THE

Woman Beyond Her Skin

Princess Ogiemwonyi

I was born on November 12th which makes me a Scorpio and if I’m being honest I’m way too invested in what that means;

I am 5’5 and 3 quarters allegedly I wear a size 9 in shoes I don’t know how to cook, and I have a weakness for guys with dark circles under their eyes;

I’m still learning how to open up I’m often closed off in times I should be open and vulnerable in places where I know I can’t get hurt; so, most nights my closest friend is my pillow as I spill my fears and darkest secrets into its nonexistent ears sometimes in the form of tears.

I like Hot Cheetos. A Lot I think brown is the most underrated color and I Really don’t know how to cook I am so bad at it I somehow turned a green pot black and ever since that I’ve had a pact with my mom to stay out of the kitchen; secretly I get really annoyed when people smack I have a bad habit of biting my nails I can’t remember the last time I received mail and deep down I am really afraid to fail which is why I often quit things before I get the chance to, its sorta another bad habit thing that I do;

I’m not sure if I believe in love but I do want to get married I think that life is too short to have regrets but life itself can be scary;

I often find myself double guessing and for some reason I’m always stressing I think that kids are, well can be a blessing and that music is the only thing I need to convince me that God is a real entity; lastly I am a black woman I say it with pride however it is funny how that is the last thing I used to describe me, but it is usually the first and only thing people choose to see when they look at me.

I think it goes to show that even though I could be the first person to land on mars, make the world’s fastest cars or heck I don’t know catch a shooting star the fact that I am black woman is all some people would ever know.

And what I hope that this poem shows is that Yes I am a black woman but I am also a black woman who stands at a whopping 5’5 wears a size nine who’s a sucker for sleep deprived guys thinks that brown should be more recognized and loves a good bag of Hot Cheetos or fries who bites her nails is terrified to fail and wishes for a letter in the mail who needs to stick to books because she really can’t cook is so so tired of being labeled as just another black woman when she is all that and way way more.

Impressions Of Haldi

Danya Risam-Chandi

I make my way up the staircase and wander through the parlor. A shehnai plays and a gaggle of people sit huddled around as the pundit chants blessings for the bride. She sits on the ground with her head bowed, holding the hands of her mother, father, and brother. On such a momentous occasion, the bonds of family hold strong. This is the haldi. A few days before a wedding it is commonplace for the bride’s friends and family to lather her in a bright yellow turmeric paste. The haldi may seem light and fun on the surface but lurking beneath its happy-go-lucky exterior is the gritty reality that soon their daughter will leave her home and their family life will be changed forevermore. I consider it a pre-wedding facial with a side of emotional heartache. So it was not unusual when the bride’s brother tentatively scooped the silky paste in his fingers, adjusting to its texture, pausing, savoring the ever shrinking moment between the chapters of his sister’s life. He waits as long as he can, the aromatic paste clutched in his palm. The thoughts that fill his mind are broadcast to the room. Every furrow of his brow, hunch of his shoulders, darting of his eye exposed him. The moment the paste touches his sister’s skin she will be changed. No longer will her duty be as daughter and elder sister. She will be a bride, and not long after, she will be a wife. An unshakeable title that will fill her every waking hour, her every breath. Every god given duty will belong to the title, “wife”. Just as that thought passes through his mind, a tear falls into the paste. It is absorbed. He is applying it to her skin, weeping at the reality. I avert my eyes. It is too intimate for me to watch. In his eyes every memory held with his sister flashed, every wish of happiness, every mourning of their life thus far. The indescribable bond held betwixt two siblings sat quietly between them. A bond, I knew nothing of. He dabs some turmeric above her eyebrow. My thoughts drift to my own wedding. Who did I expect to look at me with such fondness? My parents growing older each year provides a harsh reminder of the solivagant reality that rapidly approaches. Who did I expect to look at me with the weight of such ingrained memories, should my parents fail to make it until my haldi? He kneels down, applying the paste to her feet. The answer was abundantly clear: no one. I will be coated with turmeric paste at my own haldi. I may be showered with a hundred well wishes, but it would never compare to the look that passed her brother’s teary eye. It would never equate to the tears that fell on her face, hands, and feet. He passes the bowl to the next in line and quietly brushes his tears aside, unknowingly marking himself with the paste as well. This day marks us all.