Flawless Mag: The Resilience Issue

Flawless Mag Issue 11 - Fall 2020

The Resilience Issue

Editor in Chief Niki Hester

Assistant Editor Shruti Rakjumar

Layout by Flawless Writes Aiya AZ Nowell Brianna Jackman Jalyn Cox Kimberly Ndegwa Niki Hester Magenta Thomas Valentine Carr Santana Coste Shruti Rakjumar

Cover Shoot By Chloe Leung

Flawless Brown Executive Board Fall 2020 Chair of Pictures Hanna El-Mohandess Chair of Stage Davante Jackson Chair of Sisterhood Amali Dunmore

President Jalyn Cox Vice President Alexandra Dudley Treasurer Magenta Thomas Secretary Brianna Jackman

Chair of Writes Niki Hester Chair of Comedy Hawa Kamara Chair of Marketing Laura Frometa

Letter from the Editor

Resilience strikes me as something that has a sort of universal definition. It seems to be something that brings to one’s minds the faces of those we watch fight back, those we see pushing limits, or those we see always moving forward. It brings to mind words like strength, perserverance, and power. For me, nothing strikes me as more resilient than the faces that I get to see every week in our Flawless meetings.

These are some of the strongest people I know. There is no doubt that this has been a year that is astounding in it’s difficulty. We have endured so much this year, have seen so many unprecedented struggles, and I have had these people in my corner. I have watched them create in times of unprecendented uncertainty. I have watched them uplift each other in moments of pain and grief. I have heard them constantly validate each other in moments of doubt. And no matter what, I have seen them pick themselves and each other up, and never stop moving forward.

These meetings have been a place of peace in the midst of so much chaos. They have been not only a place of safety, to nurture and grow as creatives, but also a place to process through our art. We have found solace in each others words and images. We have watched each other grow semester after semester. And we have watched each other find all the resilience needed to pull through a year like this, not necessarily unscathed, but still whole.

Every year I am shown again and again why I am so grateful to have these people in my lives. I am grateful for their support, and to be able to watch them grow within their art. I am so grateful and have so much love for Jalyn, and this years board for being people I can look up to, and look forward with. I am so grateful for Shruti for constantly pushing forward and truly exemplifying what it means to be resilient. Flawless will always have my whole heart.

With love, Niki

Letter from the Assistant Editor From the moment I joined Flawless in fall 2018, I knew that it would hold a special place in my heart. I will never forget the love, safety, and comfort that I felt from day one in that room full of beautiful and talented women and non-binary people of color who I had never met before. Those people who were once strangers to me are now my sisters, and I can’t thank them enough for supporting me, empowering my voice, and helping me to grow not only as a writer but as a person over the years.

To Niki, I am so honored that I had the opportunity and privilege to work under your leadership this semester, and I admire all that you did to make this beautiful magazine come together. And to all of my Flawless sisters, I’m so incredibly proud of you and every one of your submissions in this magazine. I knew from the moment the theme was announced that you all would create work that would inspire, comfort, and heal the people around you and that’s exactly what you did. Truly, you are all the face of resilience.

With Love, Shruti

Letter From The Advisor It was the fall like any other fall before Covid-19 when Nyla Wissa walked into my office and wouldn’t sit down. She was so utterly frustrated with the way people of color were treated at Emerson College. She voicedIther tryingfalltobefore “fit in”Covid-19 to a demographic of people honestly didn’t want wasfrustration the fall like with any other when Nyla Wissa walkedwho intoquite my office and wouldn’t sit her and didn’tfrustrated want to with see her, or at leastofthat the feeling.

What does one do down.

Shefor wassure so utterly the way people colorwas were treated at Emerson College.

Shewhen voicedone heris left out inwith thetrying cold to trying desperately to belong......One their own didn’t space want and her theirand own where frustration “fit in” to a demographic of people creates who quite honestly for place sure didn’t “others” will feel welcome! is exactly she did. tookone to is theleftidea that always want to see her, or at least thatThat was the feeling. what What does one She do when out in thecreating cold tryingdoesn’t desperately mean creating artistic Creating means of the tools will Godfeel has blessed That you with in this to belong……One creates endeavors. their own space and their ownusing place all where “others” welcome! is exactly what She tookfor to the idea so thatthat creating always mean creating means life toshebedid. a blessing others they doesn’t too might avoid some of theartistic painsendeavors. you have Creating been given.

Nyla using all ofsothe tools Godtohas blessed you withBrown. in this She life to be a blessingcrafted for others so that they toowas mighther avoid worked very hard create Flawless meticulously Stage as theatre first some youwrite, have direct been given.

Nyla worked so very hardoftowork create Flawless Brown. meticulously love. of Tothe be pains able to and produce a quality piece was a dream and She through Flawless crafted Stage as theatre was her first love.

To be able to write, direct and produce a quality piece of work a Brown she was able to create it! In the spring of 2014, the vision was produced and realized andwas given dream and through Flawless Brown she was able to create it!

In the spring of 2014, the vision was produced and a “Stage” to show that hard work. It brought tears to my eyes to watch those five women stand on that realized and given a “Stage” to show that hard work. It brought tears to my eyes to watch those five women stand “Stage” and bare their heart. on that “Stage” and bare their heart.

Fall of 2014 brought about the Fall showcase in the small multipurpose room. Yet it was small, it was a Fall of 2014 brought about the Fall showcase in the small multipurpose room. Yet it was small, it was a mighty wake to those paying attention.

The thought, and goin we ain’t goin no mighty wake upup callcall to those who who werewere paying attention.

The thought, “We are“We hereare andhere we ain’t no where!” where!” bears fruit in my mind when remembering that first fall showcase. bears fruit in my mind when remembering that first fall showcase.

I suppose my office the inevenings was was a safe haven forforallallof women of ofcolor colortotovoice voicetheir their I suppose my in office the evenings a safe haven of my my young young women concernsand and safe in doing I cannot tell how you how conversations I have had with members concerns feelfeel safe in doing so. Iso. cannot tell you manymany conversations I have had with members of the of the Flawless BrownTaylor family.

Jett being frustrated the same frustrations Nylachange in Theatre Flawless Brown family.

Jett Taylor being frustrated with the samewith frustrations as Nyla in Theatreas wanted in VMA and thus in theinspring 2015thus “Pictures” born. they were to something andthey morewere and more wanted change VMAofand in the was spring of Nyla 2015knew “Pictures” wasonborn.

Nyla knew on to majors were sought afterand and more onboarded to were createsought an evenafter moreand robust Flawless to Brown. theeven fall ofmore 2015robust Nyla something and more majors onboarded createInan and Taylor came to me and asked if I would become the Flawless Brown advisor, I said yes, and have never looked Flawless Brown. In the fall of 2015 Nyla and Taylor came to me and asked if I would become the Flawback. less Brown advisor, I said yes, and have never looked back.

It has been my sincere be tugboat the tugboat to this beautifulocean oceanliner liner called called FLAWLESS BROWN. It It has been my sincere honorhonor to betothe to this beautiful FLAWLESS BROWN. has been my dream to work with young women of color who are simply looking to make and find their way. This It has been my dream to work with young women of color who are simply looking to make and find their journey over the past five years has been rocky and shaky to say the least. However, all beginners must be willing way. This journey over the past five years has been rocky and shaky to say the least. However, all beginto take on the hardship in order for the future generations to grow and stand on the backs of those who are the 1st, ners be willing to take on the hardship in order for the future generations to grow and stand on the rd 2nd, 3must , etc…. ofI those who this are journey the 1st, with 2nd,you, 3rd,etc...

My Flawless Women and backs Femmes have loved and I wouldn’t have imagined all of My Flawless Women and Femmes I have loved this journey with you, and I wouldn’t have the things I too would learn being your advisor. Thank you for the lessons you have taught me andimagined thank you all for of the things I too would learn being your advisor.

Thank you for the lessons you have taught me and thank hearing my “Auntie” voice when in times of me trying to help you steer into, sometimes calmer waters. You ALL you for hearing myI “Auntie” voice whenof in times of me to help you steer into, sometimes calmer inspire me to do things would never dream doing.

Thank youtrying for that!

I end thisYou letter by saying the experience has been to of seedoing.

Flawless Brownyou grow achieve waters.

ALL inspirehow me wonderful to do things I would never dream Thank forand that! that letter the founder couldhow onlywonderful have dreamt a matter fact she did dream of itBrown and look at what has Ithings end this by saying theof….as experience hasofbeen to see Flawless grow and itachieve become.

Look at what you ladies have continued to create it to BE. Don’t you ever forget that you are a part things that the founder could only have dreamt of....as a matter of fact she did dream of it and lookofat history an institution that has organization Flawless You are sisterhood! what itinhas become. Look at never what ever you known ladies an have continuedsuch to as create it toBrown!

BE. Don’t youthe ever forget that You are the reason this organization was created!

You, with the help of the Almighty Creator, bring Light the you are a part of history in an institution that has never ever known an organization such as into Flawless darkness and seize the void!!!! I am honored and proud to be your advisor. Thank you for giving me a platform on Brown! You are the sisterhood! You are the reason this organization was created! You, with the help of which to say it. the Almighty Creator, bring Light into the darkness and seize the void!!!! I am honored and proud to be your advisor. Thank you for giving me a platform on which to say it.

Flawless Forever!

Flawless Forever!

Nerissa Williams Scott Advisor Flawless Brown Nerissa Williams Scott The Revolution Will Not Be Televised!

Advisor Flawless Brown The Revolution Will Not Be Televised!

note that all pieces in white have content warnings for one of more of the following: femincide, suicidal thoughts, sexual assault

Magenta Thomas 1 Curves Jasmine Perez 2 You Get Up, Girl AZ Nowell 4 Winter Blooms Brittany Adames 8 You Sunshine, You Temptress Resilience Book List 9 Flawless Writes Evonne Johnson 10 4C Valentine Carr 13 A Ballad for Juneteenth Camila Arjona 14 “Un Mexico Feminicida“ Naomi Jones 16 You’re The Strongest I Know Resilience Music Recommendations 18 Flawless Writes Shruti Rakjumar 20 The Five Stages of Resilience Naomi Jones 25 In Resistence to White Feminism

Table of Contents

Table of Contents Jalyn Cox 28 Growing in Love Maria Draper 30 Flying to Freedom Santana Coste 32 For a Sister Eloisa Anne Samper 36 Resilience Niki Hester 37 A Black Woman Hands Me A Flower Kimberly 39 From Within Aiya 40 In A Lychee Niki Hester 42 My Pussy Wrote A Thesis on Colonialism Kimberly 44 Unending War Brittany Adames 46 (Un)Muffle Ana Coste 48 I Will Be Okay

Curves Times are unprecedented. We’re forced to sit and watch as our world collides, tumbles, and disintegrates. More than ever before, we’re reminded of our humanity. We’re reminded that the gift of life is our greatest possession and it is to be cherished. The days fly by and with them the feeling of hopelessness seems to grow. It’s so easy to see the turmoil and chaos around us as never ending. It’s even easier to internalize it or to fall victim to this feeling. However I want to say that although it feels as if the world is spiraling out of control and existence may feel as lonely as ever, stability does not come easy. The best thing you can do in these times is take care of yourself and your loved ones.

Rebuilding from trauma and healing takes patience, time, and love. Affirmations are key in building a safe space and strengthening your mental health.

Repeat as needed.

I am love, I am light, I am strong, I am hopeful, I am worthy.

I welcome success and stability into my life.

I am not my struggles, they do not define me.

I cannot save the world by myself but I can help myself, thus impacting the world and those around me.

Life is uncertain but I can certainly love and support myself through my struggles.

Everything is temporary. I will savor the good times and heal from tough times.

I will not stifle my emotions.

I accept myself as I am.

“Growth isn’t linear, it curves” -Sean Brown Magenta Thomas

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“I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear.”

- Rosa Parks 2

You Get Up, Girl An Interview With Jasmine Perez What was the inspiration for this piece?

At the the beginning of COVID, my landlady gifted me a bouquet of peonies. This created a thread of flower inspiration I followed until I got my tattoo. My new house has a garden with flowers that kept blooming every month, and I loved them so much I got into illustrating flowers.

Why did you choose this quote?

I chose it because it’s the same thing as get up. I realized that’s me. You gotta do what you gotta do. That’s always kept me going. Even if i’m afraid, even if I think I can’t. None of that matters. Going will get you there. if you stop, you won’t get there. You have to keep going, even if you’re crying, even if it hurts. Eventually you’ll get out of it. If you stop and don’t move forwards, you will stay stuck. There is wisdom in knowing that you have to keep going and keep at it. It’s the wisdom of being an older woman.

Of making it to your mid-life.

What does resilience mean for you?

It means you can knock me down, but you can’t knock me out. It means never staying on the ground, and always getting up no matter what. I refuse to die, to go down without a fight, to stay down. It means you don’t stop.

Don’t stay on the floor. You get up, girl. And you get up again.

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Artist: Ma Shaojun (Zhu Jun)

Winter Blooms AZ Nowell

I’ve always wanted a tattoo — a physical representation of a moment or realization that changed me as a person. But I don’t want just anything. The image I choose has to mean a lot to me, and for a while, I struggled to find a design that I wanted on my body for the rest of my life. After several years of indecisiveness, I’ve settled on this: A minimalist drawing of a Japanese Plum Blossom branch, with the words “everything is everything” in my mother’s handwriting underneath.

The Japanese Plum (Ume) Blossom, a close relative to the more widely known Japanese Cherry (Sakura) Blossom, is a small, round petaled flower that blooms in red or white. Unlike the Japanese Cherry Blossom, which heralds the spring every year, the Japanese Plum Blossom represents resilience and perseverance because it is the only flower in east Asia that blooms in winter.

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It was a very cold winter when I accompanied my mother while she taught on Semester at Sea. I was 16 years old, experiencing depression and anxiety for the first time. I had convinced myself that everything bad happening to me in my life and in my relationships was my fault; a feeling that was perpetuated by people who told me this was true.

The first night on the ship I sat outside, talking to two of my best friends on the phone. I looked out over the bay, watching the scattered reflection of the moon dance across the dark water, my throat tightening and my heart racing. I hadn’t admitted it to them or myself, but I was afraid that while I was gone, my friends would decide that life was better without me. I felt helpless, the miles of distance and useless wifi exasperating anxieties I had before the trip. Still, I fought to hold onto my friendships despite feeling as though they were slipping through my fingers like sand. Even though I was the one who left, I was terrified of being left behind.

Three weeks into the trip, I was in a calligraphy class in Xi’an, China. Paintings decorated the walls of the studio and in the minutes before our lesson the instructor pointed out a few of them and talked about their meanings. Eventually, her finger landed on a piece larger than the others — a painting of bright red flowers on rough, black branches, spread across the expanse of a grey sky. Japanese Plum Blossoms.

The instructor explained the meaning behind these beautiful flowers, about how the Chinese admired them for their ability to grow despite the odds stacked against them, for their ability to find themselves in the midst of adversity. I wondered why it was so hard for me to see myself in the same light.

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Over the next few days, I tried to think of what I could realistically do to change the things I was stressed about, only to figure out that I didn’t have an answer. Not only because I was literally on the other side of the globe, but because there is no way to control what another person does or feels. I could only control how I reacted. The longer I dwelled on the things I couldn’t control, the more it held me back, and the more I let the coldness of winter stop me from blooming.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, my roommate introduced me to Chance the Rapper’s album, Coloring Book. The first time I listened to it, the words “everything is everything” in Noname’s verse on “Finish Line / Drown” struck me. The phrase is originally from the Lauryn Hill song with the same title, and to me it means that there is nothing I can do about the past except learn from it and use it to grow.

These are the words that replaced the thoughts that previously sent me into a downward spiral.

My petals opened as I released my anxieties about returning home. I let myself be happy for the first time in a long time. I was travelling the world, and I owed it to myself to do everything I could to enjoy those moments. The weeks continued to go by, and the problems I thought were too big to handle felt more manageable.

After those four months, I came home to find that everything was how I’d left it. It was exactly what I wanted, but something happened that I didn’t expect: I changed. I maneuvered through life differently — I was more sure of myself and I stopped just letting things happen to me. The same people I let control me lost their influence as I held myself to a higher standard. I learned not to be afraid of taking up space, and in the process realized how much I had stifled myself and let other people stifle me.

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It didn’t take long for me to wonder why I ever wanted things to stay the same. I couldn’t wait for the next opportunity to leave again, to figure out more about the person I was becoming. So when I was given the opportunity to move across the country for school, I took it.

When I look back at my 16 year old self, I don’t look at her with sadness. That time in my life shows me that everything happens for a reason, even when it feels like the odds are stacked against me. She reminds me that there will always be a time in the future where I’ll be able to look back and see how her experiences changed me and made me a better person. Still, I’m embarrassed that I let myself think that I deserved the bad things that happened to me, that they were of my own doing. But if it weren’t for those things, I wouldn’t appreciate how much I have grown. I look at the people that I now surround myself with; I see how much they love and care about me, and I am thankful. I feel changes in the ways that I treat others and myself, and I’m proud of the person I’ve become. If it weren’t for the cold that I fought through back then, I would not be in the warm place I am now. So when things get difficult, I look forward to that future, and it gives me the hope and strength I need to keep going.

This design I’ve come up with for my first tattoo has a few meanings. It represents the changes I went through during Semester at Sea. It reminds on the days when I feel like I’m drowning that I have the ability to keep my head above the water. It tells me that all I can do, like a Japanese Plum Blossom fighting to open its petals in an icy blizzard, is keep pushing, keep learning, and keep growing.

Everything is Everything.

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YOU SUNSHINE, YOU TEMPTRESS after Harry Styles

Where were you when you first learned that

you cannot lack the things that break you most? I am only writing in red for the rest of the

year and giggling at the frontlines. As a teenager in the shallow spurt of water, a man told me

I can only move so long as I drown, which is to say, so long as I lay in a bed of flowers. If the

house remains fed, the altar’s glimmer dulls.

I will not explain what it means to lose the swiftness

of movement to a boy who gnashes his teeth in metal. I will not explain what level of love the belt

falls under in Dante’s circles of fatherhood.

If anything, all things remain suggestive of a per son waiting for the dam stop. I’ve got wings now, the shadow settled into stone, the

spliff waiting to be ladled into a meal too fictionalized to come. How often we wedged

those memories of teeth smacking against watermelon, calling it love when all it was was a

lack of imagination. I dream a dream and it has nothing to do with the god setting the gauntlet

down between my legs. There’s a formality to the gap in my bottom teeth. Look closer. See that?

How it’s sometimes me, but mostly you?

Come here, little grace of mine. It seems the sunlight

has begun to pare those thickets of skin the likeness of cherries. I mean, let me look at you. Let

me look at you good.

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BRITTANY ADAMES

RESILIENCE READING LIST Curated by Flawless Writes These are a collection of books that have brought us resilience. * Pleasure Activism by adrienne maree brown * All About Love by bell hooks * The Body Is Not an Apology: The Power of Radical Self-Love by Sonya Renee Taylor * Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler * Homecoming by Yaa Gyasi * Emergent Strategy by adrienne maree brown * The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas * The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo * Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur * Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi * I Know Why The Cage Bird Sings by Maya Angelou * Kindred by Octavia Butler * Sacred Woman: A Guide To Healing the Feminine Body by Queen Afua * Pride by Ibi Zoboi * Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America by Ibi Zoboi * Beloved by Toni Morrison * The Deep by Rivers Solomon, Daveed Diggs, William Hutson, Jonathan Snipes

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When I thought of the word resilience I honestly had to Google the definition and it said that it’s defined as being able to “bounce back” or mentally and/or emotionally cope with a crisis quickly.

Jokingly, the first thing that came to mind was being able to straighten my hair. Then I really thought about how much a simple task like that is such a huge feat for people of color, especially Black people.

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4C Evonne Johnson 11

It doesn’t look like it in the photos, but I have 4c hair and straightening it takes 3 hours so it really takes determination, patience, and resilience for me to get through. The amount of times my arms have started to ache and the tears that I’ve shed while getting less and less tender headed are too many to count.

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a ballad for Juneteenth (with an excerpt from “Lift Every Voice and Sing by James Weldon Johnson”) by Valentine Carr “we have come” a great distance from where we started. years and generations have passed since what was then known as freedom was made concrete. we go “over a way that with tears have been watered.” tear stained faces had looked to the heavens for help and peace and love and freedom as they bore us, as they pushed us forward, as they died for us. “we have come” not as far as we hoped we would. we still face the scourge of what they were afraid of, of what they never wanted us to see, of what they hoped our future wouldn’t be like. freedom isn’t now. freedom has never been for us.

i fear that freedom will never be for us, at least for another hundred years at most for another four hundred. we never left the darkness they bore us to escape but we never left the path they forged for u they laid the groundwork for us, and as we struggle to get by, here we are, in the present, doing the best we can as we’re “treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered.”

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Un México Feminicida Camila Arjona

Content warnings: abuse (sexual), homicide, femicide When I turned six my mom stopped letting me wear shorts in the city. She knew I had reached the age when it mattered what I wore. When I had to actively do everything I could to stop myself from being a target. When I turned ten, my mom told me that if I ever felt threatened in a public place, I should look for the nearest woman with a child.

My mom said another woman would be more helpful than the nearest policeman. When I turned thirteen, my mom told me I shouldn’t run with headphones in the city, that I needed to be able to hear if someone was following me. That I needed to be alert. This was when I began to notice the stares from men in el metro. I’m sure they had always been there, but I finally realized what they meant. My mom told me it was normal, that it was the way men were. She told me feeling unsafe was now part of my reality, that I had to learn how to live around the insecurity.

She then explained the steps that would eventually become routine in my everyday life.

My mom said I should text her ya llegue whenever I left the house so that she could make sure I got to my destination safely. She said I should always keep my phone charged, that I shouldn’t walk alone at night. She said I should scream if anything were to happen to me, that my best chance against a man was for another woman to hear me scream.

She said even then it might not be enough. This is reality for women living all across the world, it was reality for me living in Mexico City.

Being a woman in Mexico City means feeling unsafe. It means having to be alert. It means enduring whistling and catcalling. It means fearing not that the man behind you will slap your ass, but that he will kidnap, rape and murder you. It means having to memorize the color of your daughter’s outfit before she leaves the house in case anything happens to her. It means knowing that even if you tell the police exactly what she was wearing, your daughter’s case may never be resolved. It means fearing for your life and the lives of women around you.

Femicides or feminicidos, refer to the intentional murder of women on account of their gender, usually by a man. Essentially, it is the killing women because they are women.

In 2019 there were 1010 registered femicides in Mexico. Another 489 were registered from January to June of 2020 (Forbes Mexico). This is without taking into account deaths of women that were dismissed by the government and therefore classified as homicides.

As a whole, 987 girls and women were killed from January to June of 2020 (CNN).

With classified femicides alone, this accounts for 1,499 deaths among 2019 and 2020.

That means 1,499 sisters, daughters, friends or wives killed just because of gender-based violence. Just because they are women. It took me a minute to let this sink in.

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I did not feel the gravity of this situation until recently. When I first read these statistics, I wondered why I hadn’t heard of them before. I was so caught up in U.S. centric politics that I turned a blind eye to what was happening in my country. Having lived in the United States for the last ten years of my life I felt disconnected from my heritage. I thought issues from my past life didn’t pertain to me any longer. I became fascinated by U.S. movements hyped up by news and social media. Among climate strikes and feminist protests it didn’t occur to me that a similar movement was happening in my own country. It was not until I saw pictures of protests in Mexico that I saw the rage of the women leading their own feminist movement. I thought about their resilience, having lived in such a misogynistic country for generations. I thought of their fight against a historically unjust government. I thought back to the fear they must have felt in their everyday lives. I recognized myself among these women. I saw people who looked like me, people who looked like my old friends and family members. I realized if I was going to fight to dismantle oppressive systems, I could not leave out my own country.

Memories that I used to normalize turned into deeply misogynistic acts. I remembered dinner conversations where men would dismiss feminist cries as “women whining.” All while their wives listened in the kitchen while washing the dishes of a meal they had prepared. I remembered the rage of these men as feminists painted over government buildings. I remembered wondering why these buildings seemed to matter more than the lives lost. I remembered the stares in el metro, the fear of leaving the house, the feeling of knowing that it really didn’t matter how I dressed or how I acted. I was always going to be a target.

Women in Mexico are putas for dressing how we want to. We are prudes if we don’t want to have sex and faciles if we do. A simple buenos dias gives men an opportunity to assault us. When we die, our gender is seen as an unfortunate coincidence.

We live in a tremendously misogynistic country. One where federal buildings and flags are more important than our lives. Where our cries for justice are silenced by our government’s politicization of social justice issues. Where the death of hundreds of women is simply not a good enough reason for men to take action. Where the blood red color of our flag, representing the blood shed by national heroes, no longer represents all of the death this country has endured. Where little girls have to train to their lives around insecurity. Ultimately, one where we can no longer rightfully call our country Mexico Lindo y Querido. Where we instead call our dear Mexico, un México Feminicida.

Sources: https://www.forbes.com.mx/politica-feminicidio-aumenta-amlo-neoliberalismo https://www.cnn.com/2020/06/05/americas/mexico-femicide-coronavirus-lopez-obrador-intl/index.html

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i cannot be strong now… my back is breaking under this stress, i am not your superwoman i can no longer be your crutch your therapist… your inspiration, my body feels each hair s/p/l/i/t i am sacrificial lamb at the same time as healer. i am my Father’s daughter i am not the body that is broken for you, i am weak, impure, frac-tured by which nothing in me is complete unless formulated by Love… when desire, passion and sex is not enough what we need is Love, a deep understanding that we as Black and Woman

You’re The Strongest, I Know 16

here i know, i feel too much… i care for all that look to me for answers, but how much | shall I carry on weight i used to be small… when fairies were godmothers and apples were made of poison, i believed all to be right in the world. while others proclaimed that i’d never be where i am… but now i want out…

Naomi Jones

WE are allowed to feel, to b r e a t h e, to pauseto br/ ea /k, to cry, and feel…

my hands s h a k e uncontrollably riddled with guilt for misuse as these blank pages stare in me.

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The Category Is… 18

RESILIENCE 19

OPPRESSION ISN’T OVER:

By Shruti Rajkumar

“I felt that I had two invisible weights that nobody else in the room would have; one weight was race and one weight was gender. I felt like I had two weights that the other people didn’t have, and so I was going to dive into this sea of white men, and I wasn’t sure I could swim.”

-Dorothy Gilliam, the first Black woman reporter at The Washington Post When I heard this quote the other day, it hit me just how perfectly it described what my friends and I faced in our time at The Berkeley Beacon, a student-run newspaper at Emerson. It’s the reason why diversity isn’t found in the newsroom, and why marginalized voices struggle to be heard. It’s sad how much I could relate to it, because Dorothy Gilliam is a prominent, successful journalist, and I have yet to enter the field. Nonetheless, it’s the harsh reality of journalists from marginalized communities, and it’s an experience that needs to be shared.

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I look back at my time at The Beacon with a bittersweet feeling. I migrated towards articles about people from marginalized communities, sat in the interviews with nothing but awe and interest, often forgetting I was representing The Beacon and that I had to guide the conversation. I formed bonds with people and cultural groups on and off campus and found my love for placing a microphone up to the voice of someone who has never had the chance to speak their truth. Little did I know that the reason why I loved to do that was because I was one of those silenced voices.

I was never valued in that newsroom, and in many other spaces where I was the minority. I’ve spent the past few weeks reflecting on the interactions I’ve had with the white, non-disabled people in my life and have come to recognize the resilience I’ve shown just by existing in a space that was never meant for people like me.

THE FIVE STAGES OF RESILIENCE Anger

“If you have edits like this in the future, please let me know! This is why diversity in the newsroom is important.”

Journalists go on and on about how much they want diverse voices in the newsroom, yet the people in power treat them like shit.

I look back on recent events that happened at The Beacon and I’m fuming with rage.

Nobody cares about marginalized voices.

We’re just placeholders, the people who fill a quota. We exist in these spaces so the people in power can use us to deny their oppressive actions.

Guilt

“Seriously, thank you for being vocal and passionate. I’m sorry this place hasn’t been welcoming enough for you.”

The word “enough” rang in my mind for hours when I read that message. I looked back on my time at The Beacon and began questioning everything.

Was the newsroom actually a welcoming place that I chose not to see? Was asking for a better environment for myself and others an unreasonable request that served as an inconvenience for those in power? Or was I simply demanding too much? I left The Beacon with a weight on my chest, as though I had done something wrong for speaking up.

“How do I continue fighting for what I deserve when the white man is convincing me that what I have is enough?”

I wanted full respect as a disabled woman of color. I wanted to have my voice amplified, not silenced. I wanted to feel comfortable speaking out on the racism, ableism, and sexism that I witnessed. Respect doesn’t seem like too much to ask, so why does the weight on my chest persist? How do I continue fighting for what I deserve when the white man is convincing me that what I have is enough?

Betrayal

“I’m sure my resignation seems performative at this point. I just want to be someone in the room that’s trying to help make The Beacon better and carry on your voice. I’m really sorry my decisions have been so problematic.”

I had to take a good hard look around at the white people in my life to see that most of them are performative in their activism and support for marginalized people.

21

“If you were protecting yourself and a white man, then who the fuck was protecting me?”

How can you call yourself an ally if you only support marginalized communities when it’s convenient for you? How can I call you a friend if you slide so easily between supporting me and serving yourself? In the past few weeks I’ve been reflecting on my relationships with white people and have come to realize I’ve never truly felt whole around them. I’ve had to compromise who I am in order to safely take up space. I hid away my identities in public and wore them only when no one could see me. I’ve had to bite my tongue and pretend my struggles didn’t exist just so no one felt uncomfortable.

How can you say that you will carry on my voice when you never listened to me in the first place? How can you exist in such a hypocritical state?

Depression

“I want to take full responsibility for the Special Olympics article. I should have taken that and turned it into a teaching lesson for the whole staff. And I didn’t because I wanted to protect [the editor who wrote it] and myself and that’s inexcusable.”

If you were protecting yourself and a white man, then who the fuck was protecting me?

22

Why was no one ever looking out for me?

On September 4, my friends and I poured our hearts out and shared our trauma with our former colleagues in hopes that they would realize how they hurt us and why they need to do better. I left that meeting feeling heavy, like every white person out there was placing their foot on my body, waiting for me to collapse.

“I am exhausted from carrying the chains of my existence.”

I looked in the mirror that night and thought “This is the face of the oppressed.”

I sat on the floor of my shower, holding myself as though I was going to fall apart, with thoughts running through my head of things I hadn’t felt in so long. If I wash my skin hard enough, will my brownness go away? If I squeeze my bones and muscles, will they be fixed? I am exhausted from carrying the chains of my existence. I sit in my classes with my eyes glazed over, more aware than ever of how I am perceived, and how I will always be perceived by those around me. I bow my head, accepting the role I am placed in, knowing that I have to fight and scream because no one will fight and scream for me. I was given the weight of the world, and wondered how I hadn’t broken down yet, how I hadn’t shed a single tear about it.

On October 3, it finally happened. One bottle of rose later and I was on the floor of my room, choking out the words “I don’t want it anymore” over and over in between sobs. I held my pillow that was soaking wet from my tears and covered my eyes that were almost swollen shut. For three hours I let out the pressure that had built up within me for so long, with my friends holding me close all night so I wouldn’t break.

“I am terrified to step into the journalism field.”

Discouragement

“You deserved so much better. I completely understand if you never want to work in another newsroom again, but if you do, you will be an invaluable addition.”

The sad reality is that that’s not true. I may never be perceived as invaluable, no matter how great of a journalist I am. What I experienced, and what my friends experienced, can happen again, and it likely will. I am more aware of that than ever. I am terrified to step into the journalism field. If my own peers didn’t respect or value me, how can I expect a random white person to? I’ve always known that as a queer and disabled woman of color in today’s society, my identities will work against me.

I’ve always known that discrimination exists, but in the past few weeks I’ve experienced and let it sit within me and I’ve never been more afraid for myself and others from marginalized communities.

Healing

“When you take care of yourself in the heat of the battle, it’s because you know that, okay, I’m taking care of myself but I’m also taking care of those who are coming behind me.” - Dorothy Gilliam Last Friday I spoke on the phone with two of my friends—a queer woman of color, and a queer disabled woman. We talked for four hours straight about the racism, sexism, ableism, and homophobia that we’ve faced at Emerson and in our lives, and I was reminded that I wasn’t alone. Yes, I am from marginalized communities, but that isn’t a bad thing. I have the communities right there with me. I found healing in knowing that I can speak on my struggles and not be met with pity or stone cold silence or the denial of my experiences, but rather with love and support and sisterhood.

After that call, I took a breath and closed my eyes and instead of seeing the ways in which I will be treated poorly in the future because of the color of my skin or the way my body functions, I saw the people who have been carrying me for years.

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“I see the person I am, and the person I hope to become as I grow and heal from this.”

I see the people who have been in my corner, and who will always be rooting for me. I see all of my Flawless sisters, I see my best friend Emily, I see my friends who fought alongside me against The Beacon, I see the new friends I made after I cut out the people who were so plagued by their white fragility that they lost sight of human decency. I see the person I am, and the person I hope to become as I grow and heal from this. I see my strength, and the lasting impact it will have on those who follow in my footsteps.

And I see the words that a Beacon staff member wrote in her apology to me:

“Thank you for using your voice. I know your resilience will take you far.”

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In Resistence To White Feminism I don’t need you to at all I don’t need you to want at all.

You’ve taken my sister, And expect me to feel safe You may not stay here and cause pain, and take space I know the power is my hands. I will rise.

Please, you don’t have to secretly hate me I refuse to own your fears I want my children to be happyand alive. You call me crazy I know I am not hysterical My words are stolen, changed, then taken to be yours.

I am the blueprint and inspiration, I am as truth is dismissed here, love isn’t shown, it’s the hope the demand, to still love and respect your house to can’t keep the cold out so you tried to take mine in and laugh ‘cause I can’t appreciate you. I won’t love anything about you willist break down to the good dust you came to me.

Showing up for you in every way defeated me.

I lead in this chess board to life, love, and you played white.

You think you see the game how things are but always dream of ways out. always going to hold my head up strong. my mother said my shoulders carry a lot and look she knew the scale was off but I found solace in knowing I am something to be proud of. someone of value when you have to stay out I believe that’s the cue for you to leave and take your things with you. remember, to leave a tear in the jar on the way out.

I’m not sorry. Don’t forgive me

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I don’t need you to love me I don’t need you to love

I.

I have [no] sister, [ in you] I can feel her now She may not be here, pain, but she’s still mine I know the power is mine and will rise Please, I know, still love me Have my children, I can’t be happy [. ] I know I am not hysterical [ ] Truth is not, be here, but a-i-n’-t still mine, is I hope They know I still love them Got your house, it still keeps the cold out Got my chair when my body can’t hold out I can’t appreciate you. I won’t love anything about you Got my [your] hands doing good like to me they supposed to Showing my heart to the folks that are close to me Got my eyes though love, they don’t see as far now You [ I ] think you [ I ] see more about how things [really] are I-’m- going to [can’t] take a deep breath Going to hold my head up strong [anymore] going to put my shoulders back And look you straight [fix] the eye [them] I’m going to flirt with somebody When they walk by I’m going to sing out Have to stay out I believe I have inside of me you Everything that I need to live a bountiful life And all the love alive in me I’m not sorry. Don’t forgive me-

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II. It’s telling. To have to lose something in order to remain perfect. Our anger is shared; but our stories are so different. I know what to say and where and I’m not sure if it’s conditioned.

Our conventions hold us accountable, the educated and the woman, are to be seen and not heard: a learned experience from our similar silencer. The oppressed are a population consisting of opposites and arguments.

Easily kept from those who sit in the back pews of a non-denominational Christian service, just to say they go to church.

To feel like losing purity is resistance, but isn’t it more than this? Isn’t it evident when you won’t give up to complete a stereotype. Ignore what makes “them” comfortable.

No one wants to hear Black joy, rather it be rage; non-violent, purposeful rage: vulgar rage, an invitation for all to participate in Black culture. It’s the pain they crave: the black pain

Naomi Jones 27

Growing in Love

By Jalyn Cox 28

In releasing myself from the binds of how I believed I was supposed to be and rooting myself within the present, I was able to claim the beginning of my own authentic healing process.

For so long, I lived within the projection of myself, my ego. I restricted myself to fit within the binds of how I thought I had to act and be in order to receive “love”. This definition of “love” is a noun, something to own or possess.

The idea and assumption that love is something to look for outside of your own self is what perpetuates the idea you are not full to begin with. In living through this projection, I silenced my true spirit and myself for not living up to this made up idea of myself.

There are people, situations, and environments that are strategically built to drain and test your energy. White supremacy and patriarchy are systematically built to turn us against each other - and therefore, ourselves. Both systems drain us of both our power and energy. They both reward individualistic mentalities built on separating and othering. On both sides of my family, it is very apparent the way whiteness has been something to assimilate towards. It was a means of survival in a world that didn’t allow them to be. These systems are built tactically to perpetuate our own trauma from generation to generation, until that cycle is broken.

In actuality, I bullied myself for years because there was no way to live up to this projection of whiteness. As a child, I used to be so confused to why no one I knew looked like me, and for so long, I thought something was wrong with me. Instead of teaching people to grow into themselves, we’re taught through multiple different avenues that “white is right”, and it is just not. This way of thought, programming, and conditioning is in no way connected to my true spirit, and is in every way tangled within the ancestral trauma passed down throughout both lines of my family and the outside world.

To love is a verb, the act of loving. Love is “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth”(bell hooks). My ego and conditioning stunted my own personal growth for so long because I was constantly trying to make myself more agreeable, small, and quite to adhere to the society I was conditioned in. My spiritual growth is loving myself.

We are all meant to reach authentic self love and confidence in the way that we maneuver through the world. In loving myself, I have entered a life time commitment to decolonizing my mind.

Resilience is that continual struggle to grow. Resilience is breaking the chains that continue the cycle. Resilience is keeping presence to process and unpack.

In taking back the power that once controlled you (and those who came before you), a new world can emerge for those who come after.

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She stands on the edge of a roof top She dreams of flying Although childish, it is the most innocent for of freedom She imagines just being able to jump, spread her tired black arms, and fly into the night No one to pull her down back to earth No one to restrict her No one to oppress She gazes out at the North Star She takes one step closer to the ledge as she thinks about a life free of bondage One more step as she feels the pain in her back from working another 60 hour week Another as she remembers what her mother told her about the men she would meet that would want to take everything she had A step for all the white faces that surround her at this party she was coerced into just to be a diverse trophy I am not to be admired or fawned over when it is convenient for the world and their tumultuous consciouses...Where did I sign up for this life?

All she really wanted was to see her father again.

She was forced to hold his memory sacred far too soon Feeling the damage and re-opening wounds every other night when she received another request for a comment or statement His blood runs in the streets of downtown Charlotte now, but his love and guidance live forever in myself and my heart A chill runs through her body as she feels imagines herself for once ascending into the heavens instead of sinking To be able to glide over her home, free from the ugly institutions that stifled her joy, boxed up her heritage, and limited her potential for 32 years Up in that night sky is not only freedom, but all of the rejoices and love she was robbed of as the most drained, abandoned, and abused soul, condemned by what should be her power and her beauty She has worked to refill herself each time and to rise again She rises again Rise again But she is strong Strong enough to fly And she is brave Brave enough to chase the freedom she knows will forever be unattainable as long as her two feet are on the same ground as her drainers, abandoners, and abusers walk upon And so she J U

30

M

P

S

Flying to Freedon

by Maria Draper

The next morning’s paper Page 5 (B2): “Woman Jumps Off Roof At Party, Doctor Wants To Raise Black Mental Health Awareness”

31 Content Warning: Suicidal Thoughts

Part One I don’t remember who it was that first broke my heart. Back when it was such a small, precious thing. That’s a lie, actually. I know who it was, and it was the last person who should have done the job.

Aren’t daughters meant to be a blessing? Or at least a precious burden? I don’t know. I never got to feel that way.

Because he didn’t just break it once. He ground my sweet little soul to sand. And expected it to act like solid stone.

He left me to pit sand and tears against the girls - the real girls, I was never counted among who carried themselves like warlords every weekday.

If my heart was reduced to grains when I met them, it may as well have been nothing by the time they were done with me. Banishment and battling and the kind of brutality that belongs to girls like them - the so-called beautiful, the Blueprint - rendered me non-existent.

Whatever I was supposed to be by then, by my blooming adolescence, they put a monster in her place. A creature who could only menace by withdrawing and crying until its anger dissolved, so acidic were its insides.

So they thought nothing of me, and I thought nothing of me.

And yet I was still there. Still breathing through a garishly broad nose, still pushing bands into my frizzy hair, still stomping through halls in my burgeoning body.

And I stood before the warlords of my highschool kingdom after a decade of their demands to see me dead.

And raised a manuscript thicker than their torsos - a story that scraped together what they had made of me and said to it, “Sparkle. Shine. You still can.”

I shook them when I dropped it.

They shook me, too. Not with more attacks. With applause. As if their forcing me into an imaginary sanctuary until I produced something was a victory. Was their victory.

The smile of my first devastator shook me again when I announced to him my way of his reach. How proud he was of the spoils from my desperate scramble to survive.

How happy he was at my newly straightened spine and core of molten steel. As if he had done anything but bend me to the ground and shatter every delicate thing I wanted to make of myself.

I will restore myself anyway. I will blaze so bright that I scorch any hand that seeks to scathe me.

And they will return. Maybe not the very same abusers, but those who share their cavernous, clawing spirit. The ones who deserve nothing but to beg those like me for forgiveness. They will demand my thanks.

Because isn’t it only the act of being broken that strengthens a bone?

32

Part Two When was the last time you were thankful for how easily your bones hold you up? Do you think of your spine as virtuous for not bending the wrong way?

Are your ribs brave for curving around your heart and lungs?

I rarely admire necessary things. They must be there. They aren’t for anything. They just are.

This is the way I often feel about my own strength. My veritable durability.

My incredible bravery. It is not this jewel I have polished to perfection. It’s a sturdy, ol’ reliable hunk of something strong or other. I rarely inspect precisely what it’s made of, because it does its job and that’s all I need from it.

We have an agreement, my strength and I, that we’ll do what we must. I thank her for what she does, but I have no illusions. She is not my beloved. She emerged from the worst moments of my life. And she is the reason I have lived long enough to look back on them.

She seems to be understood differently by others who don’t know her like I do. In their minds, she is valiant and noble. Something so impossible she must be revered.

Yes, that’s what it is. Her admirers believe she is rare. And therefore extraordinary. In their world, the magnitude of violence that produces this kind of internal armor is meant to be distant. Something foreign that belongs to people they could never truly understand, let alone come in contact with.

So when they find one of us, the many millions who must birth a soldier inside themselves or die, and finally see something like a person, they are shocked. Because so many former and future abusers and bystanders rarely, if ever, look close enough to see the person at all.

It feels unnatural for me to see my strength the way others do. To see the strength of my sisters and siblings the way others do. Respect doesn’t require fawning for us. We know it is innate and give it freely.

Of course we are strong. Because we must be. Of course we are brave.

Because the world is a dangerous place that we have no choice but to live in.

Of course we are resilient. Because pain will be part of our lives for as long as they extend.

And maybe I do love my strength, just not like a new girlfriend. Like an old best friend. Like a sister.

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Part Three Love is a close cousin to energy, It can neither be created Nor destroyed Only moved to the right and wrong places.

And like energy, it can do so much more Or so much less Depending on where it is placed.

A kind parent’s love can power generations Of compassion & gratitude & Creativity A desperate spouse’s entire loving soul May not be enough To spark a smile behind their beloved’s eyes I poured all the love I could muster into so many Bottomless pits I believed I had nothing but A fleck, a dim flash, to my name Not nearly enough to warm my own hands

As I held it for dear life.

And yet, that nothing amount of love Was enough To wake me up everyday for twenty years, To carry me through countless confrontations, To put food in my mouth To raise my hands and swipe away an infinity of tears, To tuck me into bed at night Knowing it would get worse the next day.

It was there, Somehow more stubborn Than the weight of a hateful world With gravity that fractured my ribs And left my heart bare.

That tiny grain, always part of a whole I thought long taken from me Not gone, But never to be mine again, Powered me.

But it has returned,

34

Ember by ember, To grant me the vitality of a star That shines through millions of galaxies For billions of years.

That kind of power Placed in a human body Moves more than mountains.

And this time it is mine.

Because I still have a world weighing me down.

I will bear this hateful world Because I must Because I have Because I want to hold it With all of the love it is still missing.

Until its love returns to it as mine did.

I will live long enough to look back On the day when the world remembered Where its love belonged.

Santana Coste

35

-Resilience, it is a broad subject but I think this picture can describe it, because after everything the world has thrown at these kids they are still Resilience, is a broad subject I think describe it, because after standing.itThey are still filledbut with lightthis andpicture I knowcan that they will grow up to everything the world has thrown at these kids they are still standing. They are still filled with light be beautiful people. and I know that they will grow up to be beautiful people. they are kids that live in one of the many informa settlements in Medellin, Colombia. A place without the most basic necessities like potable water. Where are they. And they are enjoying a new playground built by students Who they?this More context?

Where with are they? from CUare Boulder, project was designed help from the community and even though it doesn’t fix all the issues they face every day it brings joy to their lives.

-Eloisa Anne Samper

36

A Black Woman Hands Me A Flower Niki Hester A black woman hands me a flower.

The soft petals brush my fingers. It feels odd. I don't remember the last time I held something so soft, something from our mother earth. My hands are dry from rifling through papers. My fingers bruised in the place where my pen rests for such long stretches of time spent trying to find the words floating always just out of reach. The chipped polish of my nails looks crude against the soft brush of color flowing out from the center of the flower. I can't bring myself to bring it to my nose, to take the time to close my eyes and breathe in it's perfume. I feel the hard ground beneath my feet, more familiar than the softness in my hands. It occurs to me that I deserve softness like this, and the thought sobers me. There are a lot of things I deserve.

The woman with the flowers disappears into the crowd, her crown of curls blending into the crowd in a way that I know is rare. I realize I don't know her name, and yet my hands hold a piece of her heart, pulled from the same earth that nurtures us, fed by the sun that allows each of us to hold a piece of it's glow in the brown of our skin. I hold her face in my mind for a moment, and ask the universe to keep her safe, and return to her the warmth she has given to me. I don't know her and yet I know she deserves this. If we don't take care of each other, hold love for each other, I know too well that no one will.

I worry suddenly, about keeping the flower safe amongst the crowd. It feels like all I can do to keep myself from being swept away, trampled beneath feet surer than mine. I know somehow if I were to drop it now it would be no return to earth. It would be broken, beaten into the concrete, in a way too many of our people have been. No, this deserves a fate kinder than that. My hands come to my chest, still holding the fragile green stem. I see others in the crowd, the green brilliant against the brown of the hands they are held in, and I breathe in the kinship that comes with the sight, breathe out a bit of the fear in my heart.

37

The fragile stem in my hands is no match for the wooden rods in the hands of those we march towards. The tears in my voice are drowned out by the drone of helicopters far above. All that’s left is the unity of the chant, the power that I feel as our footsteps beat out a simple rhythm. I focus on the togetherness, on the size of us, on the power in that size. I focus on community, and with it comes a sort of immunity to the fear. I still feel it, a part of me will always feel it, but it cannot break me. How ironic to be protected and held so deeply, not by those who are supposed to protect us, but instead from those same people.

The thought makes my head spin. The world we live in is not the one fed to us in elementary school classrooms, at least not for me with the brown of my skin and the rebellion in my stance. I feel powerful nonetheless. We are creating a new world. One that includes every child in those classrooms in it’s safety.

I am empowered by the love surrounding me, I am enraged more than ever by the pain our voices. I did not want to be here. I am not made for activism. I am not made of the steel in the backs of those leading our procession. I am not made of the rage in the eyes of those marching beside me. This rebellion does not come naturally to me, but the love I hold for my brothers and sisters under attack does. And for them alone, I end up here. I refuse to mourn again. I will shed no more tears.

I am protected and I am protecting. I am never truly alone, and the fight never stops.

38

From within

by Kimberly Ndegwa We’re so strong yet we hide behind the masks of our Rise to the occasion fears

Reach your full potential

We wear the standards forced upon us by those in Give your all power

Sing a song

They force us to believe that we don’t belong

Dance to the crack of dawn

behind lines they restrain us

But we are so much more than our fears

That the gaze of the moon

We can go so far when we let go of all the chains Shimmers on your skin handed to us

The breeze of the wind

Unlearning our places and roles in society

Brushes against you

becoming who we are meant to be

The world belongs to none

Humanity should strive

Happiness begins at dawn

Living free Free of chains Free of commands Free of ourselves

39

IN A LYCHEEby Aiya It stopped me at the grocery store It trailed me down the block It tried to convince me to give up the balcony seats I paid for It called me the nanny It assumed my son was not mine It spoke down to me professionally It pulled me over on a bicycle It praised my ‘dark features’ And said be grateful, be pleased It spoke s l o w l y

As if I could not tell

What a word

Might

It explained how I should

40

mean

It called me blessed It said behave It refuses to listen It wants silence

Thassos’ marble

It has an idea of acceptable Yet is unaccountable

Maybe if we all applied filters it would be easier to breathe.

41

My Pussy Wrote A Thesis On Colonialism* Niki Hester Your fingers coax the fight out of me and I find myself quietly hoping My ancestors have turned away, Unwilling to witness my mistakes.

Unwilling to watch the way I offer Bare wrists to you, and smile through the fear When I hear the lock click On these gilded chains.

The words that fall from your lips taste like sugar on my tongue, turning bitter as they enter my body.

Her ancestors smile, charting their course through me.

I think it’s in your blood, a silver tongue, the way you diminish your power, yet Weaponize a femininity that Brown fingers can never grasp.

42

Femininity is not colorblind But you expect me to find Comfort in the fact that somehow You are.

How do I fight back, against the tears in your eyes, and the ignorance in your heart all at the same time?

How is it that a people so capable of cruelty, Have the monopoly on softness.

While I am expected to be powerful, And then crucified for my anger.

I am learning love for my oppressor Does not coincide with love for myself.

And when I finally break these chains, How creatively you’ll frame it as violence.

**Self, NoName, 2018, Room 25

43

Unending war Kimberly Ndegwa

I want you to look right into my eyes And tell me you don’t see the pain that I feel.

You’ve got me tied down I can’t breathe, I can’t move, your chains they dig into my skin.

In a pool of tears, I cry for family but you crush their fate I ask for mercy, you spit on my face On my knees I beg for reverence, I pray to your God but even that is invading your space You say you love me, That you care But you sit there Watch them burn me to the ground You walk over my ashes looking all proud Proud that you’ve beat me to my end.

I rise again and this time things look better.

I see all the attention that I gain My life, my land, my culture

44

But it’s a facade Hidden under the gold plate and diamonds, are the evils you can’t undo You’re still the same, every re-birth through.

So I stand, tired, angry, and frustrated I fight for the freedom of those who remain Demanding justice for the lives you ended Their blood an unremovable stain.

But I am also to blame, For the blind trust that I put on you It was too big a responsibility for your weak shoulders You can’t see past your nose Perched up on your face Blocking the reality of your weakness You’re too self-entitled, too selfish to realize IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU! I should’ve known that your allyship only counts when it’s beneficial.

But I did know I just looked away, Away from the words that you tossed around and labeled as jokes, Away from the looks you threw when you didn’t think I was looking.

We were never in this together We’ve been at war forever.

45

[UN]MUFFLE by Brittany Adames I The first time I told a boy no, I lathered the word along the reddened lines of my palm like soap.

Wrung it out with fervor. If guilt-ridden sputters could take form, they would be the wrinkled fabric of the t-shirt I doused in cold water after.

A white hoodie. He was languid in movement, his fingers picking at the thick fabric; he wore the hood up, though I could no longer read the words on it. It’s almost like the darkness seemed to ricochet, hollowed-out like the string of no’s that rushed out my pursed lips in wavering exhales of breath.

Imagine treading among a grove of oak trees and feeling the persistent prick of overhanging branches and brush. Now, feel the coarseness of the bark and notice its unrefined texture.

That is the boy’s skin.

II The second time I told a boy no, he coiled a mussed curl around his finger, smacked his lips together and spat. “Why?” he asked.

I took his whys and smothered them with becauses. His whys soon came careening back, pinning me against a wooden dresser, making the becauses tumble into the back of my throat. He stuffed a wad of whys into my mouth, paring strips of skin like a mid-morning snack, hurling scraps into the wastebin planted outside the building.

“Is there a yes?” He combed through my mouth, lips all stitched, teeth severing gums until the taste of copper drowned out whatever syllables were left.

III The third time I told a boy no, I had already grinded the word ‘prude’ inside the mortar. Pestle slewing in my clutch, drops of sweat collecting in pools of—nothing. Nothing at all. A weakened resolve only amounts to so many walks home alone. Running in the numbing cold, feet blurring into clack-clack-clacks, his voice ringing out—is it?—until the breath grows tireless. Until the real arrives again.

It never does.

IV The fourth time I told a boy no, he snickered slightly and snaked his arm around a nest of hair.

Inky eyes scanning the body like keystrokes. In the oscillating moment before the coming and the becoming, I chose the middle. The rifts of a tongue giving way to a serpent’s. How the mouth tautly holds onto the whyness but the hands do not wait for an answer.

The television screen meets my eyes. Halle Berry’s burnished Catwoman suit. The sheet beneath lay crinkled, crumbs hardened by nothing. Nothing at all.

FIN The last time I told a boy no, he swallowed me whole.

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BLACKMAIL APOLOGY by Brittany Adames

it’s not love

unless it’s in an instagram dm

he doesn’t even like you

stupid ass kid

prude

he stopped loving [you]

it’s a little game

doesn’t even have your number anymore

i have stuff on people so i like to do that— you’re a fucking prude

can get proof, videos and all— answer the question

already know bout him doing it february

the smell still s[t]ings

for you—

the rooftop of the bus station in

it was a thursday for him

he loved you, prude

feel strong, don’t you

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you know

plzzz

a lifetime

you want to be made to

survival means death too

so tell me

god if only you weren’t such a prude

tell me right now

where is it? where is the slaughterhouse?

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Ana Coste

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