Flawless Mag - The Borders Issue

FLAWLESS

MAG

ISSUE 4 • SPRING 2017

CONTRIBUTORS Editor in Chief

Assistant editorS

Cover shoot Models Chassidy David Pola Dobrzynski Raegan Harris Victoria Huynh Chiara Kung Vivien Liu Samantha Schechter

Vasantha Sambamurti Lissa Deonarain

Lucie Pereira

Content team Rodjyna Beauvile Jacqueline Menjivar Anahita Padmanabhan Lucie Pereira Vasantha Sambamurti

Design team Indigo Asim Taylor Carlington Sydney Rae Chin Lissa Deonarain Pola Dobrzynski Alexandria Ellison Rija Rehan

Layout Indigo Asim Sydney Rae Chin Lissa Deonarain Pola Dobrzynski Alexandria Ellison Jacqueline Menjivar Anahita Padmanabhan Lucie Pereira Rija Rehan Vasantha Sambamurti

Photographer Rochely Zapata Director Indigo Asim Assistant Director Pola Dobrzynski

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

Flawless Brown Executive Board 2016-2017 Lissa Deonarain President

Amber Hood Head of Sisterhood

Lucie Pereira Chair of Flawless Writes

Aliyah Browne Vice President and Treasurer

Erin Burgess Chair of Flawless Stage

Anandita Choudhary Chair of Marketing

Elisha Dumont Secretary

Yasmine Hammoudi Chair of Flawless Pictures

Nerissa Williams Faculty Advisor

Flawless Brown contact@flawlessbrown.com | flawlessbrown.com | facebook.com/FlawlessBrownEC @flawless_brown_ec on Instagram

Letter from the Editor

In Flawless Brown, we think of our sisterhood as a brave space, one where you can dare to bring your whole self to the table and express your own truth. The core of our organization is art as activism; art with a purpose; art with a perspective. When we talk about borders, we don’t limit the conversation to physical or political borders. In this issue of Flawless Mag, we expand the idea to include borders in our communities, in our relationships, and in our own identities. We dissolve the lines between identities, knowing that “woman” cannot be held distinct and separate from its modifier, “of color.” We practice intersectionality in our very existence.

The writers and artists in this issue of Flawless Mag perform the revolutionary act of claiming space for themselves, whether it’s a claim to a culture, a country, or a movement. I am unbelievably grateful for and awed by the talent, bravery, and vulnerability of the women whose voices we get to share with the world through Flawless Mag. I’m also beyond thankful for the support, hard work, and passion of my team and my sisterhood. Special thanks to our president, Lissa Deonarain, the backbone and the heart of Flawless Brown, and to my wonderful assistant editor Vasantha Sambamurti – I’m so proud to work with you and can’t wait to see you grow and become a leader in this organization.

So often, women of color find invisible borders drawn around us, dictating where we have the right to be. We have to acknowledge these borders in order to begin the work of erasing them. We have to start a conversation, whether it’s by putting a pen to paper, a brush to canvas, fingers to a keyboard, or simply opening our mouths to speak. Flawless Mag: The Borders Issue is our opening statement for 2017.

We invite you to listen, learn, and engage with us. So turn the page, and join the conversation.

With love, Lucie Pereira

1

BORDERS Rija Rehan | Poem

2

Untitled Emi Kubota | Photo Series

4

Space Anahita Padmanabhan | Essay

5

Maple Leaf Naciza Masikini | Poem

6

Considera El Mate Pola Dobrzynski | Essay

9

Being a Person of Color in America Bethany Owens | Photo Essay

12

Finding My Borderland Noelle Maldonado | Essay

15

Depression Lissa Deonarain | Poem

16

I Wrote You A Poem Amber Marie | Poem

17

(Asian) American Dream Sasha Braverman | Photo Essay

21

Hi My Name Is...

Asela Lee Kemper | Poem

22

Liberation Valerie Reynoso | Poem

23

Beijing Summer Angela Y. Law | Essay

The White Women’s March on Washington Pola Dobrzynski | Essay

25

Intersecting Your White Feminism Rraine Hanson | Photo Essay

27

My Eyes Are Up Here Kayla Cho | Art

30

HAIR Alexandria Ellison | Photo Essay

31

Tales of a Black Woman’s Microaggressions Taylor Carlington | Short Story

35

Warrior Angela Y. Law | Poem

37

The Borders Shoot Flawless Writes | Photoshoot

38

Untitled Caroline Rodriguez | Poem

46

The Other Side (of the Story) Swetha Amaresan | Essay

47

Borderlands Shawnie Wen and Maddy Wiryo | Comic

51

On Whiteness Vasantha Sambamurti | Essay

52

Like Powerful Women* Angela Y Law | Art

53

* Women featured: Rosa Parks, Maya Angelou, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Alice Walker, Nina Simone, Cheryl Dunye, and Josephine Baker, Nan’yehi (Nancy Ward), Toypurina,Buffy Sainte-Marie, Winona LaDuke, Joy Harjo, Shoni Shimmel,Annie Pootoogook, Queen Liliuokalani, Merle Woo, Nellie Wong, Yuri Kochiyama, Jhumpa Lahiri, Maxine Hong Kingston, Grace Lee Boggs, Anna May Wong. Kamakahukilani Von Oelhoffen, Eva Peron, Joan Baez, Selena Quintanilla, Gloria Anzaldua, Sandra Cisneros, Cherrie Moraga, Frida Kahlo, and Claribel Alegría.

BORDERS

By Rija Rehan She said she wanted to be in two places at once.

She wanted to be two people at once.

And all the people inside her Residing in different parts of her Living in two places at once Had to stay silent and still and small.

Even when they saw her, small and still and silent, They saw who they saw Behind a wall, a barbed wire fence you could never cross over.

Am I smart am I small am I soft?

I am smart I am small I am soft.

I feel the people and places and pieces inside me Barred behind borders placed by strangers Either the people inside me or the people outside me With their hands tight their hands taut their hands tired.

Aren’t they tired?

She said she wanted to be in two places at once.

Stretched thin across the lines that divide, separate, slice.

She could be soft putty, dough kneaded by her mother Who is brown, beautiful, bright.

She could be glue or she could be a Gun Defying, determined, denied.

1

By Emi Kubota 2

By Emi Kubota

3

Space

By Anahita Padmanabhan I like space. I like looking up at the night sky and seeing the stars, seeing the light that has traveled so far that by the time I see it, that light may no longer exist. I like thinking about the planets that I will never see. I like thinking of the infinity that surrounds us that is absolutely incomprehensible.

I don’t know enough about space to know what’s out there. I can’t tell you all the details, I can’t spew scientific facts out at you. I’m not even sure how much actual scientists can tell you in terms of the grand scheme of space. But what always fascinated me about learning about space, about those who study space, is how much we project onto it. To me, humans and space are linked.

We see dots in the sky, and we draw lines to form shapes and we give them stories, we name them after animals, things, after myths and legends. We seek to connect ourselves to this big, beautiful, never-ending darkness. Humans named planets after their gods, and tied their beliefs to celestial objects that they would never see. We see our futures, our pasts, our personalities, our lives and beings written in the stars. We believe that constellations impact our lives, that the stars can guide us in what we can expect from life. We believe that stars that appeared on the day we were born are intrinsically tied to our lives.

We actively search for answers for how planets came to be. Our curiosity for what is out there made us create new technology to take us there. Human desire to understand the unknown made us send probes farther than we could ever imagine, to learn about everything from planets that surround us, to planets that could potentially sustain life. We classify, we organize, we document, research, and observe in order to make sense of the randomn aess that surrounds us and our existence.

I know space has a way of making people feel isolated. It has a way of appearing exclusive, like only certain people get to understand it, to interact with it. But the truth is we interact with it daily. We have become intertwined with it throughout the fraction of time that we have existed. The sun gives us light during the day, and it reflects off the moon’s surface giving us light at night. The moon controls our tides. We mark our calendars on its phases, which are caused by Earth’s shadows. Without the solar system working as it does, we wouldn’t exist. It’s give and take, and without one element, everything could fall apart.

Even beyond the scientific level, space and the human experience are intrinsically linked. We experience seasons based on the tilt of the earth. We see a shooting star and make a wish. We use stars to navigate, to take us home, to take us to new places, to find the way to freedom. We look out into the void and remind ourselves of what is trivial, that there are things bigger than us out there that we will never understand in our lifetimes. We remind ourselves of how lucky we are for everything to have taken place exactly the way it did in order for us to be alive. We name stars based on stories, and we make stories based on stars. We revel in the idea of possible worlds that could exist. We create stories of life, of fantasy, of anything that we can imagine. We put our dreams into space.

I like space because I am connected to it. It’s full of stories that have been told, and are waiting to be told. It’s waiting to be explored, to be understood. It’s full of imagination. It’s a link to the past, and it’s a link the future. It’s a link to the people I love, the people I haven’t met, the people who are far away from me.

I love space because when I look up at the night sky, on a clear night, while standing on my driveway at home, I am connected to the universe and everything in it.

4

Maple Leaf Naciza Masikini

Home is where the heart is.

(I’m told.)

What if your heart doesn’t have a home?

Split by the tides of the oceans Separating home from here Stuck on land that raised you But doesn’t want you Land that you can and can’t claim Land that didn’t birth you But you know the most Iand that severs ties to the tides that carry the pieces of my severed heart Where is home?

I don’t have one I am just stuck.

5

b y Po l a D o b r z y n s k i

I’ve always loved food. To this day my mom makes fun of me for the time I said I wanted to be a chef when I was younger. I’ve loved its preparation and consumption, its novelties and histories. But what I love most is food with intricacies; foods that need time to be enjoyed, foods whose accompanying condiments require a certain order. The kind of food you have to break out the special spoons for, whose composition requires careful thought and consideration. In traditional Argentinian culture, no other drink exemplifies this more than mate. Mate can be enjoyed any time of day, and for Argentinians, anywhere. They drink it with friends and alone, on their way to work in public transport, indoors and outdoors. But it can be especially savored on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when one has the sprawling hours to devote to several helpings of it.

It could be when your whole family is home, watching River Plate play Boca, or when company has stopped by after church to say hello. It’s a communal drink, enjoyed with friends, meant to be passed around and shared with no concern for germs.

Here’s where the actual preparation process starts.

yerba mate Step 1: Invite in your friends, offering them a picada—some morsels pick on—and ask them how their parents are doing while you get started on the mate.

Step 2: Put water in the kettle to boil. It is essential that the water be HOT, but not too hot. My mom always cautioned me that the only way to know when to take the water off the burner is to listen to the patter of the water bubbling. You must remove the kettle before the steam starts to blow the whistle; should the water boil, the mate will spoil.

Step 3: While the water heats up, prepare the yerba: an earthy, green tea-like brew with a distinct and robust flavor. It is cured in a variety of intensities, and can be relished by drinkers of strong and soft brews. Pour it into the cup and awaken the yerba with some warm water, waiting thirty seconds to a minute.

Step 4: Place the bombilla—a glorified straw—in the cup. The bombilla CANNOT move once the yerba is poured lest it find its way up the straw and in the mouth of an unlucky and unsuspecting taster.

Step 5: When the water has been properly bubbled, pour it into the termo (thermos) to ensure everyone can enjoy their mate while it’s scalding. Each person should pour only the amount of hot water they will be drinking, and never all the way to the top.

Step 6: Drink. Disfruta.

Mate is what self-important drinkers call an acquired taste. Immortalized on film is my sister, Juana Manuela, having a taste of the bitter mate. What can we gather from this photo? Teetering on the edge of indulgence and distaste, she is unsure what to make of this hot beverage. She exemplifies a hyphenated existence, on the border of two cultures. Having been exposed to the rich and vibrant cultures of our parents, but uncertain how it fits into the contexts of her own life.

6

7

8

Being a Person of color in america Part 2 of a photo essay by Bethany Owens

Larianny Perez

9

Laughter filled the room.

“You’re not Dominican because you were born in the U.S.” “You look like you could be Blasian — Black and Asian.”

Said by a group of older Dominicans when I told them I was Dominican.

SouJee Han I am a proud first-generation Korean-American.

I am not your lackey. I am not your punchline. I am not your checkbox for your diversity quota.

I am not your doctor or the minor character; exotic secretary or romantic side story; the immigrant or the classic sidekick.

I am not invisible.

I am an actor, a writer, a poet, and an advocate.

Regardless of what you think of me, I will be the first to join the revolutionary fight; I will be the face of change.

Mayah Gilmer In high school, a lot of the white students would try to speak “like” me, or in a fashion that is most notably heard in or around African-American culture. Sometimes, if they were trying to be “funny” with me during a conversation, they’d even suck their teeth and say, “Ya mad aggy, son.” It was almost as if, because I’m black, they thought that speaking in that jargon was going to make me understand them better.

10

Jonas Spencer “Talking black” is a common misconception that hinders the black youth of today. Throughout my entire life, I have dealt with the constant belief that when one is educated, he or she is “talking white,” and in order to “talk black,” I mustn’t sound educated. When this thought process is applied to every day life, you take away the aspirations of several underprivileged youth. Had it not been for the role models around me, I would’ve fallen into the same predicament as those who let their dreams be taken away.

Sydney Rae Chin Ten more officers swarmed the booth like bees.

They all looked at me.

They looked at my American passport.

AMERICAN, but to them I’m foreign.

It occurred to me that they only ever thought of me as forever foreigner, dragon lady, and china doll.

11

FINDING My borderland by noelle maldonado All I see is color—blondes, blues, greens,

and peachy pinks. They blue with the intensity of my stare as I press my face against the glass at the American Girl Doll store in the Water Tower Place. I’ve been begging my mom and dad for years for one of the dolls behind that glass and finally, finally they’ve caved. I’m told that if I pick one out and continue to behave until Christmas, Santa will bring me any doll I want.

I wander around the store in a daze. There are so many different dolls, all varying in shades and colors and backgrounds. I take my time looking at the different options, even though I already know what I want my doll to look like.

When I find her, all the air escapes my elevenyear-old lungs. I am pulled to her like a magnet.

I sit on the floor with her box tucked between my knees, peering through the plastic divider between us. Sheets of red frame her face, long and straight. Her skin is white and smooth, only interrupted by the little spots of brown freckling her cheeks and nose. Her vivid green eyes almost seem alive. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I admire her delicate bone structure—her high cheekbones, her button nose, her slim cheeks. She is fairy-like and perfect.

When my parents find me, I show them my choice. I watch as they exchange glances and furrow their brows. I wasn’t expecting them to be hesitant about my choice.

They asked why I didn’t want a doll that looked more like me. Although I was sure about my choice, I allowed them to lead me to the dolls they thought resembled me. I faced all the brown dolls with indifference.

They were off-colored, more yellow and black than the caramel color of my skin. Their eyes were brown and black—lifeless. Their features were similar to mine, but didn’t complement these dolls the same way. It made them seem strange and alien compared to the rest.

Their varied ethnic outfits seemed off-putting to me. My doll was more beautiful than any of the others. I had no doubt in my mind.

This was just the beginning of a childhood full of identifying as somewhere in the middle. I have lived between two cultures, two worlds, and after it’s all said and done, I land somewhere in between. I am neither one thing nor the other. When I look back on my years growing up, I realize that I have lived a double-sided life. I have always placed an important emphasis on family, always finding happiness in mi gente, but I often find it difficult to fully connect with my heritage. Being a third generation Mexicana American, a lot of my heritage and culture has been washed away in the mainstream, white world I was submerged in. I have likewise put a lot of emphasis on friendships, but 12

I often struggle with connecting to a shared to become further and further away from their American identity. I spent a lot of time trying cultural identity. My mother lost her fluency and to feel my way through this precarious limher confidence in her language, and in turn that bo where I am neither fully accepted by the distanced me from our language and culture.

Mexican community nor the American one.

That, paired with the environment I was raised This is an experience that many Ameriin, effectively disconnected me from my heritage can-born minorities can experience when without my immediate recognition. I studied Enthey get lost in the push and pull of acculglish in school, spoke English with my friends and turation. The refusal to assimilate entirely the majority of my family. I didn’t have many Latiand cling to their ethnic identity creates a no friends growing up. All of my best friends were psychological conflict where neither culture truwhite. I immersed myself in Western culture ly feels like home, and we are left in between. and followed my white friends down the path

A major component to the loss of ethof puberty. I became a gringa. “One of them.” nic identity is the loss of language. Language Or at least I tried to. I was in a whitewashed state holds the essence of a culture, a constant of mind when I started to notice America’s foshared connection. In America, the historical cus on image. This is why, in hindsight, that rhetoric towards minorities from other countime at the American Girl Doll store makes my tries is to assimilate to American culture, and blood boil. I had tried to assimilate to the white therefore adopt English as their culture I was surroundlanguage. By doing so, American “When one’s language ed by, as encouraged by culture works to oppress and di- is oppressed, pieces of society, and it altered minish numerous cultures. When that person’s cultural my views on the world. one’s language is oppressed, I embraced the white identity are stripped pieces of that person’s cultural beauty standard. Now, identity are stripped from them. when I think about the from them.”

When I was two years old, dark little Mexican girl I spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house. shedding tears of joy over the white doll that she My mom worked during the day and I spent found so beautiful, my stomach feels sick. I think my mornings and afternoons at my grandma’s back to the colored dolls with white faces and heels, learning from her. As you would with any realize why they looked so strange. Even in the young child, she told me the names of objects attempt to create diversity within the company, as we encountered them throughout our day. they still managed to create the nonwhite dolls Chanclas, uvas, frijoles. She began building the in the image of the white standard of beauty. And structure for my language in Spanish. Soon I idolized this beauty standard of thin, white feaenough, my mom would come to take me home. tures and bright-colored eyes and hair. I saw no There, my language was different. Mom never beauty in my dirty, brown features or my curly spoke much Spanish in the house, aside from a black hair. I strived to be beautiful, but my vifew phrases that stuck to her tongue and have sion of beauty at the time was unattainable. This in turn stuck to my own. When I started attendcaused me to struggle with self-love and acceping school instead of going to Grandma’s, I lost tance, and made me wonder why I wasn’t built most of the Spanish I had begun to cultivate. to look how everyone wanted me to. This is when This is where the thread begins. This sepaI began to slip in between the cracks of a culture ration from language affects generation afthat was absent and a culture that deceived me. ter generation, causing each new generation Sometimes I get too comfortable on either side.

I love spending time with my family. When I’m 13

with them, I feel most connected to my culture. I feel at ease because they love me unconditionally, but I still mourn the disconnect between us. I struggle through a conversation with my grandma or try to keep up with conversation at the dinner table without any subtitles, and I am reminded again. This is a problem I face when trying to connect with other Spanish-speaking people. I have no confidence in my language, and am instantly marked as a non-Spanish speaker the moment I open my mouth. I yearn to make connections with my people, but I have no means of communicating with them. We may share similar experiences, similar values, but the language barriers are too thick, and I cannot break through to find out.

There are times when I have gotten too comfortable on the American borderland as well. I have a very close relationship to my friend’s mother. She is always there for me, helps me in every way she possibly can, and cares for me. She tells me that I am like family to her, another daughter. She tells me she loves me. I believe her, and I let myself become comfortable building a relationship with her.

She is a conservative, white woman in her forties and she is often blatantly racist, occasionally in my presence. It is such a jarring awakening when someone you care about, and who claims to care about you, can talk about your heritage, your people, your identity, in a discriminatory way right in front of you. It’s a devastating reminder that no matter what generation you are, no matter how many people you love and no matter how many people love and accept you, you are still not welcome. You’re still not one of them. There is no changing the brown and the black. There’s no “build-your-own” catalogue in real life.

People may make you feel as though you belong, but there is no denying that you are different. These are the most damaging of setbacks, the ones that send you deep into limbo.

It is always heartbreaking when you cannot connect with someone you love. And

so, I feel as though I am constantly scrambling from borderland to borderland, trying to find my footing. Although I have adopted the language, America’s linguistic imperialism has still dumped me here in my purg atory, my in-between space, where I am neither American nor Mexican enough, and has left me with a pain deep in my bones.

In this in-between, you are constantly reminded that you do not belong on either side. You are constantly pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled, until the two sides are pushing against you so hard that you are stagnant, unable to move or breath or think. You are just there, floating in the space where no one knows what or who you really are, and you cannot tell them, because you don’t know either. I have internalized the borderland conflict to a degree that sometimes I feel like I have been cancelled out and thrown aside, as empty as the space I am floating in.

To the people like me, to the confused, to the frustrated, to the hurt, to the discouraged, to the “lost generation”: You are not nothing. You’re not perpetuating the oppressor by speaking English as your first language. You’re not too alien to make it in this white world. You are a synergy of two cultures.

Together, we’re a subculture of our own, rising from the flames of oppression and assimilation. We are a hybrid generation, beautiful and multicultural and strong. We face many hardships, and often struggle to find our way to this point. But when we make it here, together, and we embrace everyone, no matter how much of this or that they are, we become our own people. We connect with each other. We are American enough; we have adapted and thrived in a world that was not made for us. We are Mexican enough because being Mexican is about blood and soul.

This is how we can turn it back around on the system who put us here—by embracing our dual identity and coming together to create yet another proud Spanish subculture that won’t be moved.

14

stuck molasses hands grasp my body pulling me further into myself hot water can only wash so much away traces linger stuck to my bed extra effort to pull myself away added burden of supporting my own weight (traces) stuck in my sleeping clothes break the bond between skin and sweater leaving me cold and exposed unprotected (traces) stuck to my tongue words fumble and fly too fast too slow too much too little too early too late (traces) hot water, wash my skin molasses hands back again but that doesn’t mean i’ll let them win

DEPRESSION Poem & Painting by Lissa Deonarain

15

I WROTE YOU A POEM BY AMBER Marie “I love you,” he says.

“I miss you so much,” he says.

“So I am asking you, let me love you as a friend.”

And that’s where I hurt.

I can’t believe you would ask me To accept your love in that way half way.

I see it as half love; I see it as half love.

Friendship That says I don’t love you “that way,” But for me “that way” That’s the only way.

For me, friendship Would be to go back And that’s where we differ.

I cannot move forward with you In a way that is not “that way.”

I don’t want your half love.

I want you all the way“That way”.

I love you “that way” All the way.

Why you keep asking is what I don’t understand.

Please stop; Please stop.

I can’t stop thinking about you once you get me started.

My whole day; My whole day.

I want your all the way love; Not your “let’s be friends” love!

We understand each other But not romantically, Love.

And I don’t know how to be understood so fully Unromantically, Love.

How could you ask that of me?

Why do you keep asking?

I deserve whole love.

I want all the way love.

Not your half love, Not your “not right now” love Not your “move on” love Not your “dreams change too” love Not your “we’re so young” love How can you love me and keep asking?

Stop asking!

Please stop.

Please stop.

Please Stop, Love.

There must be some other destination that exists A full place for love with no exits Limbo for me would be to wade in friendship There must be other labels that encompass this experience Because I read your letter and I read in Creating a story for a future you didn’t intend I love you “that way” Don’t make me pretend There is no later for half love Let’s not be friends

16

(Asian) American Dream Photographs by Sasha Braverman

17

18

19

20

Hi, my name is Asayla?

Astella?

Azaleea?

Sally?

No. Let me start over.

Hi, my name is— Wait, what does it mean?

It must be Chinese.

It HAS to be Chinese!

Because you are obviously— Boring.

It doesn’t mean anything special, but I am sure you’re expecting some kind of philosophical crap you read somewhere in an outdated baby name blog.

You’re expecting me to pull out a scroll with ancient Chinese calligraphy spelling my name as a story.

A story about my name is— forgettable.

It’s the same canvas when you walk out of the door and through a crowd.

All you will see is Chinese. Chinese. Chinese. Chinese. Chinese.

And maybe Filipino.

Let me start over.

Hi, my name is…

Mom. I was raised by a Korean mother of Japanese culture, My father was barely there to watch me playing tennis, taking ballet classes, or appreciating my heritage better.

He was too busy laughing at the idea that my name is— Emon.

That is my Chinese name. I think it has to do with water,

which is funny because I am a Pisces but I can’t swim through my parents’ language like waves.

I give in to the salt water, and end up drowning at the bottom of the Yellow Sea and drifting farther and farther away from dry land, where Emon is just another Chinese word on a scroll.

Mom couldn’t find a name for me.

She knew when she bore a boy, she would name him something simple as Alec.

She could have gifted me with Emon or a Korean name to represent my heritage like an eagle badge.

Until she met her doctor.

The doctor’s name is not Asian, but her name was beautiful.

When she said it out loud, I could hear bells ringing, welcoming me to this world.

I think, back then, Mom knew that the doctor’s name would also be mine.

It has no meaning like “Cherry Blossom.”

“White angel.”

Or “The one who let everything change when the Fire nation attacked.”

But the name itself is already meaningful.

It doesn’t need Chinese characters to be pretty.

It doesn’t have to wrap itself with a kimono and greet me warmly with “Ohaiyo.”

No, my name means me.

Let me start over.

Hi My Name Is...

by Asela Lee Kemper 21

I was born of a ray of light Bursting through the golden womb Into the Gilded world Where euphoria was Primordial And radiance the essence of Being The President Whose house is white is my God Earth is brown With oil dripping down her temples And blood seeping out of her Bullet-struck holes She wraps the bodies of the Fallen Ones With gold Each day the gilt peeled back To reveal that The ground I walk on is Red Like the Hands Of my God

Liberation

by Valerie Reynoso

It stained my knees when I Knelt to pray For Him to stop Casting drones on The brown ones Whose worlds aren’t Gilt My prayer wasn’t answered So the ones With the bloody knees Abandoned He whose house is white For the Mother who is Brown And she made the world Reminisce Her golden womb

22

beijing summer

By Angela y. Law

S, what would you think of me now? The sky is vermillion, goldenrod, baby blue and indigo all blended into one—the sunset of my childhood dreams in Auckland. Back then, I would stare out the sundeck for what seemed like hours and feel the smallness and fragility of my existence in the magnificence of the sky. My baba would always summon me back to Earth in time for dinner, a meal I hated since anything that tore me from my private world was despicable. I was born with a tongue, but I wasn’t be allowed to use it or express how I truly felt at dinner and until now. I’m twenty-three. I think S would chuckle and place his hand on my hair or whisper in my ear. He would enjoy being a ghost, I think, unless it was a hungry ghost. It’s no fun to be a famished, half-dead thing restless with desire. Even though his death was an untimely suicide, I still dreamed of him as an angel for months after reading through his accounts on the Internet and painstakingly exploring his last moments captured through his photos on Facebook. He will be seventeen forever. I have outlived him by six years. He would be proud of me. Even though we aren’t related, I still give him an honorary place as a younger brother and he knew that when he was alive too.

We met in a Beijing summer, our mothers trailing behind us, unsure of our rebellious American motives and navigating their lives as middle-aged immigrants with limited English; we completely understood each other without speaking. He nestled his camera with him always, amazed by every little thing from fried scorpions to an eleven-floor corporate bookstore in a shopping district. I was a little in love with him, yet obligated to act as an older sister since I already had a younger brother who was born in the same year as him. Yet I would have given everything, even my blood brother’s place to have S back because I felt that nobody else in the world at that moment, in that summer, understood me so truly, so deeply. And I him. I didn’t have to tell him that I was also queer, also misunderstood and bullied, and spent much of my high school career trying to undo the model minority stereotype by joining varsity sports and the school creative writing journal. I told him my secrets anyway. He told me his. I still have traces of him left in dusty drawers—origami flowers he folded, photos from years ago with his shoe or his back in the corner. I felt free and responsibly content in sharing a taxi with S, listening to him talk to his mother in another dialect, watching him go into a small temple on the great wall. One night when I was having a depressive episode in my dorm, burned out from counseling residents at my RA job, he called me. “I love you,” he 23

said before he hung up. I was worried. Nobody in my life had told me that before since Chinese people don’t say that, and I had already broken up with the Chinese Canadian man I had been seeing a month ago. S spoke his heart, but it had been months since we had interacted in person. I went to sleep a bit shaken.

The next time, he said the magic words again, but with a warning about his life. I tried to counsel him in the short words I can’t recount now, but since then, I have tried to stop blaming myself for his death. If he was scheduled to go, then there was no stopping. There are a million possibilities, but unfortunately those are not what happened. I finally found release and closure when I travelled to China one year later for my anthropology program abroad. Over lunch, I told my Buddhist ayi about it and she said that his spirit was kindred to those of children and other wandering spirits who die young to be released. My Christianity offered S no absolution from the wrong of his death, but his Buddhism gave S a way to be free. I learned about hungry ghosts later, but somehow I don’t think S is a hungry ghost—he would be too gentle, even as a spirit, to curse and haunt people, although if I was in his place, I would probably give evildoers and bullies no peace. I burned incense at a temple for him, but I felt unnatural doing so, just as clumsy and blunt as my tongue felt when trying Mandarin to locals who were confused by my speech. When I walked the streets of Beijing again, the same places we wandered one year ago, I felt weird and empty knowing that he would never again walk here. He probably would not come back even if he were still alive, since he would be working on his college degree. However, there are still traces of him in this bustling gray city full of black heads. We live divided, S and I and people like us, always hovering in a state of desire and hatred, familiar and foreign, country and border. We became kin because we found this beautiful love in a community that formed because we were used to not belonging. I miss him, but I know he is always with me, and I take S boldly with me wherever I go—into churches, temples, streets filled with people who are not us and will never be. S boldly with me wherever I go—into churches, temples, streets filled with people who are not us and will never be.

24

WHITE

by Pola Dobrzynski

The^Women's March on Washington

I had the fortune of spending the first half of my third year of college interning in Washington, DC. It was four months of discovery, of diligence, of chaos and then—hopelessness. It began with strolling down a sunny Pennsylvania Avenue vibing to the seductive sounds of Frank Ocean, but culminated in the election of Donald J. Trump as president of the United States.

Still, upon my return to Boston, I was told that Emerson College was providing the opportunity for me to return to DC to march against the orange monstrosity that had demeaned, threatened, and endangered so many Americans during his race. I immediately secured my seat on the bus. A close friend and DC native, Meg Mowery (Twitter: @bigdaddymeg), warned me of how the Women’s March on Washington might be. She punctuated her admonition to me with a series of poignant tweets:

“HM... IMAGINE IF THE TIME MONEY AND ATTN THE WOMENS MARCH HAS WENT 2 MEANINGFUL CONCRETE UNAMBIGUOUS ACTIVISM! IMAGINE! AND BY AMBIGUOUS I MEAN THE MISSION STATMENT NOW IS ALMOST A CURE ALL 4 WMENS ISSUES W/O ANY ACTUAL PLAN 4 CHANGE ! :) NOT 2 MENTION...ITS NOT ANTI TRUMP RE : NO MATTER WHO U VOTED FOR... so now this DETRACTS FROM MEANINGFUL MOVEMENTS” I blew off her criticism, albeit still slightly apprehensive about the seemingly nebulous goals of the organizers and the fact that the marching route had yet to be released. Part of me still wishes I would have taken her words into consideration more.

I was met with so much inquiry when I returned. “How was the March? What was your experience?” A charged topic making national news, the March seemed to become a body of its own; permitted to be articulated and assessed only by those who had attended. The only answer I could muster was “ I—I’m still glad I went.” Here’s the thing. I believe in the vision of of the Women’s March. The level of organizing and mobilizing it required was impressive. Many organizers, women of color themselves, not only boldly spoke out against the twistedness of our current administration but were able to do so with the coordination of the District of Columbia. I was afforded the incredible opportunity to see and listen to iconic speakers like Angela Davis, Gloria Steinem, and the Mothers of the Movement to name a small sampling. A record turn 30

out of marchers shook establishment politics, and it was powerful to be a part of something that occupied such a space.

That being said, the Women’s March on Washington too loudly echoed the sentiments of white feminism: in which sometimes well-intentioned, often misguided white women inadvertently exclude women of color by not devoting effort to or even acknowledging the specific oppression that women of color endure. For the March, this largely took the form of older second-wave feminists who were ready to show up for the reclamation of their pussies, but who had never appeared to support movements that affected women of color. Not to mention the March’s trans-exclusionary nature with the heavy-handed emphasis on female genitalia. I see the value of fighting for our reproductive rights, but when it is positioned as the only or most important issue, we have a bigger problem.

white feminism: In which sometimes well intentioned, often misguided white women inadvertently exclude women of color by not devoting effort to or even acknowledging the specific oppression that women of color endure.

I saw and heard several disappointing things at the March, most of which can be summed up by an iconic photo taken that day. It displays three white women in the background, seemingly having the time of their lives, smiling and taking selfies. In the foreground in front of the photo sits a black woman, unbothered, holding a sign that says “Don’t forget, white women voted for Trump.” And those statistics don’t lie. According to The New York Times, 53% of white women voted for Trump. And behind every screech that “THIS PUSSY GRABS BACK,” the ideology these women claim to be so firmly against was perpetuated. I saw it every time that a woman of color’s speech was cut off, every time the cheers quickly died down when the audience was asked to participate in a call and response invoking the names of the many black lives lost to police brutality, and every time a mother of color was not let through the crowd while holding her tired baby, lest somebody lose their spot.

Holding our movements accountable must be a conditional part of our support. We must resist, we must organize, but we must not entrust our movements with the same blind faith some have given to our failing administration. We must instead challenge them to improve.

31

Intersecting Your White Feminism by rraine hanson

While my journey to attend the Women’s March in Washington, D.C. earlier this year was a monumental opportunity, it made even more clear to me the true lack of intersectionality in feminism that still persists today.

Nevertheless, the women of color and queer women of color who were there still made their presence known and strikingly so. I wanted to capture it on color film—a medium that was originally created to capture white skin.

I want to help counteract our erasure. medium: fuji tw-300 point & shoot camera, superia x-tra 400 color film

27

28

29

My Eyes Are Up Here Kayla Cho 30

HAIR

31

Creative Director: Alexandria Ellison Photograher: Vivien Liu Make-up: Rija Rehan Models: Rraine Hanson, Eyuel Berhanu & Mariamawit Loulseged

32

stay nappy, stay happy

The policing of black women’s hair needs to end. For those raising black girls­to love themselves and promoting safe spaces for all black women—thank you.

33

34

Tales of a Black Woman's Microaggressions

by Taylor Carlington

Her petite frame was the color of rich caramel with freckles and moles sprinkled all over her body. She had a heart-shaped face with big eyes and a permanent smile that made her very approachable and, by many accounts, attractive. She was often told so. As she was growing up many would fawn over how pretty she was and her father even told her that her looks would help her go far in life.

She was thankful, but she was never actually proud of her blackness. Growing up in a mostly white, upper-class town in Pennsylvania made her standout amongst her white friends and classmates. Many had accepted her as their friend but she still watched herself around them, never wanting them to remember how different they all were.

If they went swimming she would leave before her hair returned to its natural texture, if they played outside she would often retreat to the shade so that her skin wouldn’t get too dark, and if they listened to music she would stray from genres that might stereotype her.

She was always aware she was different, despite her vain attempts of colorblindness. Clarissa knew she should have taken more pride in how God made her but it was hard. Certain phrases would always bring her back to reality.

“You’re not like other black people.”

“You’re actually pretty cute. I haven’t seen too many light black girls like you.”

They were compliments and even if they were backhanded ones, they were still signs of acceptance. She loved that they thought better of her, held her to higher standards, but it also hurt realizing that they still saw her blackness before they saw anything else in her. She prayed that maybe one day they would change and she could be honest with who she was but they had already boxed her in as the rare black commodity who was fairer-skinned and articulate.

The boys she liked often said that she was “pretty for a black girl,” and she never corrected them. She thought she should feel lucky that boys would take interest in her even if it came at the cost of stereotyping and colorism. Most of the boys in her class were nice to her as a classmate when they were younger, but none of them ever liked her romantically the way she liked them. It wasn’t until late in middle school that Andrew, a tall and lanky blond with blue eyes showed interest in her.

He laughed at her jokes and never made her feel out of place for her skin color. Every once in awhile, she would catch him watching her in class or at lunch. She had a strong feeling that he liked her and the prospect of a white boy finally liking her back was exciting and unnerving for Clarissa.

One day, while at a classmate’s pool party, he swam over to where she was sitting at the edge of the pool. He playfully splashed her legs to get her attention.

“Hey, do you want to go sit on the deck?” Andrew said.

She nodded and followed him a few feet from the pool. She wondered if Andrew was going to say that he liked her, ask if they could hang out sometime, or even if he would give her her first kiss.

She tried to hide her excited smile as she looked down at her shriveling toes while Andrew picked at his nails and said, “You know, I like you, you act like me, not like other ones. You act kinda white.”

She was devastated. Clarissa knew what this meant. He liked her because of who she pretended to be around him. Her mother told her there was no such thing as “acting white” but she still 35

understood. Andrew was shocked that as a black girl, she wasn’t a walking stereotype. Because of this, she was still a rare commodity to her white peers. She thought the answers to her prayers of love and acceptance to God would be answered but He only met her with more rejection.

She didn’t know what to say so she murmured a simple, “Thanks.”

Clarissa’s petite frame had been toned from years of field hockey and cross country and the boys in her classes always seemed to take notice. While her charm and kindness always won over her teachers and classmates, many of the males mistook her kindness for flirting. While she became fast friends with many of the boys in school, behind her back many of her female peers made rude comments.

“She arches her back so that her butt and boobs stick out.”

“Why does she walk with her butt out like that?”

“Sorry, but she’s a hoe.”

The sexualization of her body started when she was much younger. It went beyond loved ones and strangers simply saying that she was pretty and would quickly cross into predatory comments.

“You’re gonna have a nice little figure on you.”

“Girl, if only you were a few years older!”

Women of color had been sexualized since the beginning of time, and so much so that many had just gotten used to it. Though men were the ones who were lusting after flesh, she was still young and seen as a child to many. Much like Sarah Baartman in the 1800s, who was exhibited as a sexual sideshow attraction and experiment, she was something to be leered at because of her black features. This was a trend that never ended and Clarissa could feel it in the way she was looked at.

With Clarissa, the white boys in particular at her school choose to treat her as a sexualized object more than a person. She always had faith that by being a “good Christian girl” who was never promiscuous she would be fine, but her actions were not the ones that needed condemning. Her promiscuousness was painted on with her skin color and that stripped away her humanity in the eyes of many.

“Touch the black girl’s butt”; it was a game for them, whoever touched it the most was the winner and she was the pawn.

“It could have been anyone, but it was me just because I was there. I was the curvy black girl,” she tried to convince herself.

She sat there in her tenth grade chemistry class, unable to focus on the lesson on the periodic table. She wondered how long it would last, and when it would stop. Within the hour and a half they had been in class learning about elements and mixing chemicals, her butt had been pinched, grabbed, and hit more than it had ever been in her entire sixteen years living.

“They were just horny, teenaged boys looking for any excuse to touch a girl and avoid class,” she thought.

She was unsure how many times her butt was touched, slapped, or groped, but every time it happened she could tell who did it. Austin was softer, he would never pinch or grab, Graham started off with taps and gradually moved onto slaps, and Gaines would pinch. She stopped turning around because she instantly knew once they made contact.

She later realized that they would never try that with the white girls in the class. Many of them had grown up together, their families were neighbors, friends, and even business partners.

Their pure ivory skin and soft straight hair had made them too pristine to touch in such a disrespectful way. They might have been crude to them in other ways but never sexually violating like they had been to her.

As a black girl, she was a sexual object to them, fun to play with but too beneath them to even befriend; nothing more than a big butt and boobs.

36

Warrior

By Angela Y. Law When the sun kisses me I savour it I am beginning to understand how bridges work When I was younger I blushed under sun-hats and umbrellas Shades darker than my mama The sun was not kind to me because I did not love it Layers of SPF and creams later I could not resurrect the whitegirl underneath I’m ashamed she breathed under my skin Sharing my bowl and my teddies Even learned how to use chopsticks She didn’t see herself in Mulan, either There’s a difference between Disney and the actual legend of Fa Mulan Warrior like me Strong and wild Unfit for any man She rides fierce under the sun The difference is, she saved her country And I cannot find mine So I cross borders and backs and call it diaspora Embrace the unknown between black and white Try to breathe life into what is lost

37

Directed by Pola Dobrzynski | Makeup by Lissa Deonarain | Photography by Morgan Sung

CONFLICT // COHESION Being a woman of color presents unique and daily challenges, and identity is no exception. With the main photoshoot for this issue, we sought to personify the struggle of navigating identities that don’t always feel cohesive. For women of color, it is nearly impossible to be seen at all— much less on the border of what feels like two opposing identities.

We wanted to highlight women of color who occupy multiple spaces: whether that be in the workplace and the dance floor, domestic and international areas, or queer and spiritual existences.

Duality prevails in us, and we owe it to ourselves to relish in it.

38

39

Model: Ayo Xavier

40

Model: Allie Martinez

41

42

43

Models: Sandra Bustamante & Indigo Asim

44

45

Untitled

By Caroline Rodriguez

I try to build Fences Between the corners Of my brain To focus on One trouble at a time Find a place to start If I were just a woman I’d worry about uninvited looks Becoming uninvited touch, Men with eyes that Drag too slowly over my body Whose crooked fingers Find their way Under skirts like a Parasite, digging its way Under your skin.

If I were just Latino I’d worry about the last name Branded on every ID I own A beauty of Sounds and syllables I’m ashamed to admit Sometimes I wish I could Scrub away with bleach To detract the Slurs it invites

If I were just bisexual I’d worry about me Two years ago, Or someone very close, Revealing myself to Friends and lovers alike.

About the day when That statistical depression Opens the veins in my wrists Like flowers Blooming Bright red.

I try to build fences Within myself But my worries chew holes In the chainlink And find their way All mixed up within each other As inseparable As grains of sand.

46

The Other Side (of the Story)

A Week in the Border Town of El Paso

By Swetha Amaresan 47

Borders. To me, it’s a softer word that basically means a division between the self and a proclaimed “other.” The difference between what is accepted and embraced and what is pushed away. I always knew a border was a physical boundary, but I never understood before that a border was also a mental boundary.

When I landed in El Paso, Texas on March 4, 2017 to participate in Emerson College’s Alternative Spring Break program, I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I saw bright sunlight streaming through large, swaying palm trees. I saw gorgeous, rustic homes and grassless lawns. I saw the beauty in the community, the diversity in families and tongues. What I didn’t immediately notice, however, was the border struggle happening behind closed doors.

As the week’s activities and educational sessions began, it was shocking to hear about the suffering that migrant farm workers are experiencing today. Migrant workers from Juárez work in El Paso, getting paid sixty-five cents for every trashcan-sized bucket of red chilis they pick. These workers are so underpaid that they have to spend their nights sleeping on the floor of El Centro de los Trabajadores Agrícolas Fronterizos, the farmer’s union in El Paso. Female workers have it even harder, getting paid even less and often getting abused by their employers. Why is it that the border that separates us from the beautiful nation of Mexico is so much more defined than the border that separates what is ethical and what is not?

Diocesan Migrant and Refugee Services (DMRS) is one organization that is doing its best to create more ethical change. This organization offers free or low-cost immigration services to individuals hoping to immigrate to the US. It’s interesting that a big argument that people against immigration often have is, “Why don’t ‘they’ just come over legally?” Well, according to the DMRS, legal immigration can separate families. It can take several years; with the time it can take to apply, have the application processed, and wait in line to actually receive residency, the legal immigration process can take an outrageous and unrealistic 115 years. Lastly, legal immigration only prioritizes a select few people and requires others to wait. Prioritized immigrants are unmarried children under twenty-one, spouses, and parents of United States citizens. According to a chart we received from DMRS, siblings of US citizens residing in the Philippines who only started being processed last month were petitioned for on June 22, 1993. Basically, it will take about 24 years for those people to get the proper documentation to get a VISA to enter the US. Even people seeking asylum often have to wait in long lines in order to escape the threats they are facing in their homelands.

But, why? Why are we preventing so many people from coming to our nation? The only way to be guaranteed a more timely process is if you are a priority family member of a US citizen or for extreme conditions. This includes extenuating medical conditions, domestic violence, crime, or serious threat based on demographics.

Even so, these conditions often require police reports, heavy interviewing, a lack of criminal background, and an immediate family member who is a US citizen or legal permanent resident, among other things. If people try to come here illegally, they risk being caught, detained, 48

and deported. If they try to come here legally, they may have to wait anywhere from twenty years to a lifetime. We are pushing away people who are the backbone of our nation. We can boast about the colors and diversity that our nation has produced, but this richness stems from the beautiful cultures that immigrants have incorporated into American culture. It’s something to consider while we munch on our tacos and quesadillas that were introduced to our nation courtesy of Mexican influences.

An encounter with Border Control was one of the hardest things we had to face during our week in El Paso. The two Border Control officers giving the presentation were of Mexican descent.

These are people whose grandparents immigrated to El Paso from Mexico. I wonder how they are able to stand at the border and ward off migrants when they are aware that their own ancestors were granted acceptance. According to the presentation, approximately 95 percent of immigrants at the El Paso border are economic migrants who are looking for work and a better life, while only about 5 percent are criminals involved with human smuggling and drug trafficking. Despite knowing this information, the argument for turning away undocumented immigrants is still that these immigrants could be participating in these crimes. If caught by Border Control, they are checked for weapons, stripped of their personal belongings, and detained in immigration camps to await their inevitable deportations. The most frustrating part is that Border Control knows that a big reason behind undocumented immigration is naivety; a lot of people aren’t properly informed about what documentation is needed, or are told that they won’t qualify for legal immigration when they potentially could. Although Border Control stresses this naivety, they still detain and deport individuals who were just given incorrect information, and they have made no efforts to send officers into Juárez to educate people on what they should be doing. It’s an endless, heart-wrenching cycle. I wonder if these officers ever stop and think, “Who am I really protecting, and who is the real enemy here?” We are told again and again that the enemy is the “other,” the people of different races and nationalities who speak different languages or wear different clothes. But there is no other. There are just humans on both sides.

And yet, we continue to put up borders against humans. When we visited the Annunciation House, an emergency shelter for immigrants, I came to the frightening realization that the barriers that people have to face when arriving to our nation don’t just end at the physical “border.” What kind of a fulfilling life is it when families are released from immigration detention camps, just to be put into a shelter where the volunteer who led our tour barely makes an effort to speak their language, doesn’t care about their culture, and continually dehumanizes them? How can a severe lack of space, healthy and edible food, and warmth and understanding from staff be justified? Even when these families overcome the struggles of crossing the border and making it to the United States, these challenges don’t cease to exist.

49 Photo by Cheng Jin

The “border” is an idea, rather than a mere physical barrier; these immigrants are still at the mercy of individuals who exercise power over their lives and don’t respect them. The trials they face after arriving here are merely continuations of the trials they faced at this unwelcoming border that we have constructed.

However, anger and frustration can only get us so far in pursuing the end to this problem.

It comes down to what we are willing to do to create the change that is necessary. As Carlos Marentes, the Director at El Centro de los Trabajadores Agrícolas Fronterizos, said in his presentation to our group, “If you want to see change, you have to change first.” Every time we think about purchasing a bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce from Bruce Foods, we can consider the ethical practices behind the making of it. We can help create a world of oppression-free food, simply by making the decision to purchase a product from a company that values ethical behavior. And we can create a world of welcoming immigration, diversity, and inclusion by pulling down the fences and walls, speaking up for what we believe in, and seeing “others” for what they actually are: humans, just like us. On the flip side, though, it’s difficult to know how far change can go before it ends up harming people in the process. Would a boycott of unethical brands just end up hurting the migrant workers at the bottom of the hierarchy by decreasing their pay? Would the decision to help innocent, economic immigrants enter the US easier also help criminals enter the US easier? I think what matters the most, though, is to have this active mindset for wanting to pursue change. We don’t have all the answers now, but even wanting to make these decisions is a step in the right direction.

It’s impossible to describe that feeling when we drove up to the border of El Paso and Juárez and saw metal-wired fences running down for miles. I walked up to it slowly, unsure. I placed my hand against the cold, rusted metal and looked through the tiny squares to see colorful, vibrant villages full of life. I will never understand that fence, and I will never understand why Mr. Trump wants to invest billions of dollars in building an even higher, opaque wall. I can’t imagine what it would be like to walk up to that border again and not be able to get a glimpse of the land beyond.

We have let our stereotypes come so far that we have placed man-made divisions in what nature meant to be one land mass. We have ripped families apart, built fences, turned away humans in pain, all to preserve what we claim is the land of the free and the home of the brave. Who are we to decide who is and isn’t worthy of migrating to the United States, when the majority of our citizens are either immigrants themselves or have immigration in their blood? The fight for justice is slow and challenging, but it is a necessity. At the Annunciation House, there was a quote on the wall that read, “No inporta de que País Somos Todos Tenemos Los Mismas Derechos,” which translates to, “It doesn’t matter what country you are from, we all have the same rights.” We have the power to pave the way to a brighter future in which our roots run deeper than any borders.

50

51

by Shawnie Wen and Maddy Wiryo

On Whiteness

by Vasantha Sambamurti

A white woman dropped a packet of beans in the grocery store. They fell at her feet and spread like locusts. A perfect, green-husk circle. I had the mind to run and help her, but this thought was deflected by the impulse to give her space. I didn’t want to infiltrate a circle that had already become so fraught. She had to process so much; the lost beans, the plastic bag. Usually, I wouldn’t care so much. But I didn’t only read her as just a white woman—she was a nice white woman. Her hair was the color of dates, cinched at the back of her head with a clip. I could see her flyaways, untamed. She didn’t pretend to be the type of woman who could make a mess a beautiful thing. In my eye, this made her human; it made her easier to help. But I had moved too much that day. Twenty minutes prior, a white woman had reached for a cart at my side, so I made myself scarce to spare her the sight of me. It was at the fish-tank entrance, where everyone rotated in and out, and peered at each other without glass, before getting drawn into the portal of the store. Many people had the chance to look at me, as I often grocery shopped with my mother and she took her time choosing a cart. We were a strange shade for the South. Her skin lighter than mine, but her difference became clear when she spoke— a telltale accent. I helped her find okra and fruit. When a white woman passed me a box of strawberries, I flinched in surprise because I couldn’t fathom that she would go to such lengths for me. “Thank you! So much,” I told her and she murmured something sweet; there was no reason to believe she was anything but kind. She seemed untouched by what I so strongly lived—a gift of recognition that was conferred by touch.

There are different ways to be seen in white space; as the armrest, the tired couch, the discussion piece at the dinner table. Always, I feel an ancestral need to accommodate, to make space. It’s a germ that charms people. A white woman will ask me where I am from and I will tell her a history that isn’t mine. She will ask me to get a pastry from behind the glass at a café and I’ll sweat to do it for her, precise in the movement of my hand and the firmness with which I pick it up. She must know that I am swift, that I listen—that I am not a larger complication than I am purported to be. Whiteness commands space. And I know this is not the conscious fault of the white woman. But I wonder, how largely, it is mine.

52

53

Like Like Like Like Like Like Like Like

Rosa Maya Harriet Sojourner Alice Nina Cheryl Josephine

Like Like Like Like Like Like Like Like

Merle Nellie Yu r i Jhumpa Maxine Grace Anna Kamakahukilani

Like Like Like Like Like Like Like Like

Nan’yehi To y p u r i n a Buffy Winona Joy Shoni Anne Liliuokalani

Like Like Like Like Like Like Like Like

Eva Joan Selena Gloria Sandra Cherríe Frida Claribel

Angela Y Law. Inspired by a T-shirt design by Thugz Maison.

54