it brushed my face and made me aware of the gentle. Sitting on her lap meant peace. Hearing stories of the Motherland that was not mine, but was mine. We could cry equally together. Generations of constructed time meant nothing; I was ancient and she was child. My back was smoother than a fresh babe’s bottom because of her rubbing, caressing, tickling out the grave grooves put upon me by the deceptive white claws creeping from the culture. Erosion therapy at her hands made me feel real. We spoke for hours always, laughing and losing our sense of now. But when she found cause for concern, my scolding was harsh. What is love in the face of loss? A loss so great because no one really sees it. In her face, lines of worry and history drew a picture of grieving. She knew I could know yams, but I would never remember them, no matter how hard she tried. And that is when I could not cry with her. But now I do. I embrace her and she me, in His name always. We cry together because I won’t know how she gets those sweet yams to fit so tightly in my bowl.

New Groove: Who Gets Celebrated for Nostalgic R&B? Kenneth Hicks Racial representation in mainstream music has recently been a topic of much debate. Hip-Hop has been at the center of such debates due to the success of Iggy Azalea and Macklemore in spite of critique from some of their peers and many fans. Their hit songs and celebration at awards shows bring into question how much racial identity dictates marketing and investment from record labels. Some fans fear that such dictation will cause Hip-Hop to face the fate of other genres that saw their close tie to African-Americans diminished over time, such as Rock and Jazz. However, R&B is receiving much less attention in these conversations even though it has just as much of an issue with representation. For decades, Black men and women have been the faces of R&B and Soul. From Stevie Wonder to Anita Baker, Chaka Khan to Marvin Gaye, the Jackson 5 to the Gap Band - Black artists have provided vocals, sounds, emotions, and lyrics that speak directly to the Black experience in America. However, many fans feel these elements are missing in mainstream R&B. Most hit songs from Black R&B artists today reflect influence from Rap or Dance Music, making the ballads and feel-good, up-tempo tracks of the past virtually non-existent to the average music fan. While this change is occurring in the Black R&B scene, various White singers in the Pop scene are being praised for making R&B music. Sam Smith and Adele are the most notable beneficiaries of this trend; the two artists

both have risen to superstar status with vocals and content that resembles the Soul music of the past. Justin Timberlake is another prime example, given the clear influence of Michael Jackson on songs such as “Take Back the Night” as well as others from his 20/20 Experience albums. Other White artists that have gained hit songs with an R&B style are Robin Thicke, Justin Bieber, Ariana Grande, and Nick Jonas. Now, people often find inspiration from previous artists and cultures that are not necessarily native to them, and there’s no need or reasonable way to police this process. However, there is clearly a problem when one sees that Black singers today are often deprived of the success reached by their White peers when they release traditional R&B songs as singles. Black R&B singers today are often criticized for “trying to be like Rappers” or “abandoning their roots” in exchange for the EDM crowd. Such critique is understandable given the history of R&B and Soul as well as the music industry altogether. Yet, critics often fail to recognize the reality of the situation. Black singers have a career in music, so their financial livelihood often plays a major part in what music they make and release. They still cater to their core audience with songs that resemble the work of their idols, but these songs often lack the commercial success that they receive with Rap or EDM-influenced songs. One example is Chris Brown; the man gets flack for his song “Loyal” due to its message and sound, but the track is a platinum-selling single with over 250 million views on YouTube. In contrast, his homage to Michael Jackson - “Fine China” - was refreshing for R&B fans to hear, but received minimal attention on Pop radio and online compared to his other hits. 14

Usher is another example. Many fans question his decision to make Pop records like “OMG” and “DJ Got us Falling in Love Again.” Similar critique exists for his single “I Don’t Mind,” which is an ode to strippers featuring the rapper Juicy J. However, his attempts at current trends appear to be a response to the lack of cross-over success garnered by his Here I Stand album and singles like “Good Kisser” that clearly align with the style of R&B forged by him since the ‘90s. Even Beyonce, an artist often seen as larger than life, is responding to the trends of the business. The R&B crowd lauded her single “Love on Top” thanks to the strength of her vocals, the energy of the track, and the modulation that brings back memories of classic R&B. Yet, the single was not bought, streamed, or infused into Pop culture the way “Drunk in Love” and “7/11,” two singles borrowing heavily from trends in Rap, have been. The modest success of songs like “Fine China,” “Love on Top,” and “Good Kisser” seems unjust given the praise of White singers detailed above as well as the acclaim for Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk” and “Trea- sure.” Now, Bruno Mars is not White, so his success is an exception to the apparent binary pointed out in this article. However, his acceptance into a Pop scene that’s dominated by White artists through songs like “Grenade” and “Just the Way You Are” must help him when it comes to marketing and support from his record label. The same can be assumed for Pharrell and the success of “Happy” given his recent affiliation with Miley Cyrus, Ed Sheeran, and Robin Thicke, as well as his role on The Voice.

All of these cases tell us that White singers and Pop artists aren’t the only ones making traditional R&B, but they are the main artists reaping the benefits. This is largely due to the disparity in races represented among music executives, as well as the link between what is easier to sell and the predominance of White people in American Pop culture. However, many Black artists are still making R&B that reinterprets the sound and energy of classics for listeners of today. As fans, we can work to seek out this music and support it so that artists continue to supply it. We can move past the assumptions caused by a song like “Loyal,” listen to X, and hear gems like “Lost in Ya Love” and “No Lights.” We can pay attention to the work of artists like Joe, Janelle Monae, and Robert Glasper. Ultimately, we can put in the effort to support the Black R&B scene instead of simply accepting what is presented to us by the business. This effort can even coexist with the enjoyment of artists like Sam Smith and Adele. The types of R&B music and artists that fans are accustomed to are still around. Yet, fans can’t expect to have the music hand-delivered to them anymore.

Our name is Margaret, Your name is Ken DaMonique Ballou

Three tables. One unisex bathroom. Ceilia, 59, and her granddaughter Margaret, 12, sit next to each other at one table with two empty seats across from them. Margaret stares outside while Ceilia reads the menu. A waitress comes and sets two cups of water on the table. Enter Woman, 20, she seats herself at a table. After setting her purse on the floor she stares out at the window and sighs heavily. CEILIA You need to call him, and keep talkin to him—tell him how you feel. Men don’t know anything if you don’t tell them, and they think it goes the same way, but it don’t. We see and know everything just choose not to say anything about it. But this aint a man/woman thing—I wish it were that simple. Margaret, you need to call him—he loves you so much. He does, I promise you. Margaret does not respond. Woman takes out her phone and scrolls through it. Enter Pam, 53, Ceilia’s sister. Bell rings. PAM Ladies! Ladies! Margaret, what’s wrong with you? CEILIA

She mad. Who you mad at?

PAM

CEILIA She gettin into those teenage years. Can’t do nothing with children these days, but you’ll always be grandbaby. Ceilia’s and Woman’s cell phone rings. Woman takes out the phone, lets it ring, then answers without saying anything. She walks to the bathroom. Ceilia gives Margaret the phone she takes it and hangs it up. I’m going to the bathroom.

MARGARET

Margaret goes to the bathroom and knocks. Someone’s in here.

WOMAN

PAM He came by the house last night. Scared momma to death—bangin on the door, shoutin all extra loud, saying he hungry and we need to let him in—we pretended we weren’t there—

Where’s the waiter?

CEILIA

Hello? Hello.

WOMAN

PAM --but I’m sure he saw us turning the lights off. It got real quiet for a while, then we heard the rattling and then he was banging on the back door. You should have seen him, limpin, dirty, like a mad-man or something, he wasn’t lookin like my nephew. Margaret.

KEN (Voice) WOMAN

Hello? Stop calling my name. What are you going to order? Momma called the police. That’s not on the menu. Momma-called-the-police. Can you hear me?

MARGARET CEILIA PAM CEILIA PAM WOMAN KEN

Margaret. Stop calling my name! I’m going to hang up, now. Excuse me waiter.

MARGARET WOMAN CEILIA

PAM She started cussin at him and he was fussin at her. My husband came in the living room and started talking to him real calm about something. Then he got all mad—he smelled like piss and smoke and— CEILIA They aint gon give him longer than a 72-hour hold, if that.

PAM Well get him committed to an asylum or something. He aint crazy.

CEILIA

Margaret knocks on the door. WOMAN Woman hangs up the phone. Someone’s in here. PAM The hell he aint. Somethin got him all upset and he started tearin my house up! The pictures…The kitchen! I just bought that damn TV. and he ripped it out the wall. You gon have to pay for it. No I’m not. Yes you are. Your son doesn’t have a j-o-b. My son is grown. Well tell him that. Stop knocking on the door.

CEILIA PAM CEILIA PAM WOMAN

Woman’s cell phone rings. She looks at it and lets it ring. Margaret, frustrated, slides to the floor. MARGARET He read to me at night. Read until I fell asleep in his arms. We’d go to movies and the beach. I made him friend bologna and eggs. He said it tasted like steak. He read to me at night. Read until I fell asleep in his arms. We’d go to the movies and the beach. I made him friend bologna and eggs— Woman answers the phone. Stop calling me. —I have to use the bathroom!

WOMAN MARGARET

A waiter places drinks on the table. Woman opens the door and leaves. Margaret goes in the bathroom. Woman leaves. PAM Just because I say no ice does not mean I want room temperature lemonade. When you hitchin up?

CEILIA

PAM

I am happily married.

CEILIA Living together for umpteen years is not marriage. PAM

Yea, you should know.

CEILIA

Ray and I—

PAM

Where is Ray?

CEILIA

He don’t like sittin in the car—

PAM

with you.

CEILIA —for too long. Well how’s your daughter and her three kids. PAM And they daddy are doin just fine. Living in their own home, happily and independent CEILIA And far away from you. Where was it they moved to, Encino? PAM Well, my husband and I will just have to ride down and visit them. Why does he have to go, those aren’t his kids?

CEILIA

PAM Same reason Ray didn’t come to check on his kid. Enter Margaret. My mom is on her way to come get me.

MARGARET

CEILIA I could have dropped you off at home. You know, Granny loves you. PAM We always here for you, okay. No matter what. We ladies always gotta stick together. Devil’s always tryin to destroy our home and even when he does we can’t let him win. MARGARET You know my daddy used to be a construction worker. He’s going to build us a house, a big house on a beach in Malibu.

Yea, after he fix mine. How’s school Margaret?

PAM

CEILIA Come Margaret, come sit next to me. You ready to order? PAM When I was in school I had the little boys callin my name all day. They callin at you yet? CEILIA My baby aint worried about no boys, she focused on her studies. Right? PAM We can have us a separate conversation about what you really studying. Ceilia’s phone rings. She hands it to Margaret. Well, who is it—why you givin her the phone? She needs to talk to him You need to talk to him I don’t have anything to say Well, neither does she.

PAM

CEILIA PAM CEILIA PAM

Bell rings. Enter Avery,30, Margaret’s mother. MARGARET Momma! Hello. How are you? Blessed, baby. Blessed. You look tired. Just a little bit. You ready?

He been calling you too, I see. You talked to my daddy?

AVERY PAM CEILIA AVERY

CEILIA MARGARET

AVERY No, I haven’t talked to him. He hasn’t called. IS that all your stuff, Margaret? CEILIA You haven’t eaten yet. Sit. Sit. You want chicken fingers, Margaret? Your daddy used to eat chicken fingers all the time— PAM He loved chicken fingers because that’s all she made for him. She didn’t cook none, too busy working at that stankin salon. Momma, you ready?

MARGARET

CEILIA Stankin—tell you about ungrateful customers. When you getting your hair done, Pam? Just like that girl. That girl—sit there on my couch, legs crossed and reading my magazine. Just sit there and watch me, she knew I was watching her. She always watching—that trifling— AVERY

Go put your stuff in the car, Margaret.

PAM

Ceil.

MARGARET Bye, Granny. Bye, Auntie Pam. Momma—your keys? Avery gives Margaret her phone and the keys. CEILIA

I love you, baby. I love you too.

MARGARET PAM

You call me, okay.

MARGARET

Okay. Margaret leaves. Bye ladies.

AVERY

CEILIA You can call too, you know? I know he’s a handful. A cell phone rings in the distance. Thank you Mrs. Madden.

AVERY

PAM You sure you okay? Not what you were expecting, huh? The things we could do if— I haven’t talked to him.

AVERY

Car alarm goes off. Margaret enters with the phone to her ear. She walks in and puts the phone and keys on the table. I’m going to bathroom. Can you sound the—

MARGARET AVERY

Margaret slams the door closed. Avery goes after her. Margaret stands in the bathroom stall. Avery stands on the other side listening.

Margaret?

AVERY

MARGARET I figure if I think about yesterday only I won’t remember today, but I’m forgetting so many todays that I don’t have a yesterday to remember. And I just don’t know the difference any more. I don’t know what happened—I don’t know what I did. Am I a bad daughter momma? I feel like a bad daughter. That’s how I feel. I didn’t feel like that yesterday. Not the last yesterday I remember. I’m sorry I got into that fight. You ever have so much feeling in you that you have to do something? Because if you don’t do anything it might just kill you. But because no one else has too many feelings no one else can help you because you’re too much for them to handle. And when you become too much for them you feel like you’re too much for yourself. So you give yourself to others, others who really need someone or anyone—any man. And you take yourself from the people who had you but didn’t know what to do with you because what they had was too much for them to handle. And when you finally see who does and doesn’t have you, you’ve become too much for yourself. So I’m sorry for fighting momma. I am. But can you please tell me what happened to my dad? PAM (to Ceilia) Last I heard he was at that girl’s house, she called the police on him or something. Everybody calling the police on him it seems like. Waitress comes. CEILIA (To the waitress) Excuse me, may I have a Cesar Salad and another glass of lemonade with extra ice? It’s getting mighty hot these days, huh, Pam. PAM Ceilia, you are pitiful, no wonder Jett is with that girl. Pam leaves.

Family Business David Alexander

I wasn’t sitting in front of a TV when the prosecutor from Ferguson came on live TV to announce the verdict of the grand jury in regards to whether or not Darren Wilson would be prosecuted for murder, but I was propelled to one soon after the clock knelled eight. Listening to the broadcast, one got the feeling the prosecutor may have been reading last week’s news off of page eight instead of addressing the tragedy of a lost human life. As I watched the man stand there, reading words that dropped like stones off of his tongue and struck my ears with dead, dull thuds, I grew angry — even infuriated. I hadn’t hoped for an indictment — no one who had any understanding of the legal system realistically believed that Wilson would be charged, given the evidence that had been reported. Yet there had been an unfounded and unrealistic hope, I think, a desire that someone else would finally recognize the profound injustice that had permeated the entire situation, would address and publicly reveal the structures that had created the entire situation and were absolving this man of any guilt and responsibility, and would deliver a response that would assure that he understood of the weight of oppression that weighed on us so heavily that night. There was a prayer that this prosecutor would offer up to us a ray of hope. There was a powerful wish that the system, and the members of the system, would name the tactile ghost both haunting and controlling the machine and would at least acknowledge, if not promise to reform, this unavoidable imbalance. To no one’s surprise, none of our orisons were answered, and once again we were left feeling utterly bereft of any protection from the legal 23

system, fully conscious that a system designed to administer and uphold justice was so willfully ignorant of such basic truths. We had turned to the legal system the same way that a young child turns toward a parent, convinced that we had encountered something disastrously wrong, looking for someone stronger than ourselves to correct what we could not. And yet, we found ourselves alone, not unlike a motherless child. Underneath all of this, buried beneath the weight of stilted media coverage and political battles and historical injustice and homicide and genocide and suicide and unprotected black life and socioeconomic structures and the prison-industrial complex and the policing of ‘low-income’ communities is, in case it be forgotten or stuck on a poster like every other slogan and quote and picture, the death of a young black boy. A boy-man, or possibly a man-boy, robbed of life and not allowed the opportunity to become whoever he wanted to be. He was taken from himself, his agency reduced to an autopsy, a series of hearings and live TV coverage. He was reduced not just to a body, but to an object, a black object that the police wanted to experiment upon, wondering whether or not it would fry like a cracked egg if left on the sidewalk under the heavy August sun for just a few hours. And within all of his explanations about processes, about the stress of the jury members, and about the special weight this case received, the prosecutor only once mentioned the tragedy of death – with abrasive and perfunctory remarks that only cut deeper with their callousness. In his haste to deliver the news of no indictment, the prosecutor, and America, forgot to mourn the loss of a life, forgot to remind ourselves how much

every precious life is worth – which is, of course, everything in the world, and in doing so taught us – yet again – how we all so easily forget how important one life is. The frenzied media coverage and the prosecutor delivering the final judgment of the court seemed to be so many strikes of an indifferent chisel or hammer, nailing chain wrapped spikes into the coffin of this young, precious, loved, black man, telling him his life, and our lives, no longer mattered. And the sadness, the bitterness that this country could attach a price to something as invaluable as even this, naturally led back to rage. How is someone supposed to react when told the only thing they have of their own, that they assume to hold a value immeasurable, is in fact merely a worthless (and weightless) commodity? Soon after the live airing of the prosecutor’s speech - one of the rare occasions in recent memory in which all of America seemed to be watching the same broadcast - I went to a student rally. Standing outside in the unusually warm November night air, hearing people calling for hope and continued action in the face of yet another injustice, all I could feel was an angry bitterness. Surrounded by the imposing weight of two libraries, each bearing the cold, distant, possibly beautiful motifs of Western architecture on their facades and their entablatures and their cornices, the whole scene gained a sense of futility. In each singing face, I saw a history of singing faces. In each image from Ferguson or Staten Island, I saw black-and-white images from the 1960s, the 1970s, the 1980s, the 1990s, the last decade, last night and this evening. I looked at those statues and sculptures and columns with ionic capitals and fluting and the guttae

and the many names Homer, Herod, and Herodotus, and knew that even if I hit them as hard as I could, as many times as I could, the only result would be blood flowing from my own hands. They measure our GDP and our endowment and our place in the world in dollars and cents, rate the universities and best schools, find a way to enumerate every and any little thing, but they tell us to just, just wait. Wait a little longer. We must ask ourselves, who pays the cost of this waiting? We kneel and pray for the Judgment Day and trudge forward in the direction of incremental improvement, yet the bodies continue to pile up in unmarked graves across the world – lives of inestimable worth simply tossed, like dirt and debris, in front of the incoming bulldozer of the seemingly indefatigable drive for continued injustice. Will these lives ever be accounted for? Can a life lost be restored – in any sense? Clouding all my ruminations, breathing in the warm November air, was a condensed cyclical sense of bitterness.

Diary of A Negromancer Randolph Carr A thundering sound, a deep roar it begins, the roll call of justice bang, blind justice, see no color bang, the gavel slams A clanking sound, a steel echo it begins, hear my cry slam, a poet trapped and these numbers add up slam, the door shuts A weeping sound, a silent tear it begins, these noises hurt shut, your mouth, speak no evil shut, the blind death feels like cold steel, concrete, oak, and dirt build walls for warmth and build walls for death A familiar sound, a known beat, it begins, and ends with the sound of death and the color of black

Soulful music and raindrops Paula Francis

Soulful music and raindrops Rain and soul music I will never be your stepping stone Or that’s what I say While the words play While the raindrops drop on the stepping stones of outside driveways While British croons as our brown and blacker skins mesh together Rain drops outside causing our skins to slip and mold and dissolve together As we kiss passionately and my loins tighten and tingle and run and sparkle And my hips grind into yours, into the car seat And your hands, like always Your hands blacker than mine and chocolatier than most Your hands squeezing and pushing and holding onto my hips and my stomach and they are loving my stretch marks and Etta, blonde, black, sings and the horns play and the keys riff While I pull back to look at you And your eyes darker and deeper and more sultry than most They try so hard to lead back to the soul you won’t let me see And in an effort to keep me from seeing you pull me back in for a kiss Press your lips against mine, soft Shove your tongue into my mouth, rough, wet And it tastes so sweet Like rain and nothing and flesh Like our first kiss Because we had eaten the same thing, felt the same black, felt the same butterflies, the tingles, flutters Will you still love me tomorrow? I know I still love you Even though my black has shifted to a blacker black than yours You will still be my baby Our skins will mesh and slide and mold and press together until they are equal shades black Sometimes I go out by myself And I look across the water And my cat eye gets smudged and my almost beehive frizzed Because of tears or rain or the way you pull and rub and grind and slide and mesh and press And I miss your tender head and the way you like to dress Shirt long enough to cover, small enough to show your strength Shoes big enough to fit your strong black feet, light enough for you to seem happy Jeans secure enough me to slip my hands in the pockets, loose enough for me to pull... But would that be a waste? Because I knew my fate But you sent me flying Cherry, sliced open unwillingly before but after you It should have been you Because the way your tongue tasted... We had eaten the same thing, been the same black, felt the same butterflies and tingles, flutters, giggles Don’t tell me we didn’t Because no one else did, has, will But I promise I’m still worthy To hold in your arms And I love you at whatever shade and whatever pants looseness Rain or shine, soul full or empty, visible or hidden. 1

1 2 3 4 5 6

“Stepping Stone,” by Duffy “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,” by The Shirelles “Valerie”, by Amy Winehouse “Valerie”, by Amy Winehouse “Chasing Pavements,” by Adele “You Sent Me Flying,” by Amy Winehouse

The Real Housewife of the Big House and her Lady-in-Waiting (excerpt) Nissy Aya Lady Housewife Bigger Nameless Sidepiece #1 Nameless Sidepiece #2 Note: Dashes represent pointed silence or lack of speech – these pauses can be filled with gesture. Welcome Intimate. The stage is bare except for several theatre blocks placed around. Guitar strumming. Fast strumming. Should be akin to pre-Blues backcountry strumming (think John Lee Hooker “Boogie Chillen”). Two women and a man are jiving on stage. A fast paced three-person jive over the music. They sweep across the stage - as close to the audience as possible. The jive breaks down into a chase where one of the women breaks away and walks in time to the music. She’s feeling it - all of it. The man watches her. He has to decide who to dance with. The man goes after her and catches her. They dance slower to the music. If his leg moves left, hers does too. He leans in forward she does too. He grabs her waist - she grabs his sides. They dip together and around the stage they go again. The woman that was left is unfazed. She sways to the music. Deeply ingrained in the tune, in the song, it becomes her. Her shoulders roll in tune of the strumming. They give a little bounce as her head rolls side to side. She’s getting lost. Her hand finds her hair and gets entwined in her kinky curls. Her other hand finds the edge of her slip after a slow ride down her thigh. And her slip finds itself rising higher and higher as the guitar continues strumming. The woman that was left is utterly, utterly unfazed. Another woman enters. She is dressed in a suit. Her pants are a little baggy, her shirt a little too tight. She holds riding boots in her hand and a jacket over her arm. She takes a seat. Puts on a boot and begins spit shining the other. She doesn’t 27

take in the surroundings but she knows it. She is comfortable. She leaves the dancers to their devices. After a moment of shining, she puts on the shoe. Stands. Dusts off her pants across her thighs and backside. Messes with her hair a little. Checks the buttons on her shirt over her bosom and the suspender clasps that fall at her waist. Then she puts on her jacket - it’s a little too big but she is pleased. She takes herself in. WOMAN Shining. (laughs) Shining. She places her foot on a block so the audience can see. WOMAN Ain’t it pretty? Just shining. She takes in the audience. Remembers herself. WOMAN Oh, I’m sorry sugars. This woman is not old, she is not your magical negro that imparts wisdom to everybody - she is just one of those people that can use terms of affection like sugar and baby in regular conversation. WOMAN Forgot my manners or something. They must have gotten lost in my shoes. Pretty right? (models her shoes a little bit) What was I saying? Oh, yea. (All the humor is gone from her voice) Welcome to my party. Guitar flourish as if to end a song.

Prologue - Lady Sings WOMAN Oh don’t stop on my accord, baby, keep it going. Keep it coming. How y’all doing tonight? Ya good? Not hungry are you? Don’t need a drink or nothing? I’m just here to please. Make sure y’all alright. Y’all alright? Alright. I am here for you baby. But let’s not get it twisted this right here, is my affair. HAA-HAA. You know, one of those guttural laughs that vibrates in the back of your throat and shoots out through your lips. That’s the woman’s haa-haa. It’s a laugh so rooted, so grounded it could shake the stage. Simultaneously, the guitar flourishes and she stomps her feet in time with the quick strums. The beat picks up again. WOMAN Now, I’ma let you know something. I ain’t nobody’s fool. Ya hear? I am nobody’s fool. And we ain’t your run of the mill slaves neither. I ain’t going nowhere. We ain’t charting stars, tracking the sun or marking the moon. I have no time for that thing named North Or her brother called Dipper. And the only O’Ryan I know -- Sleeps two cabins away from mine I ain’t going nowhere. We ain’t going nowhere. This right here, is mine. This is my domain, ya hear? You keep coming and I’ll keep showing. We ain’t going nowhere. WOMAN -----------------------WOMAN smiles - Hmmm. You keep coming. We’ll keep showing.

She walks across the stage in time with the strumming, her shoulders bouncing. WOMAN Mhmm-hmmm I feel that. Guitar flourishes. WOMAN You better play that guitar. Like I was saying, we ain’t no run of the mill. You won’t see no sticks in the sand struggling to write no A. Bs, Cs, or Ds neither. We here on this plantation, we read and write. Save a few but we don’t talk about them much. We not those negro spirituals type of slaves neither. There shall be no water wading or chariot racing here today. We not swinging home to nowhere. There will be no low reverbs from this here mouth Or any mouth In this here production Can I get an amen on that please? EVERYONE Amen!! WOMAN Mhmm hmmm. But we are bible thumping. Us here on Trappen Plantation We don’t fuck with the Lord. Yessir, yes ma’am. We take it to the King. Bless. HAA-HAA. Wooo. Y’all seem so nice. So nice. What else I gotta do here? MAN Oh girl, I’m tired. I swear you can keep me going for days. I don’t know why God blessed me with you and those -WOMAN Bigger will you shut the hell up Don’t you see I’m talking here? Bigger looks apologetic - sort of. We don’t really know what’s going on in Bigger’s head. But we can see, he’s enamored with the woman in his arms. He pulls her in close and they begin swaying again. Introductions, forgot my introductions. This one over here. Interrupting me. Is Bigger. Legend has it Bigger came out the womb a giant. I exaggerate. 30

But I swear, by the time he was eight he could swing his mother on his shoulder. And Bigger was baaaaad. You ever see a mother try and whoop her child while being held in the air. Gave us laughs for days. We out here, we like Bigger. But Bigger ain’t nobody. He’s a moonshine drinking Do everything but thinking Type of man The woman on his arm That’s Nameless Sidepiece #2 She could be a Cora, Nora, Lynette. Bridget, Ashley or Marie And we wouldn’t know The names just blend together She came to us from Haffen Plantation About 4 miles that way They say she’s the fastest cotton picker for 5 counties Yea, we those type of slaves Back breaking, over-seer staring, cotton pickers And they say Miss Miss over here is the fastest cotton picker for 5 counties I believe them too She racks them up She came in and Bigger nearly lost it Everybody loves a new slave Nameless Sidepiece #1 who was Bigger’s old old lady Is somewhere Probably sulking in a kitchen somewhere She’ll come ‘round later HAA. That will be a trip. And this lovely over here This is Housewife We no run of the mill slaves Because Housewife exists We not going nowhere Because Housewife lives and loves on this here plantation Housewife lives and loves Daddy And by Daddy, I mean master And by master, I mean no suh, yes suh, masssssuuuh of this here plantation Trappen Plantation Home of Douglas William Henry Trappen and Madam Trappen But Madam don’t do shit I would feel sorry for her ass But that yt woman don’t need my sympathy Her being legitimate and all Cozied up in her big house We stay And live because of this here woman The Real Housewife of the Big House and I, I am her Lady-in-Waiting

Pass (Me the Biscuits) Backroom kitchen. There is a wooden table covered in flour. Wooden stools. Baking utensils are scattered on the table. Biscuits sit at the end cooling. Nameless Sidepiece #1 is at the table with a cup and pounder. She is making homemade cornmeal for cornbread. The sound of the mallet hitting the stone cup is deafening. She is working some things out with that cornmeal. As she brushes her hair out her face Bigger comes in the kitchen. NAMELESS SIDEPIECE #1 What you want? BIGGER (trying to be charming) What you mean? I came to see you. NAMELESS #1 Save the bullshit Bigger. BIGGER The cows are out back honey. Ain’t no shit in here. NAMELESS #1 -------------------------BIGGER (smiles) NAMELESS #1 Get the fuck out. BIGGER Oh, come on. NAMELESS #1 I’m serious Bigger. You playing games. BIGGER Games? The only games I play are checkers and dominoes and I don’t see no boards here. NAMELESS #1 (squints at him) What kind of idiot are you? BIGGER (exaggerated goofy smile) NAMELESS #1 32

(laughs despite herself) BIGGER See. I know you still want me. We are good for each other. NAMELESS #1 What about your bitch? BIGGER Oh, come on. You know Bud is a male dog, don’t take his manhood. NAMELESS #1 Bigger don’t play games with me. I will take this mallet and smash your fingers to bits. BIGGER Oh you wouldn’t. You know Daddy needs my hands. No need to get a whipping over your crazed womanly feelings. NAMELESS #1 Crazed womanly? Bigger. Get the fuck out. BIGGER Oh come on, baby. I wanted to talk to you. I need someone to talk to, NAMELESS #1 Go talk to your hoe. BIGGER I– NAMELESS #1 I swear if you start talking about a damn gardening tool. She holds the mallet up to his face. BIGGER (goofy smile) NAMELESS #1 You look like an ass. Nameless Sidepiece #2 comes to the kitchen door. Peers in. NAMELESS SIDEPIECE #2 (lofty, fake high pitched voice) Biggaaaa, did you get those sacks Masta Trappen asked for? You know I don’t know which shed is which. (to Nameless #1) Oh, hey girl. NAMELESS #1 You better not. 33

Don’t address me. NAMELESS #2 Listen. I don’t want any problems with you. I just came to check on my man. NAMELESS #1 Your man? Her man, (imitating #2) Biggaaa? Talk to your hoe. NAMELESS #2 Don’t call me out my name. NAMELESS #1 Your name? Do you have a name? Do you have a Daddy? Do you have a father? What name? Where’s your mother at? Do you have a family? Were they sold? Did the auction block trap them? Aren’t you alone? Where’s your family at? Where’s your home? Cuz it’s not here Get your dark black ass out my kitchen. NAMELESS #2 You think because you high yellow, you something, Passing don’t mean nothing. You still a slave. NAMELESS #1 But I ain’t dirty like you. Get skipping back to that field. NAMELESS #2 I’m done for the day. Unlike you still slaving for Madam and Master Trappen. NAMELESS #1 (imitating Nameless Sidepiece #2) “And Master Trappen.” Don’t you have a father to look for? NAMELESS #2 --------------------------NAMELESS #1 And maybe it’s time you learned to read. The sacks are in the shed that says garden. I wrote the signs myself. NAMELESS #2 I’m worth more than you.

NAMELESS #1 Is that what Bigger tells you? 34

Because he’s standing right here with me not you. NAMELESS #2 That’s what Master Trappen says. He needs me. NAMELESS #1 He needs all of us stupid. You ain’t special. You ain’t special. Daddy loves me. Master Trappen uses you. NAMELESS #1 Don’t you have a dead father to look for? NAMELESS #2 Fuck you. NAMELESS #1 I mean someone has to, but I don’t think you’re in the running. NAMELESS #1 You still standing here? NAMELESS #1 What you trying to do? Burn a hole through my face? NAMELESS #1 Wishing you looked like me? NAMELESS #1 Let me help lighten you up. She grabs some flour and throws it at Nameless #2’s face. NAMELESS #1 A little yt makes it alright. NAMELESS #2 Bigger are you going to help me or not? BIGGER Uhh --------NAMELESS #2 -----------------------BIGGER (to Nameless #1) Baby, could you pass me that dud biscuit right there please? Nameless Sidepiece #2 stares at the both of them and then backs out of the kitchen. NAMELESS #1 Don’t forget to wear a hat! Don’t need you blending into the night sky now. 35

BIGGER --------------------------NAMELESS #1 Get out my kitchen, Bigger. Lady appears in the shadows. Still in her men’s wear. LADY Never said we were nice slaves. Just not ordinary slaves. Everyone is vying for that attention. The seemly unattainable. “Look at me, Daddy. Look at what I can do!” That’s Nameless Sidepiece #1’s problem. She could be a Cora, Nora, Lynette. Bridget, Ashley or Marie And we wouldn’t know The names just blend together But Trappen

You’re not really black. Keenan Teddy Smith

You’re not really black. You’re not really black. Can I touch your hair? Your mom is the white one, right? Where do you actually come from? Which side are you more like? Are you Latino? Arab? Native? Spanish? Racial identity is a daily motherfucked war. Two fronts dangerously dance intertwined, Standing out only when it’s convenient to the observer. Loyalty only matters when we try to draw lines, lines Behind which I unintentionally hide. Lines that separate black from white, Lines that have been dissolved into me. My father fucked oppression onto me. My mother bore privilege into me. Life is in gray. Dual parties rage on and we are invited to neither. We are less than or We think we are better than I am not where I belong twice. A community built upon outsiders. A whole of halves and other fractions, dividing me into melancholy evasion. Apathy runs through my gray blood, Apathy in the face of demanding Mother Afrika and the Virgin Queen. Punching eyes pound away until the unidentified latte pulp screams for peace. The caged songbird stops to reflect. Turning away from the mirror places and unread history back on the shelf. I am really

Door of No Return David Alexander

Maybe you know the feeling. Maybe you don’t. The feeling of being alone, even in a room of people. The feeling of wanting to disappear. The feeling of wanting to scream and smile and cry, all the same time. The frightening feeling of starting to grow comfortable with moving on. If you do, chin up soldier. If you don’t... Facing him on the desk in the library was an open notebook and a pen. He leaned over and wrote quickly, “Do you love me?” No one answered. Silence from the library chorus. He sighed. Began to unwrap a candy bar from its wrapper, the crinkling sound filling the library with invasive encroachment. One, maybe two sophomores looked up from their Dante. He removed the small glasses from his face and ran a hand through his hair, feeling a chill beginning to set in. Friday night and the library felt more claustrophobic than his single. He returned to writing on the page, now his hand a little more hurried. Its motion a little less sure. “Do you love me? Does anyone – anywhere – love me?” No one answered. He twitched, a doorway into a thought. He continued to write aimlessly, feeling his hand begin to sweat, his mind turn from well lit and bustling city avenues to noiseless snow covered side streets. Thoughts of release, of darkness, of light, of sweet sweet rest clouded his mind, murmuring on the edges of his sentences like waves on the shore. He needed someone to know that he needed help, someone who would touch him and convince him of his self-worth. But that wasn’t the problem. He needed to convince himself of his self-worth. He needed something from himself that he didn’t have. Quite the paradox, with a life hanging in the balance. He though about the gun he had brought, the coward’s way out. But with no one to notice, not even his exit need be flamboyant. Just a pull and a twitch, a splatter and a gasp. Then silence. He looked down again at the page, shivering now. “Do you love me? Please tell me you love me? Anyone?” He screamed silently. His head bowed. Not even one? Someone to tell him life was better with him around, and someone to look at him and not even need to say I know you because they knew him so well. He just wanted one. And yet no one did, for who could tell what is going on in the mind of someone who talked with a pen to a piece of paper? Dark skin, darker thoughts, and the street-lamps kept winking off, closer and closer to where he stood. “You? Do you love me? Do you even know who I am?” He began to feel a calm, a frightening stillness. Like the stillness of a frozen lake, deep in the wintry woods. The fear began to congeal, congeal into a hard hopelessness. He smiled a little smile. Quite the paradox. It was a cold night, but not cold enough to freeze the scream of the girl standing outside the library as she heard the body smack onto the paved stone. Finally, someone had heard him. And as the police and paramedics came and whisked him away, his black body did what his works, his jokes, his smile, and his pen could not. The body there, the life gone, like violent evidence before the newly inaugurated court, proved that they had not known him at all. Upstairs, before he had jumped, all of his things had been packed. Dark book covers, darker silences, and the insistent sirens played a neat rejoinder to the crescendo of silence in the library study room. As if under a spell, the students closed their books, got up, and headed out the door.

Heritage (first stanza) Countee Cullen

What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?