FLAWLESS
MAG ISSUE 5 • FALL 2017
THE BRAVE ISSUE
Contributors Editor in Chief Lucie Pereira
Design Team
Anahita Padmanabhan Lissa Deonarain
Bianca Blas Lissa Deonarain Elizabeth Martin Skylar Phillips Rija Rehan
Content Team
Layout Team
Assistant Editors
Jalyn Cox Ilina Ghosh Maysoon Khan Sydney Logan Jacqueline Menjivar Anahita Padmanabhan Rija Rehan Caroline Rodriguez
Bianca Blas Jalyn Cox Lissa Deonarain Maysoon Khan Vivien Liu Sydney Logan Elizabeth Martin Jacqueline Menjivar Anahita Padmanabhan Lucie Pereira
Cover
Models Deborah Afolayan Raz Moayed Caroline Rodriguez Photographer Vivien Liu Directors Lissa Deonarain Vivien Liu Design Sabrina Ortiz
Flawless Brown is a sisterhood and artist collective 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 2017-2018 Lissa Deonarain President
Sydney Rae Chin Chair of Sisterhood
Lucie Pereira Chair of Flawless Writes
Aliyah Browne Vice President
Issel Solano-Sanchez Chair of Flawless Stage
Taylor Carlington Chair of Marketing
Samantha Schechter Amber McCleese Secretary Chair of Flawless Pictures
Flawless Brown
Jasmine Williams Treasurer
flawlessbrown.com | facebook.com/FlawlessBrownEC contact@flawlessbrown.com | @flawlessbrownec on Instagram
Letter From the Editor This October, several of my Flawless Brown sisters and I started talking about a movement. We talked about injustice, microaggressions, tokenism, institutional racism – things that we had all experienced, things that we couldn’t sit by and accept. When we marched with hundreds of fellow students across our campus, to speak to our college’s faculty assembly and demand change, I didn’t quite feel brave or radical. I felt like I was doing something so necessary that it was obvious, and long overdue. And yet, I felt the deepest admiration for the bravery of everyone around me. To speak at all, when it could be so much easier not to, is brave. To write and create art grounded in one’s identity as a woman of color, when it would be so much easier to assimilate and conform, is an act of incredible bravery. I’m struck by this whenever I see my sisters take the stage, pick up a camera, or read a poem. It’s hard to recognize bravery in yourself, especially when it manifests as action that feels necessary, not willful. I wonder, if I feel like art or activism is not something I’ve consciously chosen, does it really count as brave? I don’t know if I could ever turn my back on this work. But maybe there’s bravery in following the path you’re meant to follow, being your authentic self, and seeking truth in any way you know how. Thank you to my sisters, especially to my amazing assistant editors Lissa Deonarain and Anahita Padmanabhan, for being some of the most fearless people I know. Thanks as always to all who contributed to Flawless Mag: The Brave Issue. Your courage in telling your story does not go unnoticed. And lastly, thanks to all who support Flawless Brown and the voices of women of color, who make us feel that the work and the risk of speaking truth is worthwhile. Please enjoy this issue of Flawless Mag. May it inspire you to do something daring, whatever that might be.
With love, Lucie Pereira “I don’t think I am brave,” was a sentiment that frequented our discussions around our theme this semester. However, I have seen bravery in every member and every contributor. We marched together, we protested together, we carved out a space where we can be ourselves together. We demanded that our voices be heard and that our stories be shared. I am so proud of the work that all my sisters have put into this magazine. I know it wasn’t the easiest and there were days where you didn’t want to show up. But you did. You all came through and created something beautiful and powerful. I am so honored to have so many wonderful women be brave, speak their minds, share their stories even when it hurt, and spread love throughout these pages for each other and our readers. You are all brave, and don’t ever doubt that. Thank you to our fearless leader, Lucie Pereira, for always being there for us. You are constantly inspiring us to do better and be bolder, and you never stop fighting for us to have a space at this school and to have our voices heard. Thank you to Lissa Deonarain for keeping Flawless together, for showing up without a fail, and for also fighting every day for us. You both keep us going and lift us up when we feel lost. You constantly remind us of why we want to be a part of this sisterhood. We sometimes forget that art is brave and expression is daring. This magazine is a testament to that type of bravery. I hope that you all find the words and art in this magazine comforting, healing, and inspiring, just as I do.
Sincerely, Anahita Padmanabhan
TABLE OF 1 GENERATIONS Sydney Logan | Poem 2 SHEDDING Jaleeca Yancy | Art 3
MADRE DIME Cassandra Martinez | Poem
4
BIBI ATABEY Valerie Reynoso | Art
5
ODE TO MY GRANDMOTHER // UNA ODA A MI ABUELA Caroline Rodriguez | Poem with photos from Flawless Brown
8
WHEN I SHOWED MY MOTHER MY FUTURE COLLEGE Yusra Ahmed | Poem
9
A PRACTICE IN SELF-LOVE AND DEFIANCE Nydia Hartono | Art
11
THE CUT Annie Hinh | Short Story
13
BIG HAIR Meriam Raouf | Art
14
50 SHADES OF BRAVE Bethany Owens | Photo Series
20
MIXED GIRL Jalyn Cox | Essay
21
THE BROWN IN US Samantha Jablonsky | Poem
22
THE SUN Anahita Padmanabhan | Essay
23
THE BRAVE SHOOT Flawless Writes | Photoshoot
CONTENTS 31
WEAR IT LIKE ARMOR Raz Moayed | Essay
35
HIGUAYAGUA and WAKUWA KISKEYA Valerie Reynoso | Photos
36 ANACAONA Valerie Reynoso | Poem 37
STRANGE PEARL Vasantha Sambamurti | Essay
38 JAPAN Jalyn Cox | Photo Series 39 UNTITLED Sydney Logan | Poem 40 #ALLLIVESMATTER Meriam Raouf | Art 41
THE OTHER DAY Amber Hood | Poem (content warning: sexual assault)
43 SCARS Lissa Deonarain | Photo Essay (content warning: self-harm) 45
RACISM IN BOSTON: WHAT’S NEW? Maysoon Khan | Essay
48 BOUDOIR Vivien Liu | Photo Series 53
THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD Lissa Deonarain | Poem
54
SOMETIMES IT SNEAKS UP ON YOU Gabi Cohen | Comic
Generations by Sydney Logan “where did you get your strength from?� they ask me, genuine curiosity in their eyes. i tell them i get it from my mother, who had to claw her way through a sea of doubt and disbelief to get her hands on a lab coat and she got her strength from her mother, who swam to this country on the back of her sister and the current of dreams and she got her strength from her mother, who had to find a reason to take a chance all on her own so you see my strength has origin buried deep in the sands of an island that was forged by strong women and remembered by their daughters
1
Shedding
by Jaleeca Yancy
2
Madre dime... by Cassandra Martinez
Mama! escúchame i feel like the world is ending i tried to write something about my island and then another gunman tore the world apart for us to kneel in Sin City, though at this point we’ve all sinned and i don’t know what it is to be good anymore except maybe not taking up a knife or a gun, i feel like I’m drowning in my anxieties and helplessness while mi gente se ahogan, crying out to a country that stole them.
Mother! Borinquen is an island 100 miles across her flag drips black in mourning (ni ingles ni español me dan las palabras que necesito) her people are brown and black and speak another tongue and so her people are condemned to press their lips to holy water from a dirty creek and sit in darkness amongst the stars and candlelight Mama! the medicine is running out the hospitals are closed and our crops are gone Mama! the shores are crumbling away and the Caribbean won’t sing (My Mother, why can’t i just write it as plain and ugly as it is? this is ugly, it is struggle, it is horrific, but maybe i am trying to grant some beauty to the people our fucking president doesn’t see as human) Mama the night i penned this i lit a candle for a saint i found in the basement baptized and scrubbed her to rid her of dirt, though there are still cracks in her veil and half her prayer is wiped away i lit a candle and prayed with the shaky cadence of a Catholic turned atheist turned agnostic turned into desperate and helpless and begging with shaking hands for an island that was colonized to be saved, for the bodies martyred before their time for the suffering to end we have endured so much Mama, please let us be brave again. 3
Bibi Atabey
by Valerie Reynoso 4
Ode to my Grandmother // Una Oda a mi Abuela Caroline Rodriguez
Who gathered herself into a Ball of feathers Who stepped on a mountain and Declared it her life Who was All the beauty of Volcanes y mariposas Whose hands were made of Healing, smelled like Roses and Vick’s Vaporub Para la fuerza, ella Hizo todos Who left her country With only her 17 years of Experience Quien salió las montañas En el aire Into a storm of Whiteness that Stung her face as it flew Past, mid-january chicago With all it’s Ice and cold and a Flatness that seemed to Go on forever
5
Who made a home out of Glass coke bottles and Prayer candles of La Virgen Arroz con frijoles y El color rojo Rosaries and Telenovelas Who worked her hands Until they bled but Never lost the scent of Roses Or Vick’s
Who moved a man like a Mountain, 2866 miles And grew love from The space in between Fingers now made of Spiderwebs Voice soft after Years of yelling To make herself heard
6
Shorter than She always seemed, Loudness no longer Supplying that Extra height but Her voice never Trembles, and her Laugh could still Carry over oceans
An ode to my Grandmother Who created Mountains Out of herself // Una oda a mi Abuela Quien creó Montañas Fuera de sí misma 7
When I Showed My Mother My Future College By Yusra Ahmed
When I showed my mother my future college she took one look and said we look nothing like them. It isn’t a secret when you look at my face My body and when you look at me I am not white That white man I saw on the train did not see me as the same as him And that white lady who runs on the beach in the morning She crosses the street where the water doesn’t reach Because she does not see us as one and the same So when they look at me and I look at them we do not see one another’s reflections But when I showed my mother my future college she took one look and said we look nothing like them We weren’t allowed into the people of color introductory seminar but even I could tell you we looked nothing like them But we checked the same box We are both numbers in the U.S. Census under bold letters: Caucasian I am the same as the Chapel Hill shooter I am the same as the KKK wizard I am the same as the lady hurling terrorist out her car window I am not the same Because when I showed my mother my future college she took one look and said we are nothing like them Same box Different privilege Too many war lines drawn Too many ISIS associations Too many misconceptions on sharia I am randomly selected at airports Have my rights and privacy stripped by the Patriot Act But can’t get my own label on a college app But within me I understand how this came to be How my North African heritage and Amazigh ties became Arab which then became French only to return to a country with a broken backbone How we spent 150 years fighting for our tongues to go back to rolling our r’s and pronouncing our kha’s How the logic has stuck that my ethnicity has been so watered down that you can’t tell the white imperialists from those being imperialized On campus, there is a Middle Eastern and North African museum A museum lined with artifacts and jewels from my Amazigh ancestors Pottery and metal trinkets carefully carved and crafted All lined up and put out for display All behind a glass wall I will never be able to reach But when I showed my mother my future college she took one look and said Look what they have stolen from us
8
A Practice in Self Love and Defiance by Nydia Hartono
1. You cannot change your mother’s mind, but speak her language and try your best to help her understand 2. Being raised on beauty and not worth leaves you starving but that doesn’t mean you can’t feed yourself what you crave from others 3. Forgiving your mother for all the times she tried to change you is one of the hardest things to do but is precursory to healing 4. No one can take away the agency you have over your own body
9
10
The Cut
by Annie Hinh
Christine tapped the scissors against the bathroom counter. The click click click of metal on granite echoed like a metronome, mimicking the nervous beating of her heart. She bit her lip, eyes flickering between the scissors and her reflection in the mirror. As she tilted her head slightly, she watched the way her long, dark curtain of hair shifted with the movement. It flowed down her back, reaching past her waist. She couldn’t remember when was the last time she had anything more than a trim. And even then, her mother was always careful never to cut off more than an inch or two. She’d wanted short hair for a while. Sure, people complimented her on her long hair all the time and it’s nice, don’t get her wrong. But as she’d gotten older, Christine had watched all of her friends go through multiple hair transformations and phases. From long brown hair to curly, pink pixie cut or a blue bob or just a mess of technicolor streaked layers, her friends seemed to have gone through it all. It was almost a rite of passage, to have dramatic changes with your hair as you go through those awkward teen years. Christine bitterly tugged on a strand of hair. She had to miss that rite. Her mother never let her have control over what she looked like. Not that Christine asked for control very much. She’d seen the way her mother sneered over her friends’ haircuts.
11
“Like a boy,” she’d hiss, “What a waste of a pretty girl.” As a kid, she was scared. Now, she was scared. What if her mother didn’t think she was pretty anymore? She didn’t want her mother to hate her. If Christine cut her hair, would her mother hate her? That’s what it seemed like sometimes. Christine took a deep breath. Then another. She was almost 18. Her mother couldn’t control her forever. No looking back, she thought as she grabbed a handful of her hair. Bringing the scissors up to her chin, she closed her eyes. One more deep breath, and snip! The tendrils floated to the ground, harmless for all the grief they’d given her over the years. Christine stared wide-eyed at them, her heart thumping in her chest. She looked up at the mirror at her now uneven hair. The cut side curling into her chin as the other side hung past the mirror’s edge. The juxtaposition of length sent a shiver down her spine. With shaking hands, she repeated the movement, cutting off more and more hair and adding to the growing pile at her feet. With a final snip, the last long strand fell. And she smiled.
12
B I G
By Meriam 13
raouf
H A I R
50 Shades of Brave
A Photo Series by Bethany Owens
14
Tiara “I found my bravery through faith and by saying ‘I love myself’ every day. Admire who you are even in your worst moments. Understand you have your own purpose and that’s enough.”
Pauline “I know I’m brave because I have been forced to view people objectifying me in an empathetic and loving way. I continue to be myself even if others don’t appreciate me and what I represent. If you represent anything, there will always be people against it, and that’s okay because you can still be brave and accept yourself.”
15
Jeru “I’ve battled masculinity norms without fear of being scrutinized by male superiors in the community. It’s especially difficult for a black man because there seems to be a certain way people expect them to act. It’s a lot harder to be yourself when you’re dealing with standards you didn’t create.”
Alanna “I’m not afraid to be in solitude. Whether that’s alone in my perspective, or physical being. I’m usually the only black woman in my class and it helps me be more confident and true to myself, as well as to my thoughts and beliefs.”
16
Andrew “Everything around me wants me to be weak and fearful. I like to do the things that most people won’t or can’t do, showing that there can be love amongst strangers.”
Alfonso “I have big dreams. It won’t be easy for me as a person of color, so I will definitely have to work hard and prove I can do it. I am pursuing screenwriting because I want to create representation for people of color, particularly Asians. One day I will see myself represented on the big screen.”
17
Sparticus “I grew up under the impression that Asian men were supposed to have “sophisticated” titles, such as doctors and lawyers. When I decided to become an artist, I realized we do have the potential to be in that “sophisticated” category no matter what field we go in, it just depends on how we present it. As a graphic designer, I want to make an impact with my work, giving people a voice and bringing them together.”
Angel “I try to be as unapologetic as possible. I acknowledge what society expects of me as both an an individual and a person of color, but if it’s different from who I am I won’t do it. Take time to know yourself and your worth.”
18
Raz “I like to talk about my culture. I think it’s important to see beauty in the things that people think are scary.”
Bethany “I wake up and despite what society says I call myself flawless and beautiful. Then, I strut out the door like the world is mine, because I don’t believe it is, I know it is.”
19
Mixed Girl by Jalyn Cox On the occasions I am only with one of my parents out to dinner, a waiter or waitress will stop and ask my siblings and me, “Where are you adopted from?” When we are with our mother, she yells at the waiter, “These are my children! I suffered nine months each for them to come out of me!” When we are with our father, he will usually joke and ask the waiter or waitress where they think my siblings and I are from. I have gotten a large range of different answers. I have heard Hawaiian, Thai, Filipino, almost every country in South America, and many other random mixes of what people see me as. When I tell people that I am half-white half-black, some people proceed to tell me how they don’t “see it.” What I want to answer with is, “Did I ask?” but I usually just respond with a simple, “A lot of people say that.” What people do not understand is that when they are saying “I do not see it” or “You don’t look black at all” or the range of what I find to be very offensive comments, they are denying me a piece of my identity that I feel so strongly. A lot of how I identify myself has to do with my family history. My brother is Joseph Lloyd Cox V, and my father is Joseph Lloyd Cox IV. The line continues back until Joseph Lloyd Cox I. He was the product of a white slave owner and one of his slaves. When people look at me, they do not see the history I carry within my bones. They do not see how my family has struggled to get to where they are. They don’t see my father going to Ellis Island in search of his family history and finding his ancestors under Jacob Cox’s list of ownership. They do not even see how my parents had to get married on a public beach because many people turned them away for being an interracial couple. People only see a little light skin girl they can’t identify except for a fact that she is not white.
When I was younger, it would really bother me how much I didn’t look like either of my parents. I never looked like an aunt, a long-lost cousin, or a great great grandmother on either side. I could barely even pick out features of myself that were either my mother’s or father’s. My complexion was completely a mix. My eyes were a mix. My hair was a mix. Everything I could find was a complete mix of each parent. The best feeling in the world is still when someone tells me, “You look like your mom” or “You look like your dad.” I feel like it is hard for a lot of biracial people to fully give themselves to an individual identity because if they pinpoint themselves to one group, they are denying a piece of their identity. I think the reason why I love Flawless Brown so much is that I can be fully, completely myself: a woman of color. What I have noticed is that even though people will ask me, “What are you?” and I answer them, white people will never see me as white, and I will always be the “half black girl.” The thing is, I have no problem with that. They aren’t wrong. I am half black…but I am also half white too. Many people find the need to ask about my ethnicity because they are curious. What does bother me is that I am a whole lot of other adjectives that people do not feel the need to ask about. No matter where I am in the world, people will see me how they want to see me. And that is the truth for most women of color. Even if it has nothing to do with one’s ethnicity, people will see women of color as they wish to see them. Assumptions are made every single day not only because we are women, but because we are women of color. We must be brave and never back down. Never allow the reflections of how people see you dictate how you see yourself. 20
The Brown in Us by Samantha Jablonsky My waistline is getting bigger Never had I thought this would be one of the reasons you would find me unattractive and reconsider I guess I forgot as a West Indian woman, that our ancestors thrived on being thicker, healthier, fuller My melanin has run out of space to fit into my skin I’m constantly moving, trying to find a new place to begin Maybe my waistline expands with every step I take like a map, a map to get me to where I need to be, every lap to lead to self recovery... I love myself and myself loves me. My melanin knows how to be alone and stand out in a crowd of desolate white. That in itself is beautiful, I don’t need to prove it to myself, argue or fight. I shall teach this knowledge to my sisters around me, young and old, that no matter how much people try to bring us down, we will not give up, give in or enfold Just because wrong we were told
de rs
Our melanin protects us from the harsh sun rays and helps us blend in With all our strength and power, the map we make will make us win I will teach and preach happiness and love These things are more powerful than anything I’ve seen it and so have all the great ones You too darling can be great, you already are. Your melanin has made you a star.
21
yC to b Pho
n Sa ke lar
When she was young, she was the sun. She was bright and warm. She was pure energy. She was unafraid, because what could the sun ever fear? Her dad likes to tell stories of what she was like when she was younger. He recounts the stories of trips to India when she was a child. There’s one he loves to tell. Her family went to India and visited a temple. It was summertime and the ground was stone, absorbing all the sun’s rays. The family was barefoot, walking around. The girl’s older brother and mother carefully navigated the hot floor. The girl was not careful. She hiked up her lehenga skirt, grabbed her dad’s hand, and ran. She wasn’t worried. She was never worried when she was younger. She chased after her brother wherever he went. They built an adventure course out of their swing set, and she would race him across the swings and the slide and around their house. She never thought she couldn’t beat him. When she was younger there wasn’t a dare she would refuse. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t try. She wanted to do it all. She wanted to be it all.
When a star dies it takes a long time to notice. The girl didn’t know when the sun started to fade inside of her. It took a long time for her to notice it too. As she grew up she became more cautious. She was told to be quieter, to be smaller, to fear being bold. She tried to hide the sun in her, bring less attention to herself. She started to forget what it was like to be bold and brave. She started to be scared. But before the light could go out, and the energy was all gone, the girl remembered what it was like to be brave. Now she remembers herself, younger, running unafraid. She remembers herself boldly following her brother into an unknown alley just to find a lost tennis ball. She remembers always speaking her mind, always talking, never trying to be quiet. She remembers when she didn’t limit herself. She remembers when she thought she was capable of anything, and she could do everything. And as she remembers that girl, the light inside of her grows again. It’s not quite the same as it used to be, but then again neither is she. But slowly she’s remembering to be unafraid. To be pure energy. She is remembering how to be warm and bright. Slowly she is remembering she is the sun.
The Sun By Anahita Padmanabhan 22
B BO O LL D D Makeup and Creative Direction by Lissa Deonarain Photography and Model Direction by Vivien Liu
23
MODELS Elizabeth Martin, Jalissa Evora
Maysoon Khan, Taylor Carlington
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
WEAR IT LIKE
ARMOR by Raz Moayed
31
I wish I took more pride in this. 1.
I want to say it’s because I don’t technically see eye to eye with some of the customs and traditions, but really it’s just because it’s scary to be different.
2.
Growing up, there was no choice in whether or not I could partake, I just had to. My parents would always say, “It’s who you are,” and I would just go along with it.
3. Still, I would never admit I was a minority; once I actually fought with a teacher of mine after an in-class activity shed some light that I go through more of a struggle in life than I would ever let on. a. Don’t tell them that my dad gets picked to be randomly searched 9 out of 9 times that we go through TSA. b. Don’t mention that technically I’m not allowed to lose my virginity unless it’s with my husband on our wedding night. c. Don’t tell my friends at school I like kabob more than I will ever like pizza. d. Don’t tell them I’m from the Middle East. 4. In the seventh grade, the day after the world was told that Osama Bin Laden had been brought to justice, a kid in my grade asked me if I was sad that “my uncle” had died. a. As if I wasn’t as heartbroken and devastated learning about 9/11. b.
As if because I’m from the same region as the notorious villain I would mourn for him.
c.
As if I hadn’t been crying tears of joy 12 hours earlier when my mom brought me into the living room to watch President Obama’s speech. None of that mattered.
5.
I am Persian. I am from the Middle East. That has to mean I’m a terrorist. I ran into the bathroom crying after he had said that to me, and what followed was much much worse.
32
a. b.
33
My teacher, the school counselor, two of my friends, and a girl who was already in the restroom, proceeded to tell me that I shouldn’t worry about it. That I shouldn’t take his words to heart, that it wasn’t true and because I knew that, it shouldn’t have mattered. The look on their faces, this wallowing pity, followed me throughout the day as word spread about what was said to me in gym class, on faces that had no idea about the beauty or grace that comes with this identity of being Persian. Instead, all they saw was this sad Middle Eastern girl who was picked on because she was born into a Middle Eastern family. No one had thought to question the boy. He never got anything for it, to be completely honest, just a slap on the wrist. And he continued to be his happy-go-lucky white self. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that the boy had just used a stereotype, and instead of teaching him that it is wrong, they simply felt bad for me; as if being from the Middle East was a burden for me.
One day after my morning class, a friend of mine decided that we needed to hang out, do whatever, be wherever, just be together. So as any lucky Emerson College student would, we headed towards the Common. Not even two minutes into our walk he starts, “Tell me about yourself, I want to know the ‘Raz’ outside of the classroom.” “There isn’t really much of a difference.” “No… there is.” “Why do you say that?” “Because in class you call yourself a ‘white girl,’ but clearly you are not white.” That question brought me to a halt, I wasn’t expecting to get so personal so fast, let alone speak of something that was so deep-rooted into my subconscious. Of course in that moment, my body decided to laugh as if I had committed a crime I didn’t want to be aquitted for. He asked me what was so funny, and I told him I wasn’t aware that someone was really watching me. “I see you Raz, and I see all that you are trying to be.” I was truly speechless. He continued on, noticing that I needed a bit of time to recollect myself, apologizing for being so candid, he said it had interested him. Walking now, he explained how this entire notion came up, and why it had took a particular interest in him. Looking back on it now, he seemed to have already known the answer, but was surprised by the way I had mentioned it. I told him about my seventh grade experience.
After I had told that story, my friend agreed that if that had happened to him, he wouldn’t want to be proud of his heritage either. I explained that it wasn’t a pride thing, that I just simply didn’t want the pity, or for people to be thinking that I would hurt them in some way, shape, or form because of my ethnicity. That I was actually scared to be prideful, but that I still am. He told me that it still isn’t pride, and that I should change that. “While you’re at it, maybe you can change a nation too.” 7.
I am 110% Persian, there isn’t anything I can do about it. My parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were born in the glorious Tehran, Iran, making me the first generation born outside Tehran: a first generation American.
8.
I love being Persian.
a.
Farsi school? Bring it on.
b. Teach me about my culture, show me the beauty in filial piety. c. Educate me on why our government is a bit more tyrannic than the US. d. Inspire me with the words and texts by Rumi and Ferdowsi. 9. Never tell me there is something wrong with my culture because you are too blind to see outside the privilege that is your own culture.
34
Wakuwa Kiskeya (Our Sacred Country)
Higuayagua (Distant Lands by the Ocean)
35
Photos by Valerie Reynoso
Anacaona Flowers golden like stolen Bloodlines taken by cristobal colon In the name of whiteness and Vast empires stained with the Blood and echoes of India de la raza Cautiva, Taina - Valerie Reynoso
36
Strange Pearl Vasantha Sambamurti
Thirteen years ago, I saw a man sell oysters in Disneyland. He was stout and diamond-shaped, but shaped with skin, instead of the sharp corners of a cut stone. White apron on, he towed a grey cart with a graphic of an open clam, the pearl in its center tongue bed. I was six. I was charmed by it. I was too young to know the worth of pearl. “Step up! Get them while they’re fresh!” I was small and slipped through the crowd easily. At the time, I didn’t recognize the significance of my smallness or the fact that smallness, when coupled with age, placed me on a power scale. The smaller I was, the less I was seen, and perhaps the less I was regarded. A few feet shy of the cart, I collided with three blonde women. They were tall, tower-like. They laughed and passed me swiftly and I figured it was because they did not see me. The man at the oyster cart invited the four of us up, and placed a shell beneath us—pale and grey. “There’s a magic to this,” he said. “Take your wands”—which he then proceeded to give us— “and tap it three times on the head of the oyster. Once that’s done, you can say the magic word: Aloha.” His eyes shone. “And then it will open.” The three women giggled, excited. I was young but I could tell this was preposterous. But as a child, I knew it was my place to harness the enthusiasm that was exuded around me. We tapped the wands in synch and I held my breath before we said the word. Aloha. Is this how all oyster shells are opened? I didn’t know much about oysters, but I knew they had pearls and pearls were beautiful things. Looking back, this is what I find strange. An oyster’s pearl is a coveted thing—its lustre and rotundity a quantification of its worth. I never knew how it was 37
made. I thought oysters made pearls out of a desire to create beautiful things. But the anatomy of it is not romantic. A pearl is made when something foreign, say, granule of sand, slips into the oyster’s shell. Perceiving an abnormality, the oyster attempts to subsume the foreign substance, swaddling it in layers of nacre, tin-colored mother-of-pearl. The motion is cyclic, similar to a circular loom. At the end the pearl is formed, the sign of a shellfish-itch. The pearl caps an almost-wound, marking the presence of something within the oyster which was not intended to be there. As a young child, Disneyland should’ve been my home. But, I couldn’t help feeling overcome by the breadth of my smallness, and the shade of my smallness compared to larger, fuller, older, lighter people. We tapped the oyster and said the word and somehow it still took a knife to get the pearl out. It was stubborn, not wanting to leave. It made us work to understand how to see it fully—beyond its womb. When it was out they gave it to me to hold. I was so happy. I was there, in the gaps not bridged with others’ skin or sweat, like a strange, waking mineral. When you are young, you are made to believe you are not complete. You are in the process of becoming- something given greater value when grown. I realized this was wrong. I was holding something grown and still it was anchored by the weight of me. My responsibility was unique. My cupped palm was the site of a strange pearl. Like the oyster, I made myself fact.
J A P A N Photos by:
Jalyn Cox
38
You’ll do a prayer service For people halfway Across the world, But when a black man Dies on your porch step You’ll step over his body As if he’s not there. - Sydney Logan
39
@miss_rooof
40
The other day A man raped me in the back of his car It’s easy to wonder How I got in the back of his car
1
See the thing is They These men That see us frequently Frequent the same spots as us At work In class In the neighborhood when we walk our dogs They become friends They aren’t just sneaking up On us In dark Alley ways They take us out During the week For lunch When the sun can witness When most places are empty But the atmosphere isn’t totally bare They take us to new places we’ve never been before And they listen Very well But they don’t talk much Not about themselves Not really Revealing Anything on their mind They are men Who just got out Of longer term relationships And they are Slowly opening up
One time he invited me to kiss him in the backseat of his car It feels It felt innocent 41
2
Like we are Like we were 16 again And the backseat is the only place we can We could be alone because he lives with a big family And my momma don’t play that So we kiss there
3
Your Our My breasts have been made Had been made bare And I feel I felt like An exposed tool Providing a service Tell me What is my price? The cost of a chicken burger With extra pickles At that swanky place downtown?
4
You were relentless It only took two times The second time you got me to the back of your car You struck This time with my breasts previously exposed You went for the next chapter As if the difference in this time And last time Must have been some kind of dawning On my mind That occurred in the short distance between One date and the next That I became over night somehow Ready For your hands to touch me There Your fingers inside me
I admit I felt pleasure Which is the guiltiest part of it all My body Betrayed me When my heart knew otherwise
5
You exhaled with relief Thankful that you weren’t all animal You fell back in your seat
You yanked at my pants And I assisted you
And I rewarded you
I didn’t want to feel like I was being raped So I participated And I wondered Who had trained me for this? To say yes like this I thought the best would happen You would lick my pussy Get your thrills And we’d be done
6
But you stuck me further
You stuck me again
With kisses I was relieved that it didn’t last long That the act did not take a long time I had even volunteered to finish you There could have been worse You know Sure you punked out at the real Meat of the act But it happened You ignored my boundaries You lured And you persisted
9
I said no
But it did happen Just The other day
With panic You stuck again
10
7
That you were Are also part human You remembered that your mother had just called as we were getting into the restaurant You remembered that you built her a table So she could pray while she was in town You remembered That your father came from india for the
8
The act Did not last as long as the testimonies typically prescribe
I said no
And remembered
first time in 3 years to visit your sister in new york And you remembered how you were mostly working during the majority of their visits
The Other Day
by Amber Hood 42
scars BY Lissa Deonarain
OVER
100 white scars of all sizes and shapes occupy the majority of my forearms,
overlapping and pronounced against my brown skin. All of these are from self-harm. For the last decade, my self-harm scars have been part of my body. In the sixth grade, I began self-harming to cope with my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Soon, my OCD was accompanied by depression and anxiety. In high school, it got extreme. I wore bracelets up to my elbows, bandanas tied to my forearms or long sleeves every day. I managed to somehow hide this secret from family and friends until I finally landed in a psychiatric hospital in Iowa at three in the morning. This is where I began my long, rough journey to recovery. When I came back to school, I saw no point in hiding my scars anymore. I knew my scars were not considered “normal.” Just looking at them, you can tell that they were intentional. However, until I started exposing my arms, I had no idea how big of a deal they would be to other people. People would stare when I first met them, some of them even asking what happened. Sometimes I would answer truthfully and watch their eyes grow uncomfortable. Sometimes I would create a different story. In high school, I worked at a summer camp. My campers would ask me about my scars and I would tell them, “I fought a tiger!” I felt conflicted about lying to my campers, but how was I supposed to broach the subject with eight-year-olds? The one question I am most tired of, the question my parents never fail to ask each time I see one of them, is: “Have you thought about trying to do anything about your scars?” The answer has always been no. I can honestly say, not once has the thought ever crossed my mind that I should try to fade or get rid of my scars. It’s not for some cliché reason like saying they “tell a story” or “remind me of overcoming.” It’s simply because I just don’t care. They are not hindering any part of my life. They are just another part of my body. Recently, however, I’ve noticed I don’t feel the same about other marks on my body.
43
I find myself lusting after the smoothness and flawlessness of other women’s skin. It seems so effortless for them, while I am left struggling. My arms, legs are covered in small ones from things like bug bites, and scratches. Stretch marks spread across my stomach, hips and thighs. My face is marked with acne scars. For some reason, I feel ashamed of these imperfections but not of my self-harm scars. I know it’s because it’s something out of my control (and I’m a bit of a control freak), but it’s hard to change how I view myself compared to others after a life-long struggle with self-confidence. I’m working hard to adjust my mindset to accept that my body is just very different from others. I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a connective tissue disorder that affects how my skin heals among other things. I scar more easily, my scars are larger, more prominent and almost impossible to get rid of. I am fat—or what I call “thick in the wrong places”. I am a brown woman, and most brown women have curves whether they like it or not. I battle a few mental illnesses, so I’m not always in a position to take care of myself. It effects every breath I take and how I perceive myself at all times. I know that these are things I cannot change. All I can do is work to make the best of the situations thrown at me, as someone who prides herself on being a “doer.” Whenever I need to convince myself to do something, I speak it into existence. If I tell enough people, I will be forced to follow through. Hopefully, by putting this out into the world, I will accept my body. I believe that not all bodies are the same, but should be cherished for all the abilities each one has. I hope I will truly accept that and learn to love my own body for what it is, not despite its flaws.
44
RACIST ENCOUNTERS IN BOSTON: It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon in Boston. I’d just finished my Literary Studies class and met up with a friend in the Common for lunch. We hadn’t seen each other for weeks— which was a really long time for us, given we hung out almost every other day during the summer time. And so for lunch we decided to head to a food court right in downtown Boston. My friend and I, who both wear hijabs, ordered food from some kiosk. A middle-aged white man, who had been constantly glancing at us, approached us. “I really hope you don’t mind me asking,” he started. Whenever strangers begin conversations this way, I’m always kind of nervous. My heart starts fluttering in my chest and I plaster a smile on my face, trying to appear nonchalant. Most of the time it’s just an innocent question like, “What’s the name of that scarf on your head?” Their questions are not usually fully and completely racist. Maybe just ignorant, like the person simply doesn’t know any better. I’ve had my fair share of experiences with racists—and racists are usually blatant with their racism. Alienation and hostile language is their conversation starter. That Tuesday afternoon, however, this racist guy decided to take it the long route, the unique route. The appear-as-if-you’re-starting-a-friendly-conversation route. The ask-theperson-about-their-ethnicity-and-then-promptly-say-they’re-ISIS route… We hadn’t realized this, however, until halfway through the conversation. He asked my friend and I if we were Hindu. We both replied no, we weren’t Hindu. “Well then were you guys Christian and then you converted?” My friend and I looked at each other. “Well, no, we were always Muslim.” “So from the day you were born you were always Muslim?” He asked confusedly, as if he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that someone could follow a single religion their whole life. We nodded. He covered his hands with his face. “So those burqas, you have to wear them to church?” “Well, this isn’t a burqa. This is called a hijab.” I gestured to my hijab. “And the burqa is a more cultural than religious headdress. It’s a personal preference. You don’t have to
45
WHAT’S NEW? BY MAYSOON KHAN wear it.” I responded. Up to this point we still thought the purpose of the conversation was to educate and dispel any ignorance the man had about head coverings that were Islamic or associated with Islam. He disregarded our answers and battered us with more questions. “So where are you guys from?” “Born and raised in Boston.” “No, but where are you really from?” The end-all, be-all question that every single person who is not white deals with. My friend responded first. “My parents are from Syria.” “So where ISIS is?” He spat matter-of-factly, in a tone full of accusation and hate. This made my friend and I fully, completely realize his malicious intent. At a loss for words, my friend quickly responded. “ISIS has nothing to with with us. It isn’t associated with us.” Looking back at the story, you might think we were stupid for not having realized earlier. But when you are confronted by a stranger whom you have never even seen or met in your life, you don’t automatically assume they hate you simply because of how you look and what you’re wearing on your head. Even now, when hate crimes towards Muslims have escalated dangerously, it’s hard to process that people have a deep, ingrained hatred for you. It just isn’t the very first thought you have when engaging in a conversation with a stranger. Our food was called just in time, and we quickly picked it up, ready to exit the building as quickly as we could. We felt targeted, trapped. “Nope, ISIS has everything to do with Islam. ISIS forces them to wear the burqas.” He exclaimed confidently even though we made a point to end the conversation. “You’re wrong,” I told him as my friend grabbed my arm, leading me out of the building. We felt attacked and unsafe. I think it was the forcefulness of the man, the way he spoke about the burqa and the hijab as if he was an expert on it. As if he knew more than we did. His entitlement haunted and infuriated me. We went across the street to Starbucks to grab some coffee before we sat down to eat.
46
I was fuming, ranting, angry, pissed off, wishing I had said more, wishing I’d stood up for myself. Wishing I’d shut this man down. My friend and I eventually laughed off the whole situation, because what else can you do when encountering ignorant racist people on the regular? We didn’t want to give this man the power to ruin our afternoon. If we did, it meant he was winning, and that he succeeded in whatever he was trying to accomplish. I told my friend, “That racist man has no idea what he’s saying,” and it actually turned out that he was a few people behind us in line, listening in on us making fun of him and the whole experience. I was happy to see that he’d heard us ranting about him. When we met eyes, he said, “I know what I’m talking about. You just don’t know what you are.” You just don’t know what you are. Those words that make me want to scream and shout and shake that man until that smug look on his face falls off. The utter entitlement he had. The audacity to tell a stranger they did not know what they were.
“The audacity to tell a stranger they did not know who they were. “ As if he knew exactly what I was after having a two minute conversation with me and a friend. As if he was ten times more dominant than me simply because of his skin color and gender… Whenever the topic of white supremacy and white privilege is brought up, I always want to tell myself it isn’t as bad as it used to be ten years ago. I always push the horrible, racist incidents I’ve had with strangers to the back of my head. And finally, with this encounter, I’m realizing that’s exactly what I shouldn’t do. White supremacy is real. It has never been gone – it’s only resurging stronger than ever (even in Boston, a place that everyone likes to regard as uber liberal). As a person of color, it is my duty to speak out against these atrocities so they can no longer be ignored, and for racism to finally be seen for what it is.
47
photographs by Vivien Liu
noun: a woman’s bedroom or private room
48
49
50
51
Models: Morgan Sung Liza Wagner Alexis Fernander Natalia Estefania 52
They say the pen is mightier than the sword Carefully crafted words, sharp, precise So we watch our tongues Cautious to not let them burn too hot Because the sizzling of our spit could be mistaken for acid Demands mistaken for attacks Passion mistaken for anger Disappointment mistaken for hatred Our fiery breath is too unpredictable to dictate our feelings when you look like us So we strike through statements And if you look in the right light, You can see the embers glowing They say the pen is mightier than the sword But what happens when words aren’t enough? What happens when words run endless laps around each other on track? Email passes the baton to a conversation Conversation passes it to a meeting Meeting passes it to a promise Promise drops the baton while passing it back to Email So they start again, no finish line in sight Just a stopwatch that reads “Change is slow. It takes time” So we have no choice but to sprint in from the sidelines And finish the race ourself They say the pen is mightier than the sword Because they know bullets are mightier than bodies But blood in the street and blood in the ink aren’t all that different Both flow red with power, with privilege, with authority
Black and brown bodies, black and blue psyches Struggling to make sense of this sharp pain that radiates through our beings It doesn’t heal The dull throb never dissipates, the phantom feeling always there A constant reminder Yet still we fight, our battered bodies together as one Our mere existence is resistance I’m tired of holding my tongue as if I don’t have one, as if I don’t need it Tired of the trauma I’ve accumulated, that’ve paid for it So we relight the match, combustion commences We are a controlled fire—like those used by ecologists in the midwest To restore the land, ridding the earth of invasive species so the native plants can thrive. Looking like wildfire from afar but strategically planned. They chime in,“But we have fire too!” as they lift the lid off their firepit to throw some tinder on the contained, dying flame. They don’t understand, coal smolders in our souls Following us everywhere we go It’s in our words, it’s in our steps, it’s in our eyes And while your wood fuel burns up quickly, Our coal burns slow and long.
The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword by Lissa Deonarain
53
54
