Flawless Mag - The Power Issue

FLAWLESS MAG

ISSUE 3 • FALL 2016

Contributors Editor in Chief Lucie Pereira

Content Team Isabella Kestermann Anahita Padmanabhan Lucie Pereira Vasantha Sambamurti Kala Slade Morgan Sung

Design Team Indigo Asim Sydney Rae Chin Ashley Dixon Lissa Deonarain Rraine Hanson Vivien Liu Shafaq Patel Rija Rehan

Layout Team Becca Chairin Lissa Deonarain Emi Kubota Viven Liu Lucie Pereira Rija Rehan Morgan Sung 2

Assistant Editor Lissa Deonarain

Photoshoot Crew

Lissa Deonarain Rija Rehan Kermel Yohannes

Cover PhotoShoot

Directed by Rraine Hanson Makeup by Rija Rehan and Indigo Asim Photography by Vivien Liu Edited by Lissa Deonarain Featuring Nako Narter, Sarah Alli, Anna Drummond, Karin Yehoudian, Kayla Smith and Lex Fernander

Special Thanks

From Emerson College – Dr. Sylvia Spears Department of Writing, Literature, and Publishing School of the Arts Institute for Liberal Arts and Interdisciplinary Studies Office of Diversity and Inclusion Paul Niwa President Lee Pelton

Letter from the editor This year, power has been on everyone’s mind: who deserves it, who has it, and what we do with it. Since November, these questions have become even more high-stakes. In Flawless Brown, we agree on a few truths: Art is power. Community is power. Sisterhood is power.

Empowerment is at the core of what Flawless Brown is and what we do. We empower women of color to share their stories and their voices.

I am constantly awed by the ability of my sisters to find power in their pain, power in their joy, power in their writing and art, power in the simple act of loving and appreciating one another. I am so grateful to every member of Flawless Writes and Flawless Brown for helping me find my own power and put it to good use. This issue is dedicated to anyone who has ever felt powerless in a world where it seems like the odds are stacked against them.

Many thanks to everyone who contributed to this issue of Flawless Mag. I hope you will continue writing and creating and being loud. Thanks also to the unstoppable Lissa Deonarain, who sets the bar incredibly high with everything she does and then helps others live up to it. You’re a tough act to follow and the only one who could help me dare to try following. And of course, thanks to everyone who has supported our mission and made this magazine possible. Thank you for believing, as we do, that our voices matter.

I hope you enjoy Flawless Mag: The Power Issue. I’ll leave you with a quote from the always-inspiring Audre Lorde: “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”

With love,

Lucie Pereira 3

Table

of

06 Untitled Anonymous | Poetry 07 Just Floating Lissa Deonarain | Art 08 Woman Valerie Reynoso | Poem 09 Being a Person of Color in America Bethany Owens | Photo Essay

13 On Air, and On Voice 16 luv yrself Morgan Sung | Essay Rraine Hanson | Playlist 14 Us Women Kate Bartel | Poetry

17 Islamic School, 2002 Nadia Almasalkhi | Poetry

15 Fabiola Asmaa Belhaouari | Photo

18 Arab Girl With the Sloppy Smooch on the Sidewalk MM Faris | Essay 20 Empowerment at the Esplanade Rochely Zapata | Photos 22 Beauty Sydney Johnson | Poetry 23 The Deep End Serena Ang | Poetry

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Contents 24 French Fries’ Plan Denamisbraqah Igusti | Poetry 26 Transliterated Pimploy Phongsirivech | Essay 28 In Barcelona, Colòn Still

Points to the New World Cassandra Martinez | Poetry 29 Roots Emi Kubota | Photo Essay 32 THE POWER SHOOT Flawless Writes | Photoshoot 40 primetime Liza Wagner | Poetry

40 Untitled Indigo Asim | Poetry 41 Ganesha Valerie Reynoso | Art 42 Maadhu Vasantha Sambamurti | Short Story 44 Broken English Lissa Deonarain | Poetry 45 Tonight America Lucie Pereira | Poetry 5

they say: be black and be proud! they say: be woman and be proud! they say: to be queer? question. quiet. quell. i say: i am inseparable i say: i am a blackqueerwoman i say: it again and again until it is loud i say: i am still working on being proud anonymous

Illustration by Taylor Roberts 6

Just Floating Lissa Deonarain | Colored Pencil

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I am a Queen. I leave a trail-blaze of fire with my gait; flames allude to my aura of ferocity—I illuminate and engulf the atmosphere with my presence with each step I gracefully take. My brown eyes are razor-sharp like obsidian springing forth from an erupting volcano. Behind my two windows reside the many facets of my soul in the depths of my temple. My tongue is jargon. My voice booms like earthquakes, trembling the hemisphere with my passion and my ire. I am a siren, my charisma is seduction. My beauty is the most potent and mesmerizing form of voodoo. I am the seeds of this earth. I am the womb of all mankind, a Queen.

Woman

by Valerie Reynoso

Rania by Asmaa Belhaouari 8

Being A Person of Color in America Part 1 of a photo essay by Bethany Owens

Rija Rehan I am all-American Red, white, and blue And brown and black.

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Brooke Solomon A boy in school asked me if I wore a turban since I’m Lebanese.

I laughed it off.

It wasn’t funny.

Swetha Amaresan “Where are you from?”

“Born and raised in Massachusetts.”

“No, where are you really from?”

As if someone with skin as dark as mine couldn’t possibly be considered a “real” American.

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Nupur Amin “Give me a taste, golden goddess.” I am golden in every way, but I am not your golden sex toy,

Gelson Pereira Donald Trump’s message to African Americans and Mexicans: “What is there to lose?”

Answer to Donald’s question: “WE HAVE EVERYTHING TO LOSE!”

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Cierra morson “You’re pretty...for a black girl.” - America

Jamica morson “You should straighten your hair, it would look so much better!”

This is something I became accustomed to hearing from friends and family growing up. For a very long time, I was trying to conform to this norm, until I realized it was devised by people who look nothing like me. After my first trip to visit my family in Jamaica in 2014, I decided to love myself and embrace my natural beauty. My lovely locs are a year old!

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ON AIR, and

On Voice

“You sound like an American.”

I blinked, not sure how to respond. It was eighth grade, and I was at test prep summer camp. I was spending seven weeks in a classroom with other eighth graders, studying for a test we wouldn’t take for another three years. A majority of them, like me, had immigrant parents.

“I mean, I am American,” I responded, “I was born here. Weren’t you?”

He shook his head. “Yeah, but I’m Korean.

You sound white.”

When I was younger, my parents were vigilant about making sure I didn’t end up with an accent. They spoke to me only in English, except for a few phrases in Cantonese or Korean like “good morning” and “I love you, Grandma” and “steamed pork buns.”

Both my parents moved to the States when they were in elementary school. They speak to each other in English, because neither is really fluent in the other’s mother tongue. When my mother gets excited about new recipes, you’ll hear the sing-song influence of Canto under her voice, and my father will let the heavy vowels of Korean slip into his conversation after a whiskey or two. But other than that, they, like me, sound “American.”

I had always been overwhelmingly aware of my voice. I never particularly liked it; it wasn’t melodic but it didn’t feel steady. I had the musical range of about five notes, and had a slight stutter, usually thinking too quickly for the words falling out of my mouth. And since that interaction with my summer classmate, I wondered what sounding “American” really meant.

I was introduced to radio during my freshman year of college. I stumbled into it, by picking up a free sticker at Emerson’s org fair. Two weeks later, I was sitting in front of a mic, recording my first news package. It took three takes for my voice to stop warbling and for me to stop running out of breath.

by Morgan Sung

“You gotta breathe more,” my producer told me, “You have to slow down.”

I took his advice, and over the past year and a half learned to control my voice. When I listened to myself on air for the first time, I was surprised by how much I liked it. I sounded confident. My voice became my favorite part of myself: as I grew more comfortable in the studio, I found myself stumbling less in everyday conversation.

A few weeks ago, I sat in the hard pew of my grandfather’s church. He didn’t speak much English, and I didn’t speak much Korean. Our communication had been limited to tight hugs and gesturing toward food. His funeral was large, and almost entirely in Korean. I understood a few phrases here and there, but not enough to piece together the narrative of mVy grandfather’s life.

Later that night, my mother and I sat at the kitchen table preparing for the wake the next day. She was making a list—something she does endlessly. I asked her why she never taught me and my siblings another language and, never looking up from her list, she said, “We wanted you kids to sound American.”

“You know, when we first moved from Hong Kong we practiced saying thank you over and over,” she said. Her great-aunt Gladys, who was an English teacher in Hawaii, tutored them, training them to slow down on each new word.

I don’t think I sound white. When I hear myself on air, my voice strong and steady, I hear every thank you my mother practiced. I hear myself remembering to slow down and breathe.

I hear my grandfather motioning for me to eat more.

I think I sound American.

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Adapted from an original spoken word piece written & performed with Amber Hood

by Kate Bartel

I learned my silence the night you told me I wasn’t really brown at least not that kind of brown ask me why I’m angry I’ll tell you the times my mouth has belonged to someone else your history is mandatory reading my history is a single elective with limited seating level 400 had to squeeze in as a senior call it competency education call me that chick that always tries to tie race in but there ware days when “woke” just seems like a buzz word when this mouth this body this history feel too unknown to be my own which is to say 14

I am still unlearning the parts of myself I’ve been taught to be sorry for my father gave me words my mother gave me will on the nights you make me feel more war than woman i will use both to tell you: my mouth my body my history is not your home never make me feel unwelcome here again

“Fabiola”

by Asmaa Belhaouari

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i can’t get enough of myself white iverson sex with me feeling myself imma be iv. sweatpants classic man (remix) wanna be cool forever celebrate man in the mirror

kendrick lamar santigold post malone rihanna junglepussy

luv yrself A Playlist by Rraine Hanson

ain’t nobody’s business I have never felt beautiful. So I made if i do myself this playlist to help fix that and it consists of songs speaking know what i want positively of oneself in the first perneeded me

feeling myself bling bling

son, encouraging me to sing along and reinforce these good thoughts about myself. I hope you sing along and that it helps you feel beautiful, too.

milkshake walk thru ova dweet legend i am a god a milli excellence

flawless (remix)

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kelis

the black eyed peas childish gambino jidenna + kendrick lamar donnie trumpet + the social experiment noname ft. joseph chilliams + ravyn lenae anderson .paak michael jackson billie holiday kali uchis rihanna nicki minaj ft. beyoncé junglepussy

rich homie quan popcaan drake kanye west lil wayne princess nokia beyoncé ft. nicki minaj

ooouuu

young m.a.

ragtime interlude / i’m really hot

missy elliot

Islamic School, 2002 nadia almasalkhi

For Deah Barakat, Yusor Abu-Salha, and Razan Abu-Salha “Show your American pride” to make them forget about your second passport.

“Speak up for your faith” to drown out your father’s accented English.

“Thank the soldiers” who killed your cousins overseas.

“Attend the mosque” before it’s burned down.

“Show what a good Muslim is” while you still don’t know yourself.

“It’s a noble struggle” to live in the spot you were born, “and you will receive the ultimate prize” of a bullet to the temple on a homebody afternoon.

So that’s why we call them “Our Three Winners.”

(I’ve been thinking about Razan Abu-Salha since she died.)

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“This is gonna sound weird.

But, can I—Can I kiss your nose?”

In a place like the one I grew up in, you only have so many ways to seek out something outside yourself. To find power in who you are, despite where you are.

To understand the world beyond yours and how you fit or don’t fit within it.

Every so often, I’m reminded of what I owe to Aaliyah. Even though I would be living a more safe, sheltered life without knowing this part of myself, I cannot imagine who I would be if she hadn’t placed a sloppy smooch on my nose that Wednesday night.

Her friends peeked a little from the sidewalk.

We were in the open road. Cars hovered past us. A few pedestrians walked along the path we were standing on.

Women in niqabs and dudes actively trolling for girls seemed to challenge us.

All I could think was, “If I say no, I’ll look like a Prudish Weirdo in front of her friends. If I

by MM say yes, I’m saying yes to something else too. I don’t know what exactly, but I know it’s something I’m absolutely terrified of.”

I nodded: Yes.

She put her hands behind the small of her back, as if holding herself from doing anything more. We were so close to each other now, I was surprised no one pulled us apart—which could’ve easily happened if one of us was a guy.

She puts her lips on my nose.

Everything stopped making sense.

Tangled, but not really touching.

It was… kind of hot.

As I write this in it’s final draft, I want to make it perfectly clear that this story is not a generalized, Arab LGBTQIA+ expose. This is not about every international kid trying to figure out their sexuality. This is not about white people configuring the notions of who we are within 1,100 words.

It’s just my own account, my own dumb/mushy/funny account of figuring one’s shit out. The experience just happens to take place in a country that is very Not Cool with me being who I am.

During my first year of high school, I realized I liked girls. I didn’t know I would like boys just as much until my last year, but I found the prospect of that confrontation scary as fuck. I was born and raised in a very religious society. As a woman in Saudi Arabia, I am a second-class citizen under law. As with anything else, there is legal jurisdiction over my sexual orientation.

So obviously, I was fucking terrified of what I already knew about myself.

I went to a gender-segregated school that separated the boys and girls sides with a fifteen-foot wall. Hence, me not realizing I liked boys until I was confronted with Live Males at an integrated American afterschool program.

At the time I was figurFaris ing out my feelings for Arizona Robbins, my friends and I were on our school’s robotics team, heading into the state regionals.

Arab Girl with the Sloppy Smooch on the Sidewalk

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That’s when I met her. Aaliyah.

That’s not her real name by the way.

I’m not gonna bare my soul or whatever in this essay and risk having Her read this. A little too much Angst for one essay. “Rock The Boat” was everything to me as a kid— which is super weird, I know—and Aaliyah is also an Arabic name for those of you who haven’t caught on that I’m Arab.

Hint, hint. So, there.

I was introduced to her at a robotics project-pitching workshop held at her school earlier that week. The first thing that she said to me was, “You look like Curly Sue, but like, an adult.”

You can imagine my instant attraction.

The next time we met, at the school

tain’s house. I told our chaperone that where the championships were held, AaI was going to use the bathroom and liyah and her teammates claimed a tawould meet her out front. ble in the gymnasium, right next to the

I did technically need to pee, but breakfast buffet. still, my goal was to find Her face in the

She was wearing her school unicrowd. Aaliyah’s school placed last. I form: a gross charcoal-colored getup that had a plan. Go up to her and say hi. That looked like it belonged on the set of Litwas it. The Plan. tle Women. It didn’t matter though, she

She was hanging out with her made it work somehow. No makeup, just team by the same sidewalk we used to some bomb-ass eyeliner that made her sit on, smoking a communal cigarette. full lips pop.

Not giving a shit.

I had just arrived when I saw her, and

As I walked up to them, Aaliyah I thought, “Okay, she’s cute. I’m fucked. turned around. Her cheeks were getting Food. I need food.” As I was scooping up a little red again. I didn’t know what to a heaping spoon of fool, there she was. do, so I coughed like I had phlegm in my

Her teammates kept staring at me throat. Smooth. like they were just telling each other a joke

My palms were about my Freshly-Electrocuted-Looking Hair. if you find someone sweaty; her face was luminous. Shit. Feelings She said hello. I vomited a few letters that sound- who makes a gross and Things. laughed at me, at ed like the same. smooch kind howShe naive I seemed may My heart was try- nose ing to punch through my of hot, you’ve got be. I’m not sure.

I said hi—as planned. boobs. I tried slowly exitEnd of plan. ing the conversation but something special.

She said it back, and she just followed me out. we just waited for someone to say some Before we parted ways, she offered thing else. me her number. I literally had no idea

Her eyes were staring straight what to do with this information. She into my forehead. Focused, as if she was took my phone and put in it in herself beabout to pop a pimple on my T-zone or fore I could say/do anything else. something.

I knew I found her attractive. But I

“This is gonna sound weird. But, didn’t want to make things weird. can I—Can I kiss your nose?”

At the time, she knew more about

That’s when it happened. romantic relationships that I did. She was

It’s my nose. I mean, it’s weird that a year younger than me, and—without me I felt sexy-vibes from a nose kiss. But I realizing it—was trying to ease me into don’t know, if you find someone who this whole new Terrain. I wanted to know makes a gross nose smooch kind of hot, everything. you’ve got something special.

As we burrowed into this virtu I pulled away numbly, saying al mind-fuck of a flirtation, I got insight goodbye as I walked towards my bus... into Aaliyah’s life. Her past relationships,

We haven’t seen each other since. mostly guys, and casual flings with girls.

In retrospect, I’m not sure if I was How much hash she smoked in a week. ever in love with her. I know that I was At one point, she asked me if I was into very much into her. That I wanted somesmoking weed—which I didn’t think was thing more than friendship. Sex was available where we were. She was a rebel. definitely a factor there too.

I didn’t see her or speak to her again

Thank you, dude, for rocking the until the end of that year at the national boat. robotics championships.

My school won and we were about to head off to an after-party at our cap-

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Empowerment at the Esplanade Photos by Rochely Zapata

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by Sydney Johnson

Beauty My skin.

My dark beautiful mysterious masterful striking skin, bathed in elegance, shines with so much presence.

Layers and layers are stacked higher than the eye can see.

Kissed with grace my body smiles.

Peel away the deep fleece.

Let me show you.

I am not something to mock for I am strong resilient intelligent whole powerful complicated.

The phantom of my skin is a gift. And it is beautiful.

I am beautiful.

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by Serena Ang

The Deep End

All I’ve ever seen since childhood were sugarcoated lies of “love” where layer upon layer unveiled a rotten and hollow “I love you” in their mouths.

I bet he’s never gripped her hip bones as if she were a goddess or smiled and laughed with her.

The flame of jealousy flickers bright in his eyes as she makes herself smaller.

He rules over her mind, body, and soul.

Though he never saw her for all that she is but only a figment of his imagination.

I see her drowning in the deep end as she struggles to come up for air.

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Kanye wrote:

“MCDONALD’S MAN MCDONALD’S MAN/THE FRENCH FRIES HAD A PLAN/I KNEW THE DIET COKE WAS JEALOUS OF THE FRIES/I KNEW THE MCNUGGETS WAS JEALOUS OF THE FRIES/EVEN THE MCRIB WAS JEALOUS OF THE FRIES/ EVERYBODY WAS JEALOUS OF THE FRENCH FRIES/EXCEPT FOR THAT ONE SPECIAL GUY/THAT SMOOTH APPLE PIE” He right.

Everybody’s jealous of the French fries Cept for smooth apple pie McNuggets be thinking French fries fake Burgers be grillin French fries Even the sauces trying to do French fries dirty All cause French fries had a plan Cause French fries always got to the table Somehow They forget French fries was once a potato Forget French fries was brown Forget French fries is still the same starch That was in the back corner of the kitchen Just cut up and covered in salt.

That’s the thing about this [food] industry People don’t like you unless you strip yourself Gotta flaunt your damage If you don’t have any, grab that knife Cut yourself thin Cause apparently, it shows “effort” Chop chop

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poem by Denamisbraqah “Dena” Igusti

Not garlic powder Not chili powder Not your mom’s soy sauce Nah Salt Any other spice is too bold They can’t take it They can’t taste it They won’t relate It’s better to be chewed up and swallowed Than chewed up and spat out

WHAT BROWN POTATO HAD TO DO TO STAY AT THE TABLE (AFTER KANYE)

Not turmeric

FRENCH FRIES’ PLAN

Then add a bit of salt

No one wants to see what you’ve been through to be here Unless it’s pretty, bleached out, and consumable That’s how French fries made their plan That’s how French fries got to the table Everybody’s jealous of the French fries But French fries ain’t even the main course French fries just part of the combo But at least French Fries got to stay at the table.

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For arming and maiming me with a tongue that was never meant to be and will never be I thank resent remember Katerina, Casey, Glenn, Workman, Malcolm, Proctor, Dale Banks, Collins, Nathan, Crouch, Pickles, Gudonis, Tracey, Bowen, Nixon, Mill, Masters, Keohane, Rawlings, Humphrey, Webb, Francis, Fish, Bellamy, Schmidt, Scoones, Hynes, Smythe, Manfredi, Geurrin, Coots, Dunbar, Johnson, Towe, Stanton, Boreham, DeVries, Radcliffe, McCubbin, Cooper, Campbell.

Mum Dad

Transliterated

By Pimploy Phongsirivech

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From the age of three, I’m taught that English is superior to the language of home, country (Thailand), and family by the international school where I am enrolled at the wish of my parents. I am to spend five of the seven days in a week, eight of the twelve months of each year in a space demarcated and dictated by Caucasian, English-speaking teachers, Caucasian, English-speaking headmasters, Caucasian, English-speaking figures of authority for thirteen years.

The men and women named above in my pseudo-poetic list are united by one force: language. Together, they’ve knowingly taught me their tongue, impressing upon me its superiority. Together, they unknowingly propelled me across continents armed only with what they’ve taught me—my craft, their language.

The irony of this is so great it’s almost incomprehensible. I’m writing about cultural colonialism in the language of colonists. The narrative of a linguistically imperialized individual is neither new nor unique and rather far from groundbreaking (think: Jamaica Kincaid, Anita Desai, Arundhati Roy—Anglo-International writers). And yet it remains largely ignored in the present; it has permanently settled in a stratosphere where it is respected, revered and studied. Now perched on the pedestal of Literature, it has become untouchable and stagnant. It dwells in the bubble of postcolonial studies, vehemently analyzed for a semester and promptly forgotten thereafter.

Last spring, I sat in a class that discussed Kincaid’s A Small Place among my mostly Ameri-

can, mostly white peers. As I read binders’ worth of theoretical essays and analyzed the voyeurism, white saviorism, cultural colonialism that Kincaid masterfully depicts. She describes writing in the language of the oppressor, “language of the criminals,” and I realize that I too succumbed to the language of the criminals. I went to international school in Thailand, a predominantly Thai-speaking country; I spoke to all of my Thai friends in English, to my Thai sister in English, and to my Thai parents in English. Thai slid into the back pockets of my mind, perceived as a language that occupied a lower level of intellect, relegated to the sidelines and unused in classrooms. What I hadn’t realized in the irony of sitting in the lit class is that, yes, I am one of the many, many international school offshoots catapulted over the Pacific Ocean in pursuit of a higher education in the U.S. But how many of us Non-Resident Alien undergraduates are here to study writing, literature, and publishing?

According to Emerson’s Institute of Research there are currently eleven. I for one flew across continents to study a language imposed on my country, deliberately taking measures to displace myself from my home country to get a better education in a field that made me reject it in the first place: English.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about the glass ceiling under which we stand.

Mine, a work in progress, currently looks like this: Olly Carl Greg Chuck Nancy Andy Keith Chris Christopher Matt Colleen Haley

Lisa

It doesn’t take more than a halfhearted glance for one to draw the conclusion that every single one of my previous bosses (excluding ones whose fields do not align with my career aspirations) are white. One could argue that it’s expected given that I live in Boston, to which I would point out that the first three are all editors in

Bangkok. An oddly peculiar situation where everyone writing for an English magazine is Thai and yet the top three positions, editor-in-chief, managing and digital director, are occupied by French, English and Australian men respectively.

I’m currently the only intern of color at a Predominantly White Institution—again, neither original nor surprising. It is, however, disconcerting when I am met with surprise upon disclosing my nationality. A publicist once told me, in a congratulatory tone, that she’d never had guessed that I was international by my writing. Fellow interns often ask whether I “really didn’t grow up here,” as if English wasn’t used at a level above conversational chit chat beyond the U.S.

I have to admit there’s a tiny thrill, an idea that I take refuge when faced with ignorant compliments: it’s the fact that I, a foreigner who was neither born nor raised on American soil, have a bit of control, however infinitesimal, on the facet through which Americans receive information. I hold the sliver of power to shape what and how they are informed, whether it’s an insipid round-up article about a weekend event in Boston, or a Q&A with an obscure Irish musician.

I’m not trying to indulge in self-pity or what my roommate and I like to call the “fight for the bottom.” I am overwhelmingly privileged to be where I am. Those teachers whose names I listed up there with my parents? I’m monumentally grateful. I often take them for granted. I’ll never be able to thank them enough times. And yet there’s the lingering question that makes me wonder if this never happened whether I would be a very different person in a very different place. I don’t know to answer to that, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to ever get one.

This language isn’t mine, but it’s also not yours to claim.

You imposed it. I’m imposing back.

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I was once told, My ethnicity is the result of conquest.

My skin is the result of one people destroying another My skin is the color of wet sand, Beaches where they landed And planted their flag the way every White man still thinks that stretching his fingers across My shores and calling me beautiful is enough to claim what was never his.

I am desperate for definition, I clutch my name like a talisman, I beg to speak in a language that was burned onto our tongues With the glory of all the saints we now carry on our throats Painted over doorways, For protection, Prayers given in a language which now grows in the soil, Clutching rosaries

In Barcelona, Colón Still Points to the New World

by Cassandra Martinez

The way my young hands clutched las rejas, And wondered if my ribcage was the same, Si soy toda la sobra de lo que se robaron*.

My body is the result of conquest.

My body carries the history of Old World and the New, My tongue, my lips are the legacy of los conquistadors Who nearly destroyed those who gave me my eyes, The tint of my skin, the hair which I throw in the faces of those who ask me to become less.

(In Barcelona, Columbus still points to the New World.)

He never meant for someone like me to exist But I do, And I sing in the language burned, Yo existo, no conquistada.

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*Taken from Calle 13’s song, “Latinoamérica”

ć–‡ĺŒ– E

mbracing the things we have and being confident with ourselves is power. Heritage is one of the qualities that I embrace, and it influences my aesthetic. My roots in two beautiful cultures in Asia make me feel secure and important because they define who I am today. We shall be proud of our roots. Like any tree and flower in nature, because of roots, we grow strong and beautiful.

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힘 30

Morgan’s choice of wearing her mom’s traditional wedding clothes immensely inspired my photography. Also thank you to my friend Jay for the makeup, and my sister Maya for the page design.

Emi Kubota 31

Model: Chala Tshitundu 32

The Power Shoot Directed by Lissa Deonarain and Rija Rehan Photography by Sarah Alli and Kermel Yohannes Makeup by Lissa Deonarain and Rija Rehan

The Power Shoot had one goal: make the models feel their most powerful. Each model was given a general idea of the theme, but ultimately they chose to wear whatever made them feel bad as hell and we went from there. We’ve had enough of white men with mediocre and menial accomplishments being memorialized. So we took it into our own hands to put women of color up on a pedestal, literally and metaphorically, exactly where they belong.

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Model: Apurupa Balasubramanyam 34

Model: Maddy Wiryo 35

Model: Alex Vasallo 36

Model: Jessie Ying 37

Model: Mayah Gilmer 38

Model: Ashley Dixon 39

primetime Liza Wagner amethyst, knee highs eyeliner like razorblades and i’m on top of you

untitled Indigo Asim it makes you so angry to watch others stumble over your identity push their sharp intruding fingers to define you they believe they are helping when your nails are freshly cut, too short, there is a strange sensation at your fingertips. the stretching skin burns the now unprotected skin is forced into new light. how much patience do you have for the people you love as they struggle to know the parts of yourself you barely know. the stretching skin burns well intentioned.

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Ganesha

by Valerie Reynoso

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M A A DH U

a short story excerpt by

VASA N T H A SAMBAMURT I 42

E

vening fell fast through the bars of the bathroom window. The tiles were white and bridged with dirt and grit.

Kala let the faucet run till the bucket was half-full—she couldn’t carry anything heavier. She tipped it upside-down. The water broke on her head like a gust of wind.

It happened to Devi when her skirt stuck to the seat and the surface of the chair had become slippery. All the girls were in a thin cloud of gossip, the boys were too scared to look. Devi became decreasingly visible, until she stopped coming altogether.

Back then, Kala had been in on the joke, but she tried to find some solace in the fact that she never laughed as hard as Chitra or whispered as much as Padma. But she and Carol listened with their mouths closed, and their presence itself had no heart.

Kala watched thick strings of blood swim from her and disappear through the grates of the drain. Something caught at the back of her throat and she felt sick.

She had never seen her body like this.

They called it “periods” but there was no basis for term; the permanence of sentence periods, the volatility of time periods; periods of listlessness, periods where your lower stomach twitched, periods of profound unfeeling.

Kala rubbed the oil and petals from her hair and twisted it dry. She had done a shoddy job; the dander was on her fingers. She dumped another bucket over her head. Her mother could always tell when her hair wasn’t clean.

Amma said things like, how can I get you married like this?

But she assured her it was a joke. It would be no problem. As an infant,

Kala drank Amma’s milk and pillowed She would inherit a brass lamp her head against the stomach from from her great-grandmother and which she emerged. She would grow use it to bring light to her husup strong and learn to color and have band’s home.

She would be decorated someone pick the lice from her hair.

Amma always said: I work so hard to for hours prior to encircling the comb the tangles and oil the roots and fire with him, only for the makeyou will have to be patient. You will up to melt off. White arali and gold ornaments in her hair, a red pottu thank me one day—

Kala raked her fingers through where her third eye should be. All the tangles in her hair, but it was like the while, bleeding.

Kala cut the hair on her a mosquito bite growing bigger as you arms, on the knuckles of her finpoked at it.

One day, the comb won’t snag gers. Then she cut a lock of hair at when we part your hair down the mid- the base of her chin. The rope went dle. Do you realize what a mess I was down the drain and was almost as on my own wedding day? Not you, tall as her.

She brought the remaining daughter.

Childhood is a period of time, curtain of her around her shoulwhich dies like the arali does. It is der and cut. The locks fell like beautiful when it lasts, and significant fruit from a tree. They were slowly drawn into the drain, bidding when it leaves. her goodbye. ​ Kala kept a Then, the fipair of scissors on a “It was unnecessary, it nal strand mat by her clothes. would be unseen, but it was cut, and She used it to cut the none dared coarse hairs on her made her feel lighter.” to fall beyond legs and armpits. her jaw.

She had done it since Nothing could be done she was twelve. It was unnecessary, it would be unseen, but it made her feel with it now, not even a ponytail.

Kala heard the red stops lighter.

She snipped at the knots in her when your belly becomes round underarms and the black weeds on her with the baby, and surges when calves. The faucet was still running, the baby comes out like some dam and the drain swallowed the hair, the has broken. Then, when you grow ebbing blood, red like the kumkum white hairs, the bleeding stops, that would be smeared in the part of and your baby searches for another womb. her hair on her wedding day.

You give birth and the new

Marriage is the period of wom- an, ​maadhu; the woman perpetuated life leaves once it grows legs. But as the wife, the mother, the elder, the what if you left before it could be born? Kala wondered. Either way deceased.

Kala was a gift only her family something is broken.

She turned the faucet down could give, and with her would come the fine jewelry her mother used to to a drop, then off. She watched a pack in tiffin boxes. She would wear stray red spot bloom and join the the same bangles that were once too penultimate current of the waters, big for her wrists. She would wear the slip between the grate, off to mark earrings from Amma’s engagement. a new home.

43

Broken English

by Lissa Deonarain

You call it “broken English” as if it something that needs to be fixed Like a stolen bicycle seat or a doll without an arm Broken — reduced to fragments; ruptured, torn or fractured You desperately push the parts together Attempting to force it into something whole Attempting to find where each piece belongs in the puzzle pieces — scattered across generations, oceans and continents pieces — that were never meant to align Broken — no longer in working order The language of survival my grandmother spoke rendering it incoherent to outsiders with every movement of her mouth her words were consumed by a thick accent Broken — having given up all hope; despairing You tried to break our backs so we couldn’t run Beating us down under the rays of the beating sun but we stand tall and strong You tried to break our hearts strip our ancestors of their families their homes their culture their identities So we created something you could never tear from our tongues But see a language cannot break that is the beauty with words You call it “broken English” But we call it “Creole” We call it ours

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Tonight America is a cat-caller, lurking in the dark, gaze slanting in my direction, stealing ownership of my body with vicious words.

Tonight America is a lover who pulls me closer and whispers dreams in my ear, then slams doors, smashes plates, tells me I’m worthless.

Tonight America is a bully, calling names, throwing punches, making me feel small, leaving my skin bruised, my heart tender.

Tonight America is a white man, taking up too much room, talking too loudly.

Tonight America does not love me, does not love my skin, does not love my femininity, does not love my love.

I know someday America will be a friend, a callused hand to hold, a scarred smile.

Someday America will be a sunrise after a cold and heartless night.

Tonight America

by Lucie pereira 45