Flawless Mag - The Unapologetic Issue by Flawless Mag

FLAWLESS

MAG ISSUE 7 â&#x20AC;¢ FALL 2018

THE UNAPOLOGETIC ISSUE

Editor and Chief Jalyn Cox Assistant Editor and Chief Sydney Logan Content Layout by Flawless Writes Nada Alturki Tiffany Carbon Melanie Curry Skylar Figaro AZ Hackett Niki Hester Melanie Lau Chloe Leung Daniela Lobo-Rivera Jacqueline Menjivar Maya Pontone Shruti Rajkumar Ana Maria Coste

Amali Dunmore AZ Hackett Caroline Rodriguez Chloe Leung Chloe Ming Daniela Lobo-Rivera Dimitrie Flores Harriette Chan

Cover Shoot: Photographer/Designer Jalyn Cox Models Issel Solano-Sanchez Mackenzie Thomas Jacqueline Menjivar Maya Pontone Jalyn Cox Melanie Curry Jasmine Williams Melanie Lau Laura Frometa Nada Alturki Lauren Licona Naomi Jones Leah Heath Niki Hester Lissa Deonarain Nyla Wissa

Samantha Schechter Shruti Rajkumar Sky Figaro Sydney Logan Tiffany Carbon TJ Coste

Flawless Brown is a sisterhood and artist collective for self identifying women and femmes of color based at Emerson College in Boston, MA. We aim to develop socially conscious art while forming sisterly bonds.

FLAWLESS BROWN EXECUTIVE BOARD FALL 2018

Jasmine Williams President

Jacqueline Menjivar Chair of Sisterhood

Jalyn Cox Chair of Flawless Writes

Caroline Rodriguez Vice President

Issel Solano-Sanchez Chair of Flawless Stage

Nina Rodriguez Chair of Flawed Comedy

Annie Hinh Secretary/Treasurer

Hanna El-Mohandess Chair of Flawless Pictures

Laura Frometa Chair of Flawless Marketing

FLAWLESS BROWN

flawlessbrown.com | facebook.com/FlawlessBrownEC | flawlessbrown2014@gmail.com | @flawless_brown_ec on Instagram

Letter From The Editor Flawless has given me something that I didn’t even know I originally needed. Our sisters have created a space for women of color to come and not only create but be seen in the most unapologetic way possible. For that alone, I am eternally grateful in a way I know I will never be able to fully express to our sisterhood. This year is a huge year for Flawless Brown; we are turning five years old. We thought it only fit to place our three presidentss on the front of this issue. Nyla, I hope you know what you have done for all of us. I may not have known you well, but every single one of Flawless’ members looks up to you, your perseverance, and your strength. You created something from nothing in a white space that needed you and Flawless Brown. Thank you. Lissa, thank you for molding, creating, and adding. I watched you pour your heart and soul into Flawless, and I watched you fight for us as well. I miss you, and I hope you like your cartoon’s hair (I’m very proud of it). Jasmine, our fearless leader and mother duck, you are appreciated and loved. All three of these women have unapologetically fought and created space for Flawless Brown to exist. Thank you all who have submitted, and thank you to my beautiful and amazingly talented Flawless Writes team. Your dedication and truths are what have made this magazine. A BIG thank you to Sydney for helping me when I’m crazy and scattered; I love you! I want to also thank all of our sisters in all of our Flawless Brown departments. You all inspire me through creating a sisterhood and support system where we all can come together

With love, Jalyn Cox When I went to my first Flawless Brown meeting in the fall of 2017, I had no idea how much this collective would support me, challenge me, and help me grow into a creative, strong, and unapologetic woman of color. This semester, I had the gift of being the assistant editor of this magazine and see this issue go from a collection of letters on a whiteboard to a full fledged magazine. This is a thank you to my soul sister and Editor-in-Chief, Jalyn, for being the leader and sister we need. To the rest of the board for their unwavering support, and to all the members of Flawless and beyond who contributed their work to this magazine. I love you all, unapologetically.

Love, Sydney Logan

Table of

1 Unapologetic Shruti Rajkumar | Poem 3

I Am Not Exotic Emily Mun | Art

Living In Between Sydney Rae Chin | Essay

It doesn’t hurt to be white, it doesn’t help to be a person of color Melanie Lau | Poem

Head in Hands Jalyn Cox | Art & Poem

Be A Man Diti Kohli | Essay

11 13

N.H.G. Melanie Curry | Poem

My Muse Nada Alturki | Poem

The Messes That Make You Nada Alturki | Poem

White Washed AZ Hackett | Short Story

What We Lost To Colonialism Harriette Chan | Essay

19 Valid Tiffany Carbon | Poem 20

Rejecting Modesty Niki Hester | Poem

21 Unapologetic Samantha Schechter | Photo Series 23 Jokes Ilina Ghosh | Poem 24

I’m Back Ilina Ghosh | Poem

Flawlessly Unapologetic Jalyn Cox | Art

27 Happiness Annie Hinh | Short Story 29

You Should See Me In A Crown Chantal Encalada | Photo Series

You Know You Love Me Caroline Rodriguez | Poem

Colors Maya Rollings | Poem

Boobie Standards Melanie Curry | Poem

To the Woman with the Sunglasses Who Told Me I Looked Like “A Cultured Mexican” Maya Pontone | Essay

39 Chain-ged Naomi Jones | Poem 41

I’m Just Shirley Luke | Poem

Only God Can Tell Me About Myself Shirley Luke | Poem

A Response To People Who Refuse To Listen Sydney Logan | Poem

Inside The Mind of An Immigrant Parent Barinder Saini | Poem

The Hate I Gave Myself Melanie Shephard | Poem

WOC Playlist Laura Frometa | Playlist

I Believe In The Angry Black Womem Mariama Condé | Essay

51 Me Sky Figaro | Poem 52 Clean Sabah Shams | Art

Contents

Unapologetic by Shruti Rajkumar

this is vulnerability, a state in which i am unfamiliar. here i am, stripped to my core, naked, yet fully clothed. but here i am now with my big curly hair that i’ve been told to tame, my blemished skin, that i’ve been told to paint over, my body and all that it’s been through, that i’ve been told to cover up and hide away. this is anguish, to the highest degree, looking into a mirror not entirely sure of who’s looking back; the memory of a girl i haven’t seen in years, who was shoved into a closet, and concealed from the rest of the world. but here i am, now trying to balance my heart on my sleeve, unashamed to reach for love in whatever taboo corner it wishes to hide. with my perfectly uneven body, that i’ve critiqued to the very bones; mark today as the day i sign the truce and end the war with my mind. this is agitation, a feeling i must pass through. finally seeing me for me, without the glamor and edits that were made without my permission, without the polished edges or the obligated smiles of perpetual happiness i hadn’t always felt, or the skin that they’ve forced me to “lighten up.” 1

but here i am, now, as organic as they come, with a smile that has been known to falter, with skin that has been known to grow darker, with a self that has fallen, but gotten back up. this is acceptance, the strangest of feelings; to have the world screaming but choose not to listen; with the parts of me iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been told to deny, to cut the cord on, to silence, an aura of once a cherry red has dissipated into the loveliest shade of white. but here i am, now, standing with confidence in the front, defying all the rules theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve set for me, objecting to all the suggestions and alterations, shading in all that theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve spent years erasing. this is peace, a friendly presence i hope to get to know. she lets me feel how i feel and look how i look, with reassurance, and no expectations, or changes, i am free to be me so here i am, now, unapologetically.

Unapologetic by Shruti Rajkumar 2

Living in Between: Finding My Roots Sydney Rae Chin “Nei Sik Guangdongwa?” My face turns blank; in broken Cantonese and Mandarin, I answer,”Wo sik siu siu Guangdongwa. Wo sik hou duo yingmun.” “Oh,” says the service person. In the month I’ve already spent studying in Hong Kong, this interaction has been a common one. Moments like this are a part of my daily experience, especially when I go out by myself. __________________________________________________________________________________

Last semester, my grandfather ( passed away.

) To both people who have left China and people who’ve stayed, I don’t quite fit into the “Chinese” box. Before he died, I promised him that When I was in highschool, everyone I would study abroad in Hong Kong, used to call me a “banana” (yellow and on the day of the burial, at the on the outside, white on the inside). wake luncheon, I received an email from Emerson that I had been accept- Not much has changed, it seems; a ed into HKBU (Hong Kong Baptist fellow diasporic person called me University). It was time to go back to “white” due to my inabilities with my roots. math and my awkwardness with Cantonese, while at the same time, I have repeated the same questions to some Mainland peers have made fun myself over and over: Who is of me for speaking bad Mandarin Chinese? (though my family isn’t even from a What does it mean to be Chinese? Mandarin-speaking region). Who gets to dictate who is Chinese? Insecurity creeps back in whenever Where is home? someone makes me feel like a “banana” again. My grandfather is the reason I came here; he taught me what it means to I have never felt like I fit in with be Chinese through our family trawhite people, either; I often overhear ditions. I came here to honor him remarks that Asian food is “strange” through bai sun, through praying in or “weird” whenever I hang out the same Catholic church where my around them. Comments like these grandparents were married. caused shame within me as this is the culture I grew up around. OthI am constantly mistaken for a Hong er remarks from white peers have Kong local-- and yet, somehow just as included mentions of exoticism, but often, I stick out as a foreigner. Even none of Hong Kong is exotic to me. though I have ties to this place, I feel It is the homeland of my ancestors. like an outsider; it’s like having one All of these situations caused me to foot on land while the other is lose who I am. I forgot who I was and floating somewhere in the ocean. why came here. 4

My diasporic Chinese friends from online communities reminded me what brought me to Hong Kong in the first place.

“I feel like an outsider; it’s like having one foot on land while the other is floating somewhere in the ocean.”

Through Facebook groups, I have been able to meet both British and American Chinese women who connected instantly with me over our shared experiences. Finding folks who don’t ask me to explain myself has been freeing; as I shared why I came to Hong Kong with these women, it all became clear. Maybe I will always be living in between two worlds, but that’s okay. I am just as Chinese as anyone else. My traditions are a mix of Western influences and Chinese influences, and they are mine. I am a woman who grew up as a Chinese Catholic that bai suns to her ancestors, prays on occasion in church, and speaks in accented Chinglish.

I am

Valid

It doesn’t hurt to be white; it doesn’t help to be a person of color. by Melanie Lau There’s always something in the news That I worry over everyday Though we aim for post-racial A tension still remains What kind of uprising Will make our foundations cave? How will we change? How will we change? I wonder why I have to dread My ability to exist And be seen as a person Only born here to subsist. Person after person, The casualties are on a checklist. How do we end this? How do we end this? Jet-black hair and tan skin It’s the way I was born Though I’m Chinese-American I can’t help but feel torn The Chinese part is condemned While the American part is ignored. How do we end this? How do we end this? We have value as a people We don’t deserve the penalties We enact the First Amendment, Yet you strike down our pleas We are the tempest-tossed huddled mass Yearning to breathe free Look up equality Tell me what it means. 6

Head In Hands. By Jalyn Cox

I sit with my head in my hands; I am so tired.

As they speak their eyes dart to me then to the teacher to see if I approve, to see if what they are saying is right, to see if I’ll stand up and fight. Their white hands shoot in the air and the teacher creates space for their privilege, and I listen. I listen more than I have ever listened because they have a way of dismissing my people, a way of pretending we’re all equal. They can choose to ignore the problems we face every day simply because they can. I feel as though I must stand and shout for them to understand.

I sit with my head in my hands; I am so angry.

A brown girl standing her ground. We all seem so angry and bound, bound by the system that keeps us oppressed, and you all wonder why we’re so upset. So, I’ll open my mouth and I’ll scream if I please. I’ll do everything in my power to make you all see. And if I don’t wish to scream; I can be quiet too. I don’t owe anyone anything; it’s not my job to keep you all from being racist fucking fools.

BE A MAN BY: DITI KOHLI

When one of my friends sports his neon pink Nike shirt, his bravery is sharply met with half-joking comments on his masculinity. No one’s critiques originate in an intent to make him feel like any less of a man (as much as a 17-year-old Clash of Clans aficionado can be considered a man). He always responds with a sincere smile and a witty jab back at his “bully”. Then, he parades his shirt around confidently for the remainder of the day, throwing it in the laundry at night with a wholehearted intention to re-wear it in the future. He’s unaffected by the crude remarks, yet they resonate with me. Be a man, they say. The phrase settles in my mind, and immediately awakens my childish obsession with Mulan. Captain Shang’s riveting rendition of “Be A Man” fills my ears. “Be a man, We must be swift as the coursing river. Be a man, With all the force of a great typhoon. Be a man, With all the strength of a raging fire. Mysterious as the dark side of the moon.” Shang, initially a representative of the patriarchal nature of ancient China, equated men with strength, with force, with swiftness. And, my little four-year-old self didn’t think anything of the melodious metaphors. I actually didn’t think anything of them until Danny wore the pink shirt. I realize I was conditioned to think it was fine that everyone ragged on him for his wardrobe decision because it was warranted by the idea behind Shang’s twisty comparisons--that anyone is less of what they are for embodying and identifying with society’s predetermined symbols of femininity. The melody cemented the belief that men, by definition, can’t wear pink, the stereotypical emblem for “girliness.” Mulan did push against the misconception that some things are for boys and some things are for girls, but not before planting the wrong ideal in the minds of millions of young audience members like me. The protagonist may have chopped off all her hair and disguised herself as a soldier, but the entire song is still an endless struggle of her trying to “be a man”. While the tune’s snappy metaphors may have captivated the hearts of little girls and pushed them to take on more male-dominated roles, it failed to associate the given characteristics with women. It encouraged girls, including me, to feel like we should be like men. Rather than voicing the idea that women aren’t inferior, it could voice that we can also be “strong”. The song’s catchy metaphors are powerful because of the quantity of kids they reached. In my childhood alone, I have seen Mulan at least a dozen times, and I have found myself humming along to “Be A Man” more than once. Growing up on that tune has allowed me to adopt the belief that men are indeed swift and forceful, but so am I. I don’t need to strive towards the anatomically unreachable ideal of being a man to embody the power that comes along with this gender identity. I can flaunt my femininity and still be as strong as a “raging fire” and as “mysterious as the dark side of the moon” (even though the idea that men--or any person, for that matter--are mysterious still confuses me). Shang’s words surely hindered me from having this epiphany as a child, but they also helped me realize that no opportunity is reserved for one gender. Danny can be a man and wear pink. We can be women and do anything. 10

N.H.G (Natural Hair Girl) by Melanie Curry She stares as I do my edges. She stares as I take out my braids. She stares as I go through my 45 minute conditioner routine She stares as my dry, nappy hair turns into wet curls. She stares as it shrinks. She stares as I use my products. She stares at my bonnet. She stares at my wide tooth comb. She stares as I do a twist out. Braid out Perms rod set Bantu Knots She stares, until I say “What?” She looks and blinks And I turn And she says, “It’s beautiful.” I look And respond “I know.”

color by melanie curry

they see a daughter, student, twin, journalist, i see black. they see smiles, dimples, piercings i see black. they see skinny legs, delicate fingers, long neck i see black. they see everything but my color they claim we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see color i laugh. color is the only thing i can see the dark shade of my skin canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t escape my eyes for it is beautiful and rich but deadly its consequences are extreme with police bringing me to my knees and my hands help up to say freeze for the barrel of the gun lines up with my back and just one shot leaves me dead so i see color i see the richness of chocolate the beauty of melanin the pride in black is beautiful i see.

WHAT WE LOST TO COLONIALISM BY: HARRIETTE CHAN 13

I am an immigrant from a colonized country. As a young Filipino-American I did a lot of research into Filipino mythology in an attempt to reconcile my Pinoy identity. I was shocked to realize that we had a beautiful mythos filled with colorful characters, but what surprised me most was the presence of queer people in these myths. I, like most Filipinos grew up Catholic, and to see gay deities in mythology was a culture shock for me, but it shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be because it is my culture. These myths were wiped off the map by Spanish colonizers who enforced strict Catholicism on the Filipino people, going so far as beating people on the street if they were caught practicing paganism. In essence, they destroyed the original religion of the Philippines. Few of the ancient texts remain, but from what we have we can decipher a few stories.

Homosexuality was not taboo in our mythos; one example is the love story of Sidapa and Libulan. The God of Death, Sidapa, lived alone on Mt. Madjaas. From there he could see the seven moon gods who each represent a phase of the moon. So many were captivated by their beauty, including Bakunawa, the sea dragon. Sidapa himself fell in love with the seven moon gods. He asked the birds and mermaids to sing his praise to the moons, and He ordered the flowers to make sweet perfumes that reached the skies. He also asked for the fireflies to light a path in the sky, so the moons could find him. One of the moon gods, Libulan, came down on this firefly path to meet Sidapa, who showered him in love and gifts. But, as their romance bloomed the sea dragon, Bakunawa was furious, it rose from the sea and devoured the

moons. But, Sidapa saw this and saved Libulan, and it is said that they reside as husbands on Mt. Madjaas. Modern LGBT Filipinos use Libulan as a symbol and refer to him as the patron god of homosexuality. There were even instances of trans people in Filipino mythology. Lakapati, the goddess of fertility and agriculture, was considered to be intersex and transgender. According to myth she was one of the kindest deities, giving man the gift of agriculture. Myths are a reflection of the people who believe in them and before the Spaniards took over there were accounts of transgender women living among society as women in the Philippines. To be trans was not abnormal, it was an accepted fact of society. In fact trans women were thought of as holy, and they became priestesses and religious leaders. The Philippines of today is not this progressive, but it was thousands of years ago. The truth is that homophobia is an invasive species introduced to the Philippines by Western colonizers. To this day we deal with the repercussios of that. Some of us look to the original myths of the Philippines in an attempt to reclaim the culture that was once ours. But I cannot help but feel that we were robbed of something beautiful. It is difficult for me, to try to decipher what is my culture and what culture was forced onto us by colonialism, but I find comfort in these ancient myths. My people were onwce a more accepting one, maybe one day we will be again.

Illustrations by: Alex Hirooka

My Muse By Nada Alturki I admire girls who can manage to look so put together in a world full of chaos; when their world is in chaos I admire girls who arent afraid to go out into the world looking like total chaos, because that is their truth I admire girls who walk home slowly on sidewalks, maybe even dance a little and smile to themselves, even when the sky is pouring oceans all around I admire girls who aren’t afraid to show some skin, and flirt a little And the ones who are fearlessly modest I admire girls who have had their life, liberty, and happiness stripped away from them by this vicious world, and still choose to stay I admire girls who know when tradition is appreciated, and when it is outdated I admire girls who frame their beautiful faces with headscarves knowing quite well that today might be their last, because some ignorant assholes believe them to be terrorists. I call it brave. I admire girls who choose to break up with “good guys” they will never love, because they aren’t satisfied with a drizzle; they would much rather live in thunderstorms I admire kind girls who are smart enough to be selfish sometimes I admire girls who put daisies in their hair; girls who don’t wait for a boy or girl to put it there for them And girls who put themselves before anyone else, even when the world is screaming

The Messes That Make You By: Nada Alturki I’ve had seven drinks tonight And I feel an itch in my crotch And my top shows too much skin And the color of my skin is too dark not to know how to dance But I don’t anyway And I’m apparently too foreign not to have an accent I kiss my secret lover in a kitchen full of people And he lets me The city is too dark And I walk alone Letting my tears drop on the concrete They don’t make a sound And the silence is too loud The buzz is too noticeable Just the way I like it I put my hand to my “problem area” And swear on my life And to the God I keep forgetting to pray to That I’ll let my mistakes define me And my flaws confine me Because they made me The mess I am tonight And I will never apologize

White Washed

by AZ Nowell

When I was five years old, I wanted to be white.

I would spend my time trying to figure out ways I could style my hair to make it look straighter, to make my skin look lighter, to make my eyes look blue. I wanted so badly to look like all my other friends from my white, Christian school. I remember one day I found a scraggly strand of blonde hair in my wild afro, and was so excited that I danced around my room, holding the hair victoriously between my fingers. The day I finally confessed this secret to my mother, we had just gotten back home from picking me up from school and were walking up the driveway to our front door. “Mom,” I said, “I wish I was white.” My mother stopped in her tracks, shocked. Her face shifted through a series of emotions -- surprise, disappointment, hurt -- before finally settling into a look of concern, a deep line forming between her eyebrows. “Why is that?” she asked, her voice tight. “I don’t know,” I shrugged, “I just think being white is cooler.” “So…” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “Do you not like yourself?” I paused, contemplating her question. “No… I like myself. I just think white is cooler.” The conversation pretty much ended there. We walked inside, I went up to my room, and I didn’t think too much about it. Later that night, my mom came into my bedroom and started pulling all the books off my shelf with black girls as the main characters. As soon as she pulled down the first book, I knew what she was up to. “Mom,” I said, “I know what you’re doing.” “Okay,” she replied, continuing to pull down books, “Then be quiet and listen.” So I did. We sat there on my bed for hours, reading through those books.

And I continued to listen. I listened to her and to the other, strong, black role models in my life that I was previously not paying attention to. As the years passed after that, my focus shifted from trying to be like my white friends from school to trying to find new ways I could style my natural hair. I became more passionate about issues in the black community and the injustices that black people face. Soon, I was spending time with the other people of color at my school rather than trying to fit in with the white kids. I didn’t care as much about what they thought of me, rather I focused more on trying to stand out, bringing attention to issues regarding race at my school that no one was talking about. Of course, this came with a lot of backlash (from other students and administration), which tends to be the general reaction when someone challenges the status quo. Now, I love being black. I love the kinkyness of my hair, the chocolate that is my skin, the deep brown of my eyes. I can’t imagine myself as anything else, nor do I want to be. I learned fairly recently that one of my white friends from kindergarten had started wearing her hair in twists and pigtails to school because she wanted to look like me. After learning that, I thought about all the other times my white friends would constantly ask me to braid their hair and ask me questions like “How do you get your hair so curly?” or “What do you do to get your hair to stay together like that?” It suddenly hit me that at the same time that I was trying so desperately to look like them, they were trying just as hard to look like me. I remember laughing out loud when I finally realized this. I couldn’t believe it had taken me that long. I don’t know why or how my five-year-old self came to the conclusion that “white was cooler.” My mother and my family constantly talk about how powerful and amazing black people are and pushed us to take pride in our skin and history. Looking back, I finally understand the disappointment, hurt, and concern my mother experienced when I first told her how I felt. I also find myself feeling embarrassed for that little girl. She was so convinced that in order to be pretty, like her friends, she needed to be white. Today, I know that I could not have been more wrong. 18

Valid by Tiffany Carbon I came out as bisexual two Saturday’s ago. I was drunk But the alcohol in my system didn’t Intoxicate or falsify my words because I was telling the truth. Something that I had truly always known But avoided. I thought the idea of my bisexuality was the silly phase of an attention-seeking straight girl who just thought Tumblr pictures of Zoe Kravitz was cute. I thought my sexuality was settled on A straight line because of how much I desired and thirsted for the attention and validation of boys along with their touch. I thought my bisexuality was a sham Because I was more attracted to boys And still am. Yet as time went on, my attraction To girls grew. I found myself wanting them Almost as much as the boys Who wouldn’t deserve me And I realized that, with a girl, I would be just as happy I like girls and though the path To dating one might be rough, An idea that I hadn’t accepted until Recently, I can now believe that it could happen. I am bisexual. I am valid. 19

Rejecting Modesty Is modesty the requirement for your praise? Because your smile fades when you tell me I’m beautiful and I say “I know.” Should every compliment you pay me change what I see in the mirror, Allowing me the privilege of finally seeing myself through your hungry eyes.

How does ignorance of my own talents enhance them? Am I meant to bow my head and deny my strengths to be worthy of their recognition. I know my worth, my faults, It is not my responsibility to deflate my sense of self for your comfort. I have no time for your outdated ideas of a woman’s submissiveness masquerading as politeness You say I am intelligent, talented, Should I not be aware of this? I will not apologize for knowing who I am. I will not give up my pride, I have earned it. I will hold my head high and raise my voice louder, Because I deserve this feeling. -Niki Hester 20

U N A P O LO G E T I C P H OTO G R A P H E D BY S AMA N T H A S C H E C H T E R

Jokes

We make jokes We laugh it off “how the hand holding never stops” We accept it as our future and are trained into the lifestyle our whole lives “we’re just wired differently” Is no one else shocked by the status quo, the inescapable expectations, the oppression? Is no one fearful of the consumption, the life duty, the unselfishness that is expected I want to be selfish. I want to be loud. I want to be angry. I will not be consumed. Since when is every woman supposed to be the mother of all men without the credit? Who lets us continually give up ourselves We are the strongest, wisest, bravest people I know Women of color have been told to give without asking for anything back I AM ASKING FOR MY OWN REPARATIONS For my mother, for my grandmother, for her mother

I create change, I create life, I create community, My body has powers the world can not live without I will hold your hand no longer 23

Ilina

Give me the opportunity, the pedestal, the benefit of the doubt and see how I take your copper and make it into gold

I am enraged I am engaged If life’s struggles are actually a finger pointing me towards where I should be Then why do I resist them I should persist Create a new revolution of community We spend our days falling into cycles, circles, of the same work Only to be thrown out when we don’t fit into the cookie cutters needed for the job That’s why we create space, we use our face as an image of the rally cry You can be mad and exist You do not need to be policed to exist The power of the individual is greater than any systemic industrial movement You are the movement. We move hands held so tight together the knuckles are going white against our glowing color Navigating communities, engaging spaces, empowering ourselves and others is a lifestyle you are allowed to exist in, strive in, thrive in

Ghosh

Stay Enraged Beautiful <3

I’m Back & More Pissed Than Ever (and that’s okay) 24

FLAWLESSLY UNAPOLOGETIC

By: Jalyn Cox

Happiness By Annie Hinh When I was a child, I hated being happy. I hated smiling. I hated laughing. I hated anything that showed too much of my feelings. It wasn’t always like that. I used to be a very bright child back in my early elementary school days. I made friends easily. Kids flocked around me as I ran around the playground. You could hear my crowing from the other side of the school. Teachers said I was a “delight,” what with my eagerness and quickness. But it seemed like the older I got, the less I was a delight to people. What was cute and endearing for a young child to do became annoying for older kids. When I smiled, my mother would slap my arm and tell me that I was smiling too wide, too gummy, to be pretty. My dentist told me that there was gum surgery to help make my smile prettier if I wanted. When I laughed and yelled in excitement, people around me would sneer at the loud preteen. I had a habit of clapping my hands when laughing wasn’t enough, and people would look at me strangely and ask, “Why do Asians do that? It’s annoying.” My classmates found less amusement in the jokes I’d make, and more amusement in the jokes made about how my eyes “disappeared” when I was happy. Being excited and energetic only got me glares and hisses from my parents telling me “calm down, be a lady.” Happy became annoying. Happy became ugly. Happy became bad. 27

Eventually, I learned how to feel in measured amounts; anger, sadness, fear, and especially happiness—all those feelings could be condensed into easier-to-digest portions for others and the leftovers would be saved for those rare times of safety when no one was home. I learned how to smile with only my lips (so much so that I could consider the twitch of a mouth a smile now. I learned how to laugh silently, low and deep and opened-mouth (but don’t forget to use your hand to cover your face). I learned to stop clapping, locking my joints so my arms don’t move and if I slip up, I could catch myself before the accursed clap. To a certain degree, it worked. I got less raised eyebrows from strangers when I was quieter, and my parents definitely seemed to like me more on a day-to-day basis. I heard slightly less Asian jokes when I wasn’t so obviously acting like one. I was dull, but I was acceptable. But recently, I began wondering, “Was this living?” Was I even human if I only allowed myself a certain amount of emotions to be felt at one time? Why do I have to censor my own feelings just for the sake of others? For the sake of strangers who—in all honesty—are just going to find something else to judge me for anyway? They are always going to make their racist jokes and their stereotypes. Nothing I was going to do would change the fact that I was Asian. So fuck their judgements. Finding things to be happy about is difficult enough in this world. There was no reason to deprive myself of the little joy I was able to find. Learning how to be happy again has been a process. I still find myself freezing mid-clap in embarrassment before I remember it’s okay to be excited. My hand automatically moves to cover my mouth, but I let my ugly donkey laugh ring out anyway. Yeah, my laughing is ugly, but it’s all about finding people who find my gummy smile and scrunched face more endearing than annoying. Acceptance may still elude me, but I’m getting there. And that I can say with a smile. 28

you should see me in a crown creator & model // chantal encalada producer & director // amalia gonzalez photographer // victoria bazar lighting & model // bethany hamlin model // annaliese taylor model // tatiana melendez

Artist's Note: To all the nights and mornings I spent lying in bed, wishing I knew what was wrong with me; wishing I knew why I wasn't enough

You know you love me By Caroline Rodriguez

The way I tore the two of us apart You know you loved the chaos As I ripped myself open Spilled my guts out and Threw them like confetti Screaming as you closed the door. Left to gather my insides And stitch up the scars by the time You came back around. And the way I refused to let you Forget my skin dipped in moonlight the way I unlocked my legs From their joints and threw them Around your shoulders, Dug heels in like teeth, Drew prayers from your mouth. And the way I hurled words Against the wall and broke The windows with my voice. The way our shadows Looked like they were in love Even as we dragged out The sun with our screams.

And the way my love burned Down your throat, so much Your chest would ache In the morning. The peace Of a planet burning out, Enamored with its own destruction. You know you loved me And I can see it in the way You love her. I can see You are afraid to love her In the same way you loved Me. You are afraid To love someone that much; You are afraid of your own voice Like a lit match, Capable of burning the world.

COLORS By Maya Rollings He reminded me of the sun. Beautiful in his rays. Bold in his face. Warm in his touch. Dangerous if around him too long. I knew then there was a reason yellow was a primary color. I thought I had found it in him. But he was empty like a heart without love.Maybe that’s why he never mastered it. Maybe that’s why he never mastered himself. Maybe that’s why he never mastered me. He always told me I reminded him of the ocean. Easy on the eyes. Good for the heart. Deep enough to get lost in. Hot or cold depending on the day. I wondered if he knew blue was a primary color. I wondered if he could see the blues on my face through the tears he crafted with his words. So I asked him and he told me the only thing he knew for sure was that the sun and the ocean were most beautiful together. He could see his reflection in my tides. It didn’t matter thatn in the process he burned me with his rays. I decided then that I never wanted to be the ocean. And when I did, I reminded myself of rubies. Marvelous on my own. Made to be valued. Royal in my flare. Fit for kingdoms. I loved that red was a primary color. The other two never really compared.

Boobie Standards by melanie curry It is stores like Forever 21 that make me feel ashamed. With their pale as snow mannequins with teeny tiny perky breasts, I feel ashamed. Breasts that are so small, there’s not a cup size to describe them. Breasts that can’t hold up a strapless shirt because it’s just like air. Breasts that are so unlike mine, it’s weird they’re the beauty standard. My breasts, who are thick, full, and heavy that even my own hands can’t hold them up. My breasts whose ovalish shape and sagginess nature prevents the appearance of crop tops and strapless shirts on my body. My breasts, who requires a bra for every outfit it wears. My breasts, who could never fit into the typical beauty standards. My breasts, who are so unlike the “norm,” they don’t exist. My breasts, who according to Forever 21, can’t wear brown furry coats and leather skirts. My breasts, who after yearning for acceptance, says “fuck it.” My breasts that wear what the fuck it wants when it wants. My breasts that go braless, wear crop tops, bandeaus, all the while flicking its middle finger to those who disapprove. My breasts that say it’s stores like Forever 21 that make them happy. My breasts who are happy that their size is lovely, even when others don’t think so.

To the Woman with the Sunglasses Who Told Me I Looked Like

“A Cultured Mexican”

By: Maya Pontone

“What are you?” We’ve all been asked this question before. As 21st-century products of the American “melting pot,” many of us like the opportunity to share our responses, eager to talk about the unique blend of ethnicities that makes us who we are, like we’re each starring in our own 23andme commercial. As a brown girl who grew up in a predominantly white community, I can’t help but notice how frequently I’ve been asked this question. Friends, classmates, teachers, strangers — the interrogation is always more or less the same: Where’s your family from? You have such an interesting look...are you Indian? Persian? What are you? I used to like the attention. As a little kid, it made me feel special to look “ethnic” (as some liked to phrase it). It didn’t occur to me why they were so fascinated by my features in the first place, but I liked the idea that others found me interesting. “I’m Mexican, Hungarian, Italian, and Polish,” I would proudly respond, purposely mentioning my Latinx heritage first. Out of all of my friends, hardly any of them were Latinx, and it made me feel like my family was special, knowing that in our household, my mother and my aunt were keeping our Mexican heritage alive and well. But as I grew older, this pride in my Latinx background became overshadowed by embarrassment, jealousy, and shame. In the view of the news, movies and TV shows — my Mexican roots were so often associated with degrading stereotypes that made me envious of my friends’ more “sophisticated” white backgrounds. Growing up in a largely Italian and Irish community, I grew jealous of the familial heritages of my friends and ashamed of my own, unaware of how their own predecessors had struggled decades earlier when their foreign cultures had been rejected by the white anglo-Saxon standard. “I’m Italian, Polish, Hungarian, and Mexican,” I would respond, hesitating before listing, lastly, my Latinx heritage. My dark skin that I used to be so proud of, quickly became something that I tried to cover up and hide in the shadows during to the summertime to avoid getting “too tan.” I blushed when my friends would hold their pale forearms up to mine to compare skin tones in September, and grew resentful of my dark hair, wishing it wasn’t so painfully visible on my legs and under my arms and on my face. I stayed away from bold, brightly-colored clothing, because I worried it only brought more attention to my dark features. When I heard that my mother had considered naming me “Gabrielle” when she and my father were deliberating over baby names, I thought about how it sounded less “ethnic” than the name they chose: 37“Maya.”

But my attempts to blend in, to hide, didn’t stop the questions or the comments. To white strangers, my features—the brown skin, dark hair, almond-shaped eyes that have been passed down to me from my ancestors—make me interesting in the same way as they make me foreign (read: exotic). And to these same white strangers, my heritage— the food, music, dress, and language passed down to me by the same people—is interesting in the same way as it is “unsophisticated” (read: inferior). And this paradoxical treatment is unfortunately, is situation for many women of color. Everywhere, the white patriarchal gaze exoticizes our physical bodies, while simultaneously dismissing our ancestral cultures. Our whole selves are split into two, one half put on display for the entertainment of others, and the other half thrown away. “You look so ethnic,” remarked a woman one day this summer at the coffee shop where I worked. Even though we were inside, her eyes were shielded by a pair of big, dark sunglasses, and as I stood up from the fridge I was restocking with Gatorade, I could still feel the familiar, scrutinizing stare. Then she continued the unsolicited conversation with, “What are you?” — obviously, the most logical question to ask me next (because apparently introducing herself or asking for my name was not as much of a priority as knowing what kind of brown person I am). “I’m Hungarian, Mexican—” I started to respond, before she abruptly cut me off. Sunglasses had heard enough. “Oh ok, you look Mexican. But like...a cultured Mexican,” she said. What a thoughtful observation. I am tired of others picking apart and choosing which parts of me are acceptable and which parts aren’t; tired of others making me feel like I should be embarrassed about a cherished part of my family history; tired of feeling like some exhibit for others’ amusement. I didn’t ask for your questions or your commentary, and I certainly didn’t ask for your jokes. I am not here to listen to you guess whether I’m Indian or Persian; or complain about how you wish you could get as tan as me; or ask where I’m from (and then ask where my parents are from because New Jersey wasn’t the answer you wanted). I’m not here to listen to you tell me about how I don’t look like one of those “uncultured Mexicans”— the ones you hear about on Fox News or on our President’s Twitter timeline, the ones that are here to steal American jobs and sell drugs to your children— as if that’s some sort of compliment to make me feel special. This may come as a shock, but the Mexicans I know are more cultured, more sophisticated, and frankly, more intelligent than you and your ignorant commentary. I’m proud of my family history, every aspect of it, and the only thing I’m embarrassed about now is the fact that I ever let people like you convince me otherwise.

Chain-ged by Naomi Jones I write to the world Who thinks it has changed. From flags flown in serenity to one’s of distress; There’s no pain like the lives of the faces you’ve forgotten. To the forgotten world, I’ve watched us get chained to the wall. A beat that flea’s from rhythm stuck in its own tone It’s own time zone. I write to the world that’s forgotten where it came from. We switch roles, and I watch you desperately wade through the waters of my daily fears. My generational tears, that sparked race wars and wildfires. My cultural tears that bleed victory in silent marches on sidewalks; Just to get stopped and frisked for being colors as non white as this. My ethnic years of teachers, relatives, and friends no longer waiting; No longer representing; no longer protecting. 39

I write to the old world to let them see how much we have stayed the same. Still the ones to combat institutional racism with passive aggressive microaggressions Those who lie like colorism is a statistic rather than the problem Those who write to the bigatist to make new legislation And voice our issues to the colonist who’s ears have turned off while we call them out for raping us I do not think this world is ready for this vengeance pustulating from our flesh. We are a chosen people scavenging for something more than just a promise for “change” We WILL stand to watch that hate you chain to us, burn your luck to the ground before we accept another participation trophy. WE EXPECT ACTION And are here making room for it Extra! Extra! Nothin’ new in this rhythmic testament. An unapologetic statement; Get in, or get out the way. 40

I’m Just Trying to let the words out my mouth testifying not preaching not reaching calculating my trajectory seeking glory let the choir say AMEN (crickets). That’s ok I’m representing mentioning my methods not trying to be aggressive I’m a woman of color bark colored sista dreaming of technicolor words not dreams wrapped in a coat floating through my fingers catching them as I can scripting my next steps no scriptures holy legibility seemingly a bookphile a librarian of the lexicon no cons an artist of pen & paper my canvas illustrating my poetics my politics my problems of practice practicing artistry just being me I’m just transforming reconfiguring reshaping my destiny avoiding fates known & unknown

Shirley Luke

Only God Can Tell Me About Myself Shirley Luke I don’t need anyone to tell me about my imperfections. I’m happy with my defects. No need to worry about rejection. I don’t present myself to those with standards. I’m a random witch. A negress nomad. I roam in my own home. I don’t just stay in my lane. I slay in my lane. Opinions of opposition, I ignore.

Don’t want the negativity. Cuts into my productivity. I don’t want stress on my mind. But, I could care less. People are always harping on things that don’t concern them. Their lives desire the business of others. I am no one’s business but my own. A Nubian queen on her throne. If you want to be in my world, there are rules. Don’t abuse my personal space. Don’t judge my unique tastes. Criticizing my style will fall on deaf ears. Complaining about my ways will get you a blank face. Don’t lean on me to be your twin. Imitation is not flattery, I find it a sin. Lord knows I am stubborn as fuck. Hell doesn’t want me. I’d redecorate. Heaven wishes me a long life, knowing I’d kicked down the pearly gates. I won’t be quiet in such a serene place. Silence is not my golden rule. I am a woman. No one’s fool. Representin’ myself, on my own.

A Response to the People Who Refuse to Listen

By Sydney Logan

“Can you speak a little quieter?”

Is my voice too loud? Is it reaching too many people? Is it possible that my voice is grating over your ears Like whips on someone’s back? “Excuse me, move over.” I have every right to sit right here. I don’t have to shift and contort like I’m in a circus Just so you can feel comfortable enough to swell to an unimaginable size. “Not everything is about, you know, race.” Yes it is. It always is. You might not see color But I can always feel it. “Shouldn’t you be educating me?” Are you gonna pay me for being your teacher? Are you gonna write me essays and take my tests And pray you get a passing grade? “We didn’t think you’d come.” You didn’t want me to come. You didn’t want my skin taking the light from the room. You didn’t want me to feel safe here. I need you to hear me Loud and clear. I do not owe you anything Nor do I have to give you the answers You want to hear.

Inside The Mind Of An Immigrant Parent

By: Barinder Saini 44

THE HATE He told me to turn myself in. But everyday I stay silent in my self-pity. Pressuring me like the bars on these walls. Telling me to lie to myself but knowing there’s only one lie. I sit cross legged staring at the wall. Imagining that they were transparent glass walls filled with my own reflection, but then revealed as a different shade. He said he had the evidence of brown. The others say I blend with them since we all look the same. “The others” that are brainless, weak or just soiled. The ones that choose to make silent inventions within their fingertips. Fingertips filled with tears and dirt. Tears and dirt filled with memories. And memories filled with no bliss. He said I was guilty. Guilty of being who I am. He said I was too dark as leather and not the expensive kind. He said I AM the slave. I said I AM NOT. I said I am different as each stripe on the flag. “You’re free to go for now Ms. Black. Unfortunately, somehow someone bailed you out. ” You’re not free. “I said you’re free to go, unless you would like to stay in here like the dried up vomit you are.”

Melanie 45

I GAVE MYSELF He’s right. You’re the evidence that needs to be erased You’ll just turn into sawdust because once the sun hits your already black skin, there’s no body to go back to That skin that you have right there isn’t anything to be proud of, It’s like being burnt You wanna be burnt? Like coal on a cold day? Is that what you wanna be known for, for the rest of your life? All of you are spreading like ash from Pompeii Just go with the animals Shut up Shut up SHUT UP I stand up, swiping off the excess ink colored beatings I walk slowly passing the guard with light strides Turn, look him right in the eyes and say, “I think I’ll be burnt, what about you?” Silence. Silence Within a few steps of my newly found freedom, Wondering where he went Don’t you think you’re gonna burn out in the sun? Guess we’ll see won’t we?

Shepard 46

I BELIEVE IN THE ANGRY BLACK WOMAN By Mariama Condé

Black women have been at the forefront of many issues and are always outspoken. But people seem to constantly mistake outspoken for loud and problematic, and they label black women like so, discrediting the imperative messages they try and convey. Malcolm X once said, “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman, the most unprotected person in America is the Black woman, the most neglected person in America is the Black woman.” This being unfortunately true for decades, and still ringing true, sparked resistance from many famous black women and one in particular who is an icon to pop culture, Solange Knowles. In late September of 2016, Solange released an album named A Seat at the Table which featured many empowering songs for black women like Don’t Touch My Hair. But the one song, in particular, that stands out to me and the issue regarding black women’s right to be outspoken and angry is Mad. One of the lyrics states, “You got the right to be mad But when you carry it alone you find it only getting in the way They say you gotta let it go…” which conveys the feeling of a black woman when she discovers that something is not right, but she ends up getting discredited and blown over because people who have never been in their shoes tell them to simply let it go or to stop being so angry. Black women should have the right to be mad without being seen as problematic and aggressive.

Hair has always been something that black women view as important. It is a huge part of their identity because it is unlike anything else. Growing up with predominantly white people in the media and ads saying things like, “get silky smooth hair”. Those media messages can really mess with young black girls’ confidence regarding their hair because it is so “different”. One particular hairstyle important to black women is braids. They are a protective hairstyle to help our hair grow and prevent it from breakage but the roots are from Africa. They do not only protect our hair, but braids are also beautiful and there are so many different styles to choose from. During slavery, white women did not like the fact that braids made black women look beautiful so they ridiculed them for their hair and the texture and forced them to cover their hair introducing headwraps in American black women culture, which they learned to style as well. This also resulted in the use of big hats famously seen being worn in black churches. Black women have struggled with their hair for decades and recently, most famously, cornrows have been especially popular for white women to wear. The Kardashians renamed them “boxer braids”. In earlier media, black women wearing braids as

well as gelling your edges were considered ghetto, ugly, and unprofessional and still are often times but when white women wear them, those labels seem to disappear and “boxer braids” are seen as cute and trendy. It has even gone as far as fashion week on runways as famous white models strut wearing a culture and a boatload of history without the same amount of judgment the originators’ would get. They steal culture and don’t get called out which is cultural appropriation at its finest. And there is definitely a double standard with black women being called ghetto and white women being called “trendy” or “cute” when wearing braids. Black women become angry at this, rightfully so, given the history and circumstances, and people say that they are overreacting and that it is “just hair” which completely discredits them and makes them seem overly dramatic over something seemingly small. But, no one ever seems to want to ask black women why it makes them feel upset. In 2015, Nicki Minaj called out Miley Cyrus at the VMA’s. Miley Cyrus had a few years in which she used black culture to benefit her career but then she later decided that she did not want to use it anymore because it had a negative effect on her. She said that most of the songs aren’t beautiful and encourage, “Lamborghini, got my Rolex, got a girl…” culture and that pushed her away from rap/hip-hop. Before the awards show night, Nicki had called award shows out truthfully claiming that they only choose a certain type of girl to be nominated for awards but would never choose a black woman, especially one who is a rapper, to be nominated in a particular category. Taylor Swift assumed Nicki was subtweeting her, and Miley made some comments to the press regarding the issue, saying, “What I read sounded very Nicki Minaj, which, if you know Nicki Minaj is not too kind.” She also said, “It’s not very polite. I think there’s a way you speak to people with openness and love.” At the VMA’s Nicki was giving a speech on the issue regarding black women’s struggle in the industry, and she called out Miley Cyrus for looking disinterested during the speech and for saying those things about her and black culture previously. Miley Cyrus never tried to listen to the message that Nicki Minaj was attempting to convey, she focused not on what she said but on how she said it. This is most commonly known as “tone policing”. Tone policing is largely used whenever individuals decide to stand up for themselves, and it is a way to take attention away from injustice and focusing on the way it was said, completely invalidating the point trying to be made. Miley Cyrus did this when she said, “I think there’s a way you speak to people” and many did this when Nicki said the famous quote, “What’s good Miley?” even curating a meme out of it. Tone policing makes the oppressors look like they have yet to do wrong and makes the oppressed look disheveled and as if their thoughts lack importance or strategy. Author Phoebe Robinson said, “...there is a predator-like mental scan that black women have to do before speaking, and even after we’ve done risk assessment, things can still go astray.” Black women try their best to avoid being tone-policed, so they will not be seen as aggressive or angry. Because black women are often times invalidated if they don’t contemplate what they are going to say, things could still “come out wrong”. I think it should come out “wrong”, and they should be angry. Black women have always been at the forefront of important life changing issues like Black Lives Matter, the Civil rights movement, the suffrage movement, voting and more. Their angry, loud, aggressive voices helped and continue to help initiate change...always. Would you like to hear from the angry black woman? I think I would. 50

My gut introduces itself, before I get to speak My edges refuse to sit down even though my gel and brush work over time My boobs give up, even when my bra tries it’s hardest My stretch marks attach to my tummy like Starved flies to sweet honey My mirror feeds off the uncertainty of my body My mind craves the bad thoughts that tend to wander But they’ll be starving soon Because of love that’s growing inside It blooms like the flowers in the spring And is strong like the roots of a tree It is a bountiful amount of love within me

Written By: Skylar Figaro