Flawless Mag: The Spirit Issue by Flawless Mag

FLAWLESS MAG

Issue 10 - Spring 2020

THE SPIRIT ISSUE

Editor in Chief Niki Hester

Layout By Flawless Writes AZ Nowell Brianna Jackman Emily Cardona Erica Jones Harriet Chan Niki Hester Shruti Rakjumar Flawless Brown is an artist collective and sisterhood for self identifying women and nonbinary people of color based at Emerson College. We aim to develop socially concious art while forming sisterly bonds

Flawless Brown Executive Board Spring 2020 Chair of Pictures

President

Chair of Writes

Hanna El-Mohandess

Jasmine Williams

Niki Hester

Chair of Stage

Vice Presidents

Chair of Comedy

Davante Jackson

Caroline Rodriquez Jalyn Cox

Amalia Gonzalez

Chair of Sisterhood Amali Dunmore

Treasurer Alexandra Dudley

Chair of Marketing Leah Cedeno

Letter from the Editor

I think the idea of Spirit is something that feels very personal, partly because it’s something that is so intangible. Spirit looks and feels different to everyone. For me, it used to mean the unknown, the things that I can feel but can’t always put a name to. When I thought of Spirit I thought of the ways that I connect to the energy surrounding me in the world and to my own power. These are still things that resonate with me when I think of Spirit, but I also know that my personal definition has grown recently. I think that looking back on this semester, which was a difficult one for a lot of us, I started to learn what Spirit looks like within Flawless. Spirit for us is a sense of togetherness no matter how far apart we are. Spirit for us is a sense of safety when we’re with our sisters. Spirit for us is a passion for our art and an excitement for our sisters’ art. Spirit for us is always feeling how much we’re rooting for each other, and always knowing we have an incredible support system in this organization. I am more grateful than ever for Flawless Writes and all of the creativity that they inspire and embody. I’m so grateful for this semester’s board for making every meeting the highlight of my week, and especially to Jasmine for putting her whole heart into Flawless and being an amazing example of a leader. This was my first semester as Chair of Writes and I’m just so grateful for everything I’ve learned and everything I have to look forward to.

With Love, Niki Hester 3

Table Of Contents

6 Davante Jackson

9 Tiffany Carbon Spirit of the Moon 10 Niki Hester Every Atom 12 Melanie Lau The Moon Goddess 13 Jordan Blair Spirit 14 AZ Nowell Mayaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Song

Shruti Rakjumar 20 Confirmed

Jalyn Cox 25 Seasonal Change Erica Jones 26 Rainbow Trauma Emily Cardona 28 Men Break My Spirit Harriette Chan 35 Emerson Ruins

Table of Contents

Leah Heath 22 Clearance

Naomi Jones 38 UBUNTU

This motel sign has been along the W Beltline Highway in Madison my entire life. I can remember whizzing past it way too fast (my mom always speeds, always) from a car seat in a busted, emerald green mini van and we still blow past it now, while I sit passenger with my dorm packed in the back. Going past it I always used to try and imagine what kind of lives the people who rented rooms had, were they running away from a sordid past or just truckers stopping on a cross country job. It’s run down now, it was on it’s way out when I was a toddler and honestly I can only remember ever seeing a car in the lot once or twice in the 15 odd years I’ve lived here. The sign, always proclaiming vacancy, has started to represent how I feel; like a traveler moving from one life to another, just stopping to rest where there is a vacancy. Everywhere I go I kind of feel like I’m just playing, imagining what my lives could look like here, or here, or here or there. I don’t really have a grand statement or deep analysis, my spirit just doesn’t really feel at home any one place. and I don’t know how to get over that. And it’s a pretty sign. And for now, I really like wandering.

Spirit of the Moon by Tiffany Carbon

The stars should feel lucky to be compared to you Your spirit runs free and I adore that too Yet I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think you can see So we will continue to love only in my daydreams I dream of running into the forest with her Intertwining into one under the watchful sun We sing together and I love the melody it makes No one but the souls of the woods to hear us I have never known peace like when you hold me Boston is a different type of cold when you are gone My power feels lost in your shadow, sometimes you make me feel blue But I could die whenever I kiss you Your ghosts are daunting And you think they will haunt me too But I will dry your tears, I will possess your pain I can show you I care Take all the time you need For I will always be here, I would wait around all day We will lay underneath the stars It may not be now, but someday soon In my daydreams we are happy Take my hand and we could make it out alive Because when I look at you I see the spirit of the moon

Every Atom by Niki Hester

“Do you ever think about what happens when we die?” There was a moment of silence. They both seemed content to let it hang, watching the smoke from their lungs rise and find its place among the stars peppering the summer sky. It was later than they were usually up. They had met unintentionally in the kitchen, both looking for some comfort from the deep well of sadness that seemed to grow with the setting of the sun, both looking for an explanation for where the sadness had come from in the first place. They had taken one look at each other and knew what the other needed. Parting ways briefly to collect their chosen late-night vices, before meeting in front of the broken attic window, and helping each other climb out onto the hidden piece of rooftop that served as their refuge from the real world. Zola had grabbed the ice cream out of the freezer, choosing Cam’s favorite flavor over her own in a moment of philanthropy. Cam had pried up the loose floorboard under her bed and pulled out the joint her brother had left the last time he came to do his laundry and lecture her about lightening up just a little bit. It was Cam who had asked the question. She was blessed with an intense determination to have all of her curiosities explained, and cursed with the inability to ask easy questions. She was usually voracious in her pursuit of knowledge, and yet this time, she waited. Patient for perhaps the first time in her life. “I don’t think much of anything happens at all.” That was Zola, the more likely of the two to have her feet planted directly on the ground. Although if you knew them both, that really wasn’t saying much. Zola may have had her feet planted directly on the ground, but they were undeniably bare. There was dirt between her toes and the sort of peace that is usually out of reach to all but the trees in her heart. She considered herself a realist, but she was a lover of possibility above all else and completely unwilling to discount anything that may end up being reality.

The two of them were well matched. Their friendship had grown out of a seemingly inherent ability to understand the other’s nature and when that hadn’t gone away, they could imagine no other way to spend the rest of their lives than with each other. And yet, this seemed to be one of the rare moments in which they couldn’t seem to effortlessly see from the other’s point of view. Zola sensed Cam’s question before she got to ask it. “I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that,” she continued. “ I just think that in a world that is so incapable of emptiness it seems odd to think that we would go anywhere but into every atom that we have ever been before. Every little thing that we surround ourselves with has a spirit, even if it’s beyond our comprehension. It may be the optimist in me, but I like to think that at least a little of that comes from us and that maybe if we do right by ourselves, we get to go back to that.” Cam considered this. At this hour of the night, it seemed so incredibly possible. The wind was pulling at her curls the way her grandfather used to, and the birds nested in the tree growing by the side of the house were sleeping wrapped around her the way that children do when they’ve grown up together. She thought it may just be the sleep deprivation, but something about the moonlight was making it easier to see the soul in everything around her. She could see all of her favorite things about herself and imagine where they had been before they ended up filling her with life. She imagined the stubbornness of the mountains she had always felt called to, finding its way into her mind. She heard the chirping of the crickets, and in it, the high pitched chirp of her laughter when she let herself laugh unabashedly with all of the light inside of her. Cam couldn’t help but smile as she saw the way that her fingertips stretched across the rooftop to brush against Zola’s side, the way that the flowers in her garden spent their lives reaching to the sun and all the warmth that it unwittingly shone down onto them. “I don’t think there will ever be enough finality in this world for us to even call it death.”

The Moon Goddess by Melanie Lau

during mid-autumn festival, i pray to you again, Changâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;e. it is the 15th day of the 8th month of the year, and your body is fullest today, good moon goddess. i place a white wax candle next to a plate of oranges, and contemplate the wishes i will ask of you. i sit by an open window, let the wind take my worries. i look to the sky, i glimmer under your shine. light pollution hides the stars which surround you; i am alone with the moon. in both hands, i hold a single, circular mooncake. your pet rabbit, the one which represents fertility and prosperity, sits atop. i gaze at you. the rabbit is reflected on your surface, outlined by your dark marks. this is my ritual. this is my connection to you, Changâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;e. i close my eyes, and cup my mooncake, and ask if you know human pain. you are immortal, my goddess. do you know what is hopeless? do you know what is hardship? i know, you say, the moon has to know. you talk to me about the tides, how water washes away all blood, all dirt. rejuvenation, you say. i tell you it is not too simple. the earth is mortal, and so it has death, and so it is a difficult place to find peace. but do you feel safer when talking to me? that is rejuvenation, you say. i spend my evening with the moon. i do not speak wishes, i only speak truths. you face me. you sit in the sky. you listen.

Spirit

Jordan Blair

I don’t have the spirit to walk Or the spirit to move Without you, I feel so lost My soul cries our for you The empty space in my bed is waiting for you I don’t have the spirit to breathe Or the spirit to cry I only can lay in this bed crying And wonder when I’ll have the spirit to laugh or sing a tune of happiness As of right now, all I feel is hopeless

Maya’s Song by AZ Nowell

When I was ten years old, my mother decided on a whim to spend her tax return on a used piano. She found it at her favorite thrift shop, Murray’s, just around the corner from where we lived. I vividly remember walking into the house after a particularly long day at school and seeing her perched on its bench. She was wearing a loose tank top, sweat shorts, and an old, red bandana tied around her head with a hasty bow in an attempt to keep her large afro out of her face. The sunlight filtering in from the window haloed her frame as she polished the ivory keys with an old t-shirt, dust flying up in a golden-flecked flurry. I dropped my backpack by the door and walked over to her. “Hello, my sweet boy, how was school?” “It was okay.” I shrugged, “What’s this?” “It’s a piano.” I tilted my head. “Why do we have a piano?” She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she put down the t-shirt and patted the space on the bench next to her. When I hopped up, she wrapped her arm around my shoulders, the comforting smell of cocoa butter tickling my nostrils. With her free hand, she gestured towards the keys. “Go ahead, give it a try.” My fingers, twitching with curiosity, reached out and tapped one of them, sending a note echoing through the house. It was outrageously out of tune. My mother sucked on her teeth. “I guess I’ll have to get it tuned.” She smiled down at me. “I promise once it’s tuned, it will sound better.” It didn't matter to me; I was excited for something new. When my father came home later that night, he didn’t see the appeal. I watched their debate from behind the bannister on the stairs. “Maya.” He pinched the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was angry and trying to hold it back, “I just wish you had asked me before you bought this. We could have used the money for something else.” “I'm not going to apologize for trying to make our house a little more like a home.” She was right. Our house had the absolute essentials but nothing more than that. We couldn’t afford anything else. “All I’m saying is our money could have been used for something more... practical.” “Everything in our lives is about practicality, Christian! Where is the fun anymore?” She took a deep breath before resting her hands on his chest and looking deep into my father’s eyes, “My love, you used to love playing the piano. Don’t you remember?”

They both looked at the piece of furniture in question across the room. “It’s part of the reason why I fell in love with you,” she whispered, not breaking her gaze. “Don’t you want the same for our son?” My father’s look remained hard. “That was a different time.” He looked back at my mother and slowly pulled her hands away. “Now, we have to act like adults.” With that he made his way towards the stairs, leaving my mother alone in the living room. Although I didn’t fully understand why at the time, I had a feeling that conversation wasn’t something I was meant to hear. I ran to my room. My mother figured teaching herself how to tune the “damned thing” herself was easier than arguing with my father about paying someone else to. So, every day I came home in the following weeks, I would find her hunched over the piano’s open top, several books about pianos from the library and tuning tools from Murray’s scattered around her feet. One early Sunday morning about a month after my mom bought the piano, she shook me out of my sleep. When I opened my eyes, I saw her beaming face staring back at me. “Come, Marcus,” she said, “I want to show you something.” I followed her down the stairs and into the living room, rubbing sleep from my eyes and stepping through the slew of papers, books, and tools that seemed like a permanent part of the space by that point. Once again, she patted the space next to her on the piano bench, and once again I complied. “Go ahead,” she said, “Try it.” I nodded and reached out to press one of the yellowed keys, but instead of a twangy tone scratching its way out of the piano, a sweet, bell-like note sang from inside. A giggle came from deep in my mother’s chest and she clapped her hands. “Now that is how a piano is supposed to sound.” She took over and began to play, her fingers dancing across the keys and filling the room with song. Her face lit up as she played, as if she had re-found a long-lost friend. When the song finished, she leaned back with a look of accomplishment. “I liked that song, Mama,” I said. “Would you like to learn it?” I nodded, and she began to teach me the basics. We sat at the piano for the rest of the day, much to my father’s annoyance. By the time the sun set I could barely play through the first few lines, but I was falling in love. Before I knew it, I was playing the piano every day. It had become a coping mechanism, because when I played, my songs would drown out the sounds of my parents’ arguing. Every day, their angry words bounced off the walls of our home and my fingers would itch with anticipation, eventually finding themselves on the familiar keys.

After every argument my mother would find me at the piano, playing away. My father hated it. I think I reminded him too much of who he used to be. He would disappear into the garage and his car would start up and leave. I tried not to think about it, I just kept playing. … By the time I was fifteen my parents had divorced, my father living across town with a woman he met one of those nights he stormed out of the house. There was no piano at his new place, so I found solace in finding random scraps of paper around his house and writing my own songs. My parents never spoke anymore. The first time my father took me home after a visit he dropped me off at the curb, refusing to cross the threshold of the property to walk me to the door. I was the only tie to his old life, the one he couldn’t cut, and at times I felt like he resented me for it. The first time my mother opened the door for me and noticed it was only me standing there, she was furious. I knew she did not want me to, but I saw the hurt in her eyes as my father pulled back down the road, staying only long enough to make sure I got to the door safely. She only let it happen one time. She began the habit of waiting for me on the porch the evenings my father would drop me back at home. She sat in her favorite rocking chair like it was her throne, refusing to let my father forget what he so desperately tried to. Every time, I would hop out of his car, throwing a goodbye over my shoulder and jogging up the driveway to my mother’s open and waiting arms. Every time, my mother would give him a knowing look before turning and guiding me into the house, a soft hand resting on my shoulders. Whenever I came back home, all the anxieties and stress from spending time at my father’s would melt off my shoulders as I was swallowed by the familiar smells of lemon cleaner and cinnamon. The first place I would return to was my mother’s piano. No one loved my music more than my mother did, me included. “What do you have for me today, my sweet boy?” she would ask, situating herself in the bright purple armchair that she bought about a week after my father left knowing he would have absolutely loathed it. I think that’s why it was her favorite. I would spend the next few hours showing her everything I had written, my mother eventually finding her way from the armchair to the piano bench and helping me make my random patterns of notes sound like actual melodies. These were my favorite moments, because even though it sometimes felt like the world was crashing down around us, we had this little bubble around this piano where everything was okay – even if it was only for a little while.

…

When I was twenty years old, I wrote a piece called “Maya’s Song.” It was a slow, classical piece that I had been working on for a while. The piano being my only therapist, I used this song as an outlet for everything I had been keeping bottled up. It hadn’t started out as a love song for my mother, but the more I think about it the more I realize it couldn’t have ended up as anything else. To this day, it’s still my favorite piece I’ve ever written. My mother cried the first time I played it for her. I was so anxious to show her, partially because it was so different from my other pieces, but mostly because it was so emotional. She was the only one who could understand just how much. “Maya’s Song” is a deep and soulful piece, the melody slow and melancholy in some places but light and airy in others. Though the tone changes throughout the song, the strong bass stays the same, like how our relationship stayed the same despite all the circumstances. We faced everything together, and that’s what I wanted the piece to embody. As the last chord faded, I turned to look at her to see what she thought. Her hands were folded and pressed against her lips, tears spilling onto her cheeks. She sat like that for a long while before finally taking in a deep breath through her nose and wiping her tears away. “Wow, Marcus,” she said, “I love it.” Relief washed over me. “Really?” “Oh, my sweet boy,” she stood and came over to me, cupping my face in her hands. “This is the best gift I have ever received. Thank you.” I couldn’t contain the smile that spread across my face. “You’re welcome.” My mother made me play “Maya’s Song” for anyone and everyone who came to visit the house. I didn’t mind it, seeing how much she loved it made me love it even more. By that time, I had scraped enough money together from playing gigs at random restaurants and cafés around town that I was able to afford a small studio apartment in the city. The first thing I bought was a piano for the living room. My mother gasped when she saw it for the first time. “Oh honey,” she said, “You didn’t need to buy this! You could’ve taken the one from my house!” “Mama, that one’s yours.” I said, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close to me, “I couldn’t take that from you.” We stood there looking at the piano for a while. She started laughing into my chest. I can’t believe you bought a piano before you even bought a bed.” Her laugh, as always, was contagious. I felt one bubbling out of my chest as well. “Yes, you can.”

She laughed harder. “You’re right. I can.” She pulled away from me and placed her hands on her hips. “Alright Marcus. You gotta break it in! Play my song.” “Mama,” I smiled, “You’ve heard that song a million times.” “And I want to hear it again!” she beamed, “Don’t make me tell you twice.” I laughed, “As you wish.” … When I was twenty-five years old, my mother’s heart gave out. It was an unexpected thing, she just collapsed at work one day. I had been setting up for a gig at a country club just outside of the city when I got the call, and I immediately dropped everything and rushed to the hospital. When I got there she was still alive, but only for long enough for her to cup my face one last time, call me her “sweet, sweet boy,” and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I’ll never forget those last moments we spent together: I couldn’t say anything else other than “I love you,” over and over as the light in her eyes faded away. I’ve never felt more alone. I sat by her side, holding her hand for a long while after she was gone. I couldn’t bear to let go, because in the moment I didn’t believe everything would be okay like she said. Not without her. The next day, I found myself in the office of my mother’s attorney to discuss where her belongings were going to end up. It was a lot to ask a twentyfive-year-old to do. Her attorney and I sat across from each other, a large, mahogany desk separating us. An overwhelming feeling that I didn’t belong there made me fidget in the chair that was a little too hard and pull at the sleeves of my suit that were just a little short. I wanted nothing more than to walk out, to leave this business up to someone more responsible than I felt I was, but I forced myself to stay. I knew there was no one else in her life that my mother would’ve wanted to handle this other than me. “Now, there is one last thing she left you,” her attorney said, squinting at a very official-looking piece of paper, “A piano.” My heart stopped and my mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. When I didn’t reply, he looked at me over his glasses, “Mr. King?” “I heard you.” “Alright.” he looked back down at the paper, “How would you like it to be sent to you?” “I...” I swallowed hard, “I can’t take it.” He looked at me again, a line forming between his eyebrows. “You don’t want the piano?” “No.” I found myself saying, “I don’t... I don’t think I could handle having it.” It had only been a day and the weight of living without my mother was almost unbearable. I was afraid that the physical reminder of the piano would be just the right thing to push me over the edge.

The attorney stared at me for a while. “Then what would you like to happen to it?” “I don’t care.” I had made up my mind. “Donate it, or something.” The attorney knit his eyebrows together, but made a note on the paper and placed it on the stack we had been working our way through. “Alright then.” “Cool.” The feeling of not belonging had intensified. “May I leave now?” He sighed, a brief look of pity flashing behind his eyes. “Yes, son. You can go. If there’s anything else I need I’ll give you a call.” “Thank you.” Relief washed over me as I stood and made my way out of the door. I played “Maya’s Song” at my mother’s funeral. Everyone loved it, but it didn’t sound the same to me. The soul behind the song had left with her. As I walked off the stage and to the front of the church where the family was obligated to sit, I quietly resolved to never play it again. I decided that if she wasn’t around to hear it, there was no point in playing it. … When I was thirty-five years old, I walked into Murray’s on a whim. It was the first time in a long while that I had walked through my old neighborhood, and it seemed almost disrespectful for me to not go inside. As soon as I stepped through its frosted glass doors, that warm smell of vintage clothing, old wood, and dust enveloped me. One of the owners was behind the counter and recognized me immediately, and waved with a warm smile. For a moment I felt as if I was ten years old again, running through the aisles with my mother, looking for rare treasures. I went to the clothes first, sifting aimlessly through old t-shirts and polos, the annoying but familiar screech of metal against metal echoing in my ears as I slid hangers across the rack. For a moment, I took a break to look across the store at the small furniture section, and what I saw made my heart stop. My mother’s piano looked as if it had been frozen in time, just like the first day she brought it to the house. I felt myself being drawn across the store and sitting in front of it, the bench feeling like I had never left it. Without thinking, I lifted the cover and placed my fingers on the cool, cracked, yellowed keys, closed my eyes, and allowed my fingers to play whatever they desired. As the beginning bars of “Maya’s Song” filled my ears for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was immediately transported back to the living room in my mother’s house, swallowed by the familiar scents of lemon cleaner and cinnamon, golden light filtering in from the window and haloing my mother’s figure as she tapped her foot along with the music. And for a moment everything felt like it was okay – even if it was only for a little while.

Confirmed By Shruti

Rakjumar

When I was younger, people used to always ask me what religion I followed, knowing very well that my mom was Hindu and my dad was Catholic. I’m sure they were expecting to hear that my parents fought over what to raise me and my brother as before settling on one or the other religion. But the story is much more interesting than that, which is why my answer to whether I was Hindu or Catholic was always, “I am both.” My parents decided to raise both my brother and I in a multifaith household, however neither of them seemed to be exclusive with their religious viewpoints. They instilled in us to always have faith and spirituality in our lives as a way of staying centered, though it was preached in regards to one religion. For the first few years of my life, we would alternate between going to the Hindu temple a few towns over and the local church in my hometown. Some Sunday mornings were spent walking barefoot on the cool tiles of the temple and doing our respective laps around the shrines, bowing our heads respectfully at the end, all while wearing our traditional Indian attire that always seemed to smell like sandalwood. We would stand in a line as the priest gave each of us our individual blessings, and poured a parsad---a blessed offering from a deity--- of nuts, raisins, and sugar cubes into the palms of our hands; my dad would always lower his hand for me, knowing well that I would be sifting through everyone’s parsad in search of the delicious sugar cubes. Other mornings were spent in Sunday school with many of my peers from school, after which we’d quietly walk together down the sidewalk to the church itself. We would find our families and sit with them on the light mahogany pews as we listened to the rest of the sermons and the church choir in between. Right before lining up along the aisles to receive the Body of Christ, the priest would say “Let us offer each other the sign of peace”, prompting everyone to hug and kiss their loved ones, and shake the hands of their neighbor. Every time, I would glance over to see my dad facing forward, but looking at me out of the corner of his eye, grinning mischievously, and holding up a peace sign with his hand over his heart, just to make me laugh.

Once my brother and I got older and our schedules started to get busier, my family and I started to go to church more than the temple, solely out of traveling convenience, prompting, my brother and I to undergo the Confirmation process. My brother was the first one of us to get Confirmed, which he did with a bitter taste in his mouth. I never understood why he was so upset about it until I started going through the process. Every week, I attended two-hour Sunday school classes where my teacher would lay out Catholic beliefs and would, as harsh as it sounds, shove them down our throats. We sat through lectures that told us that those who were gay or ever got an abortion would go straight to Hell, and were pushed towards the dismissal of other religions and sole devotion to Catholisicm. As I got further along in the Confirmation process, I started to realize why I, and presumably my brother as well, felt so uneasy about going through with it. All of the things I was hearing in these classes seemed to devalue every memory I had in relation to Hinduism. I began to realize the major belief differences between Hinduism and Catholicism, as well as the paradox of my lifelong claim as a follower of both religions. I had always viewed these Sunday trips to the church and the temple solely as a cultural tradition, rather than as religious ones, and therefore overlooked the key differences in the belief systems and the messages within the religions themselves. The completion of my Confirmation process marked a period of religious reflection for me. I was confirmed as a Catholic and a longtime follower of Hinduism, but what did I really believe in? Out of overwhelming confusion, I threw myself under the label of Catholic and denounced my faith in Hinduism. I came to the realization, however, that I didn’t want to be confined to one exclusive and strict belief system. Eventually my love for the memories I created in my multifaith household guided me, and I pieced together that I’m agnostic. Now, when people ask me what I believe in, I have so much more to say than just “I am both.” I believe in the spirits that make up the universe. I believe in the spirit of the smiles on my loved ones faces, and the little happy bounce to my dog’s step. I believe in the spirit that encompasses the ring of my best friend’s laugh, that lingers in the air long afterwards. I even believe in the spirit of tears after heartbreak and of screams of jealousy. I believe in the spirit of coffee on a cold winter’s day, of breakfast in bed, of car ride sing-alongs, of the memories of my past and of the plans in my future.

Clearance

By: Leah Heath

Growing up, as I was learning the new inventions of the world, I also believed that that same world was being created alongside my perception. When I learned a new word everyone else had just learned that word as well. The exception to this theory being my mother. I had a hard time remembering the word funeral when I was first told what it was. Looking back on it, mom seemed kind of troubled by the definition of it. Especially troubled that she had to explain it to two seven year-olds. The word funeral seemed to me like a jumble of random syllables construed together, therefore I knew I wasn’t going to remember it unless I asked. Sometimes I’d be talking, and I’d stop mid-sentence and say, “What’s that word again, mom?” Funeral. She reminded me sadly but never wanted to discourage me from learning or remembering. A little ironic considering that the root of the word is fun. I was excited to leave school early. The intercom in the classroom buzzed, excusing my brother and I to go home, but we weren’t going home. We packed happily because we didn’t have to take the bus that day. Our classmates stared at us, it was foreign for us to leave early. And from school we left to go to the airport, only hours later for us to land in snowy Iowa. We were there for three days. It wasn’t until after I was back home that the word funeral really sunk in. It wasn’t a sad awakening either, more of a realization. I finally remembered the word. The next day at school my first grade reading teacher made the class cinimanon toast to take out at recess. We loved toast when it was made in school. White bread popped from the toaster the teacher had in her classroom. It was unusual and that made it even tastier. Walking outside with my reading teacher she asked, “So, why were you gone for three days?” “I went to a funeral.” I remembered.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Who died?” Her face did a contortion before reclaiming it’s normal calmness that the adults have to keep up around the youths. The entirety of this conversation dissipated from my attention span. I was shocked she knew the word as well, after all I had learned it not that long ago. My mom isn’t very discouraging about the things I want to talk about. She’s probably just happy that as a growing teen I can be open about whatever I want with her. Moreover, we have talked about what we want to happen after we die. They always seem like imagining the way one would imagine going on an all expense paid vacation. My mother says she wants to be cremated when she dies and spread across the Grand Canyon. She’s always wanted to travel and see the national monuments, it seems fitting. Living back home, in Washington State, during the spring cleaning time I would clear out my bookshelf and donate books to little free libraries. There was one just downtown next to an Allstate office and Meeker Mansion. The library looked like a little red bird house. Not too far down on the street was also a place that advertises “affordable cremation.” That is when I knew what I wanted to happen to me. Before, I would dream of my family hosting a traditional Viking funeral. I don’t think it would be too outrageously far off considering that that is half of my ethnic background. Reading the words “affordable cremation” made me smile and think why not? At that point in time I found it incredibly amusing to advertise a clearance on an expired body. I still do. And ceremonial wise, I’d prefer if there weren’t any religious texts read, but I also know that will obviously be out of my hands at that point in time. What I can control is what I leave behind. I want to be missed. I want my parents to walk into my room and see my life and cry as they take down all my pictures. I want my character to be left behind--the postcards, the polaroid’s, and the cut outs from magazines. The things I found important or memorable. I want my room to feel lived in. But it’s also an excuse to just never make my bed. There’s something expressive about living. The company you keep and how you arrange your private life.

I’ve been to a total of four death ceremonies. I don’t consider them all funeral’s since each one felt very different. The most recent was a scattering of my great uncle. I have no memory of the times I have met him, but I’ve been assured I’ve met him. He died two years ago. I went to the ceremony more because my grandmother didn’t seem like she wanted to go alone. And so I went. We spread him in his front yard, at which he worked very hard at blossoming in his years. I got to set a white rose next to his plaque, and a bible verse was read. Afterwards we all shuffled inside for the luncheon. The wife of the man we just scattered stands by the window facing the front yard, I go to stand next to her, my grandmother standing not far off from us. “How long do you think I should let the flowers stay out there?” His wife asked. Her hand clutched to herself and it only made me realize how tiny her wrists were. During the ceremony I saw her go somewhere else, her blue eyes passing through the veil. I think to myself, well don’t go and pick them up right now! “I’d say give them two days until you bring them in.” I suggest. “I like that. Two days. It’s very accurate. Very sure.” She touches my shoulder and walks away. * I don’t believe in living everyday like it’s your last. If that were the case, my desk would be clean and my shoes would be aligned in the row that they are never in. Everything is always in a constant state of looking like I’m about to return. In the magazines you see perfect neat rooms. Those are the rooms without people.

Spiritual Source In darkness, Light emerges, The sun recharges me; I feel my own light.

by Jalyn Cox

Molds were meant to be broken, Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re meant to make space for yourself. Feel the whole of your Spirit, essence, being.

The way the sun kisses my skin, The way the clouds hold my tears, Releasing them, resettling me, Feeling the whole of my spirit.

A challenge to overcome, deprogram and restart the hate and restrictions Placed on all of our hearts

Winter brings the weight Of the world, Reminders of who you once were, Of who you Want to become.

Spread the love while holding onto your own. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the only way We can all grow

Teaching myself how to Welcome my own feelings. Feeling both the weight and the pleasure Of what every season brings.

Only when repeated It can become deep seeded. Your intentions planted, able to bloom come spring.

Teaching myself how to Be grateful for each moment. The moment of Now, The power of Now.

Peace of Mind comes from the love only You can give yourself.

I see it as clear as the seasons come and go. Remain deeply seeded within the present And let the rest go.

Set your own intentions, Breathe in, And Breathe out.

The world tries to shape you, Trying to contain you. The coldness of winter Tries to freeze you in a mold.

Change is neither Good nor bad. It just simply Is.

Winter always leads to spring, And spring brings a fertile Ground for continual growth into our own truth.

My spirit was born in the heat of summer during the dead of night.

My spirit is left yearning as it dreams of summer. Everyday we must choose to grow through the phases each year brings.

while the darkness offers me a chance to manifest my change.

The light drives me

Rainbow Trauma

The rainbow is many, but you only need one. One that is similar or contrasting so both of you won. After going through the rainbow with Mr. Green, I used my spiritual words to dissect the scene.

I may be mean but I’m not green. Mr. Green was mean and he was green Some of you will get what that means All I’ll say is don’t get used to the rainbow routine Nobody knows the color of spirit. You just create your own vision when you hear it. You have to find someone that compliments your palette Because two of the same should never be on one ballot Yeah now the rainbow disappeared. The storm dried up, now my way is being cleared. Only god damn thing I will never fear Is a man who tries to paint by using your tears One thing I learned coming out the rain You will never be able to escape the pain So the thing that helps you keep the sane Is treat the losses as lessons and keep the gain All I saw was red when He stimulated the orange. Yellow lines for caution, I should have seen the Dutch green, but it was foreign to me My blue bruises they shined so vividly, I couldn’t hide their shift to purple that was the epitome It created the rainbow within me That shit it was toxicity, humility, hostility, and bigotry

His favorite color was blue, I was black. That’s probably why he put the blue on the black. Created rainbows with me like a color wheel My body was the canvas, Wish I had a shield.

You never understand lessons until they have passed The whole time you’re in it, it blows by so fast. I learned a valuable lesson dealing with my spiritual present and past I never thought there was a reason that my favorite color was green I’ll first let you know that Milton Green was mean

In the bible, green means resurrection It symbolizes everlasting growth and new beginnings And despite my rainbow trauma I knew that Mr. Green was a lesson in drama I had reached a place of comfort and uniformity I had submerged my spirit into a place of routine But little did I know in that sea of uncertainty That Mr. Green would bring the green I need Rainbow trauma in my soul, Ugly abstract paintings on my body, Mr. Green created a hole That would rebirth my mentality “Do not be conformed to this world, But rather be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” For I am like a green olive tree in the house of God and I know, Blessed is the woman you chasten, and teach out of your own law. Some may think it’s crazy To be grateful for all that pain But had I not felt that rainbow I would have never come out the rain I had more than enough water To nourish the seeds within That once the storm of Mr. Green was over The resurrection of my spirit was the ultimate win My mind is a temple. My body is a canvas. I lead by example. I don’t deserve to be damaged. My spirit is colorful but not every color fits, These are the lessons that some of us get. Though it all comes down to His will, my rainbow trauma was worth it. Because even though I’m not perfect, i follow his path of a green spirit that carries no hate

By Erica Jones

Men break my spirit.

Men Break My Spirit

They break it in many different ways. They slowly leach at your heart until you pass out from regret. They calmly take your sweet fruit away without thinking of the consequences. They take but barely give, And they make you think it’s your doing. Of course sometimes they don’t realize they are crushing you, Because it’s their nature. I have been broken down by a few men and they will keep piling up. One by one my pockets will be filled with names of men that one day I will forget. I might forget their names but the markings on my soul are never going to disappear, reminding me of what I have let them do to me, What I have done to myself. In each photo some of my biggest regrets and mistakes are displayed. All these photos are places or things that I let men ruin or drill into my head, They are my insecurities and my fears. In each photo a small bit of my soul is left behind in it. I hope you can find the remains of my soul, Because I am still searching...

By Emily Cardona

Emerson Ruins by Harriette Chan

What We Found in the Ruins Audio Transcript from 2/10/20XX Here starts my official log for the exploration of the ruins of Emerson College. It is truly an honor that my group will be the first to explore the ruins after The Disaster. A lot of Boston has been mapped out by archeologists like us, but we have the pleasure of exploring what was once Boylston street for the first time. The group consists of me, two of my colleagues and perhaps strangely of all a paranormal investigator. Her name is Lucy Kamar. Apparently she has been studying paranormal activity within sites affected by The Disaster. She was very stubborn about going on this expedition. Personally, I don’t believe in her ghost stories, no matter how many times she explains radio frequencies or cold chills to me. But, nevertheless we continued with our mission and we arrived at the ruins of Emerson College before six. And can I say, it really is a terrible sight to behold. I remember what it used to be, the looming buildings over Boylston Street. Before The Disaster, Lee Pelton managed to buy out the entire block, we joked about renaming it Emerson Street. But now only decaying rubble remains. I wasn’t there when the disaster happened. I don’t know what it looked like. But my friend who was there told me that she saw Little Building fall, and it looked like it was exploding, the windows shattering and the floors imploding under their own weight. It was a miracle she made it out alive.

Tomorrow we will attempt to enter Piano Row. I look forward to seeing what we can find. Signing off, Natasha Liu Audio Transcript from 2/11/20XX Piano Row has collapsed into itself, all twelve floors have fallen, leaving only the first floor. The lobby was filled with dusty moving carts and garbage, left behind from before The Disaster I bet. The stairs that go to the basketball court are covered in rubble, we’ll have to clear that out before we can go further down. Among what remains of Piano Row we found what appears to be the old laundry room. I was surprised that the little room was still standing considering the state of the building. We took photos quickly as we are not sure if the infrastructure will hold for long. It looks like most of the washing machines and dryers were looted for parts, though what parts I don’t know. Despite my better judgement I allowed Lucy to conduct a “quick” seance here but she had no luck. Lucy is growing impatient with the lack of paranormal activity and she is getting on everyone’s nerves. Signing off, Natasha Liu Audio Transcript from 2/12/20XX While the rubble is being cleared out I spent the day with Lucy. I asked why she was here with us, and what she was looking to gain. She told me that she believed that the ruins were a hotbed for paranormal activity and that she wanted to see for herself if it was true. I didn’t tell her that I thought she was being silly, she seemed so earnest. I told her if I died I wouldn’t spend the rest of eternity at Emerson College. She asked about my time at Emerson and I could only seem to remember the greasy food and the stress of being in endless debt. Then I said if I died I would want to haunt a beach for eternity. She said it doesn’t work like that, ghosts haunt places of unfinished business

That’s all from today, Natasha Liu

Audio Transcript from 2/13/20XX Today we cleared enough rubble to safely head downstairs. We found the old cultural center; the place was untouched. Everything looked the same except that it was covered in a layer of dust. It was...haunting. I felt like a freshman walking into there for the first time. I stopped Lucy from holding another seance there. Some things are sacred, don’t want her messing around with her ghosts and radios here. We continued lower into the basketball court. There we found something extremely unsettling, a skeleton. Some poor bastard who didn’t make it out before The Disaster totaled the building. It was a stomach churning moment. Of course Lucy wanted to do her ghost shit in here but I put my foot

down. It’s one thing to run around these ruins with an irritating radio but it’s another to disturb the dead. We took pictures and went back up to report our findings to base. Surely after they hear that we found a body, another squad will be sent out to handle it. This person’s family could still be somewhere. I had to physically force Lucy out of the room. That girl is a nightmare.

Signing off, Natasha Liu

Audio Transcript from 6/20/20XX It has been so long since that night. I tried to forget what happened but after looking back at these old audio tapes I feel it is time to come clean. That night after we all went to bed, Lucy snuck out. I helped her. We were drinking whiskey that Lucy brought in a trunk case and I made a very dumb bet. We talked about ghosts and I admitted that I thought her practices were bullshit. She told me she could prove her claims if we went back to the basketball court where the body was. I told her it was stupid, but she insisted. I am very gullible when I am drunk, so we snuck out of camp. The skeleton was still there where we left it. It gave me the fucking chills it was so creepy, the bones splayed across the floor helplessly. I hated it. I told Lucy to hurry up. She didn’t pull out the radio this time, she pulled some candles and a piece of red chalk. She started making some kind of ritual circle and if I had any sense I would have turned tail and ran, this was all too creepy. Then she started chanting something and at this point I did start to stumble out of the court, yelling about how she was crazy. What happened next I still don’t fully understand, so please bear with me. There was a voice, a low growling voice. Mumbling at first, then screaming, then roaring. It felt like the room was shaking. I thought we were going to die there, that the gym was going to collapse on top of us. Then it all stopped. It was deathly silent. I ran out. The second group came in the morning and I passed over leadership of the expedition to them. I didn’t see Lucy before I left. You’re probably curious about what the voice said. I hesitate to say it out loud now because I’m afraid of what will happen when I do. But.... Okay. The voice said, “They already broke me, leave me here. I am so tired. Leave me here.” I don’t know. I don’t know what that means.

Ubuntu

by Naomi Jones

“I am because we are” - an erased phrase. UBUNTU (n) This black body whose skin replicates that of the ‘right place right time’ i.e.) the workplace — choosing silence in the conference room, at the water-cooler, in the bathroom, where they ask to touch your hair; where the white man sees your voice as his possession to talk over and dismember. Or b.) in need of translation. UBUNTU (n). where the twisted markings of the body of twine snapped brown ancestral throats, a blank space where darkness braids cocoa bean hairs. UBUNTU i.e) the regeneration of a black skin’s massacre accepting its wish for life in the sun’s one lover 2. Blackness like a sheath of shelter. UBUNTU (n.) a congregation of being uttering symphonic legends laced in the throats of basket weavers and the vigor of Cotton-pickers. UBUNTU i.e) a new ear to the sky when death moves clouds against gravity and the blood of the purest lamb lay on their passing border. UBUNTU (adj.) a challenge accepted by black feet backed by ancestral kingdoms of persistence, civil leaders, war heroes, flag stitchers, ‘mamifiers’, pacifiers, activists, feminists, Nubian goddesses and mothers. i.e.) where los Dejas Nubian bow before her.