Womanish by Bald-Headed Black Girls Press

Featuring works by Mama Charlott

Featuring works by Mama Charlotte Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neil

Womanish

Born out of isms,

Womanish

Born out of isms,

Dig-In our Mother’s Garden,

Stronger in Color

---Iresha Picot

Stronger in Color

---Iresha Picot

... For Sojourner who told ... the ForTruth Sojourner

... For Sojourner who who told the Truth

Editors Iresha Picot & Zakiya.Bediako

Editors Editors Iresha Picot & Zakiya.Bediako We are two displaced Iresha southern Picot Sistas who met in Philly a year ago, & Zakiya.Bediako brewing over a Black Feminist Agenda. Alas, Womanish. We wrote womanish Womanish We are two displaced southern Sistas who met in Philly a for all of the Sistas whose locations lie in perpetual complexities of We are two displaced southern Sistas who amet in Philly a year ago,Alas, Womanish. We brewing over Black Feminist Agenda. Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality. Womanish seeks to intersect power Born out of isms, over a Black Feminist Womanish. wrote womanish into these identitiesbrewing through the written word and artistic forAgenda. all of Alas, the Sistas whoseWelocations lie in perpetual co expression(s). for all of the Sistas whoseDig-In locations lie in perpetual complexities of seeks to int Race,ourClass, Mother’sGender, Garden, and Sexuality. Womanish Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality. Womanish seeksthrough to intersect power word and artist into these identities the written Stronger in Color into these identities through the written word and artistic expression(s). expression(s). ---Iresha Picot

... For Sojourner who told the Trut

Editors Iresha Picot & Zakiya.Bediako We are two displaced southern Sistas who met in Philly a year ago, brewing over a Black Feminist Agenda. Alas, Womanish. We wrote womanish for all of the Sistas whose locations lie in perpetual complexities of Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality. Womanish seeks to intersect power into these identities through the written word and artistic expression(s).

Wom·an·ish Wom·an·ish

According AccordingtotoWebster: Webster: 1: 1: associated associated with with or characteristic or characteristic of women of rather women than rather men than 2: 2: suggestive suggestive of of a weak a weak character: character: effeminate effeminate <womanish <womanish fears> f PROBLEM-FUCKING-MATIC PROBLEM-FUCKING-MATIC According AccordingtotoIresha Iresha & Z& Z Womanish: Womanish: 1. 1. fast fast(fierce, (fierce, giving giving 100 100 %) %) 2. 2. hot hot(on (onfire, fire, blazing blazing tongues) tongues) 3. 3. smelling smellingya’self ya’self (conscientious, (conscientious, aware)aware) 4. 4. showing showingout out (confidence, (confidence, movement, movement, blackgirlmagic) blackgirlmagic) 5. 5. grown grown(potential. (potential. foundation, foundation, ready)ready) 6. 6. fresh fresh(dope, (dope, trendsetters) trendsetters) Let’s Let’s take takethese these adjectives adjectives & & wrap wrap them themaround around ourselves ourselves to embody to embody our our narratives, narratives, to to cultivate cultivate our magic. our magic. Womanist WomanistWonders. Wonders. This This has has takentaken shape shape inindifferent different art art forms: forms:black black girl girl poppin poppin poetry poetry & & prose, prose,black blackfeminist feminist intellect. intellect. Critiquing Critiquing Analysis. Analysis. Conscious ConsciousCouture. Couture. reaching reachingback back to to man[I]fest man[I]fest our mot[her]s our mot[her]s song. song.

What does What Womanish does Womanish Mean to Mean You? to You? ...when ...when I think I think of myself of myself as womanish as womanish now atnow 27,atI 27, emphasize I emphasize the "ish" the "ish" as a place as a place of transformation....what's of transformation....what's womanish womanish about about me is me howisI'm howstill I'm still a girla most girl of most theofday, the pulling day, pulling the grown the grown woman woman stuff stuff out when out Iwhen needI it, needbut it,making but making sure to sure to stay playful stay playful and open and to open howtomyhow daily my daily experiences experiences of life of life and love and are lovetransforming are transforming me. Some. forSomefor womanish me womanish means means that that adventurous adventurous spiritspirit of moving of moving back and backforth and forth between between grown grown and growing. and growing. Dr. Lex Dr. Lex what comes what comes to mind to when mind Iwhen think I think of "womanish" of "womanish" is a young is a young woman woman actingacting "grown", "grown", like an like adult. an adult. Perhaps, Perhaps, actingacting older older than her thanphysical her physical age. Having age. Having a "womanish", a "womanish", older,older, more more outspoken outspoken personality. personality. Could Could be negative. be negative. It really It really depends depends on theonuser the and userthe andcontext the context it is it used is in. used in. Amme Wilson Amme Wilson I've never I've never heard heard this before this before now but nowitbut makes it makes me think me think "like "like a woman". a woman". Do maybe Do maybe it could it could be "ways be "ways of a woman" of a woman" or or "pertaining "pertaining to a woman to a woman or womanhood". or womanhood". AndreaAndrea Brown Brown Womanish Womanish soundssounds like what like it what means it means to actto(or actlook) (or look) like alike a woman.woman. What it What means it means to acttooract look or like look alike woman, a woman, though, though, is is up to up individual to individual discretion, discretion, so I can't so I can't say that say the thatword the word has a has positive a positive or negative or negative connotation connotation per se. perItse. does It does remindremind me of me hearing of hearing peoplepeople criticize criticize women women as being as being "mannish". "mannish". In that In sense, that sense, you can youtake can this take word this and wordmake and it make it something something positive positive ratherrather than athan weapon. a weapon. Jerri Jerri like the like-ish the part -ish of part it of is it a sort is a of sort twist of twist on words. on words. womanish womanish could could mean the mean"stuff" the "stuff" of a woman. of a woman. i think i think i heard i heard the term the growing term growing up used up on used young on young girls girls actingacting grown grown and not and not reallyreally havinghaving the experience the experience behindbehind it butitjust but imitating just imitating the behavior the behavior they seen. they seen. so someone so someone would would say "you say actin "you actin womanish" womanish" SelenaSelena Reed Reed To be To honest, be honest, when Iwhen hearI womanish, hear womanish, I think I think of someone of someone who who is feminine. is feminine. I don't I don't have any havedeep any thoughts deep thoughts about about it because it because this is this my is first my first time hearing time hearing that term. that term. So, itSo, canit can something something as positive as positive as saying as saying that athat woman a woman is very is strong very strong

or as or negative as negative as using as using it as it a derogatory as a derogatory term to term describe to describe a malea who maleiswho feminine. is feminine. AngelaAngela Growing Growing up, i up, didn't i didn't hear womanish, hear womanish, i heard i heard mannish. mannish. in fact in fact my dadmysaid dad that said to that me to notmetoo notlong too ago. long anyway, ago. anyway, when iwhen readi read your message, your message, i thought i thought of mannish of mannish especially especially as it as pertains it pertains to negatively to negatively describing describing what young what young (black) (black) girls'girls' behavior behavior when they when are theyacting are acting "out of "out place." of place." so it so makes it makes me wonder me wonder in what in ways what womanish ways womanish is either is either an extension an extension of or of perhaps or perhaps antithetical antithetical to mannish. to mannish. SummerSummer M. M. Womanish Womanish means means a person a person who iswho mature is mature knows knows how tohow carry to carry herself herself in a respectful in a respectful feminine feminine manner. manner. A person A person who know who know what they what want they and wantdon't and don't rely on rely a man on aa man woman a woman with class with class and dignity. and dignity. Kendria Kendria Womanish Womanish soundssounds to me to like me alike worda Iword guess I guess some people some people use use describe describe grown grown folks folks business, business, not child's not child's play. play. I suppose I suppose it's the it'ssame the thing same thing as when as Iwhen hearI my hear brothers my brothers lecture lecture time time and time and again, time again, "A grown "A grown ass man assisman a grown is a grown ass man, ass son." man, son." Only Brooklyn Only Brooklyn can sum canupsum my up experiences my experiences with men withsomen well. so well. Kristia Kristia Womanish Womanish means means to me to divinity me divinity and grace, and grace, infinite infinite givinggiving and and sharing sharing with family with family and community. and community. ChanelChanel Gray Gray Womanish Womanish means,means, I am first I am first an idea an conceived idea conceived in theinmind the of mind of this infinite this infinite universe, universe, secondly secondly a human a human being being and finally and finally a a woman.woman. Not a Not being a being satisfied satisfied by fitting by fitting into comfortable into comfortable stereotypes stereotypes of a "strong of a "strong black black woman"woman" or something or something expected expected to be to "lady-like". be "lady-like". I am womanish! I am womanish! Ever-changing Ever-changing and a and a walking walking refutation refutation of anyone of anyone attempting attempting to define to define me. Not me. Not just an just "ish" an "ish" but THE butish. THE Iish. bring, I bring, nurture nurture and sustain and sustain life. life. Ria Ria

country.city.girlchild. Zakiya.Bediako finger - snapping (get back) hip - holding (shake it to the east) eye – rolling (get smacked) country-city-girl-child with two corn-rolls cascading down the sides of a tender head reminiscent of winding southern roads welcomed by a jet black abyss early on i was raising fists while sucking on cherry chew-sticks listening to sista/brother so & so swell a revolution gone flat by contradictions sitting hunched in orange plastic chairs i found love at his conviction i was birthed to a drum beat in a room filled with frankincense and myrrh taught that home was oceans away but no kente cloth felt better than bigma’s crochet on a hot Georgia day when sweet tea with one lemon that we better- not –touch for an hour tasted real good after a “yes maam.”

A short poem for the ones who think we are free. Zakiya.Bediako you are so easily pleased. and for that my belly is pregnant with stones in due time i shall open my legs wide against the world and birth my agitation.

Spaces. Zakiya.Bediako

Remembering.

There are so many spaces. Like the nights sky Iresha Picot is between each of us Even when she's lying there with her afro puff/ puff puff like smoke You better sit yourself down stacks somewhere, trying to act that my rasta daddy creates Womanish.--Granny in back rooms and front rooms with brothers and sisters who love Jah In my pubescent years, residing a small country town, like Jesus was in only for the holidays butinto wait... almost tipping over North Carolina, but still nicely I was talking Spaces I never knew situated in the southern corner about of Virginia, Like night was stretching her arms what the term Womanish actually meant. What I was aware the length of war-time between us of, was when my momma, granny, auntie or anyofother when she's right in front me grown Black Woman would with spat her those wordsbrown out to me in a crash brown, skin. Like wrote it country tone--I was in India trouble. I wasn’t acting the way I Justcountry for sheBlack , should be as a young girl. I was being The shade of russet defiant, unruly, and misbehaving or ashardwood my mother’s other damp still from wax that ain't dried yet favorite saying was “I was smelling myself” (another play before four feet found on words that I wouldn’t get until I was well a thousand a month to hard toover pass18). up And who cares if I don't know her other sisters I called my grannywhat up the dayname and is asked her exactly But and wait. what Womanish meant, she stated that to act Womanish, I was talking about spaces. was to “Acting grown. Ree, you know them girls who act Thick inside of us Womanish; they be like trying to 16 actthighs like aingrown size 14's up when they are supposed to stay in a to child’s place”. wanting be 12's not knowing that Saartjie (SART-KAY) was...recall well, acting beautiful I don’t know, I cannot thatand way as a child, - France doesn't own your parts but Granny said there were “right many” times I did. I do That spread wide like diseases in Hai-ti remember vividly, 'cause of being toldwater that runs I wastoo acting clean freely “Womanish”, when they I wasas“testing” from felt my pipes if sewersthem as Black thirstnow, and “Girl, need toI survive Women. I can hear got my Momma know your little but wait Black self, is not getting loud with me”, or “Who are you was talking about Spaces. girl, coming up inI my house acting Womanish”. I was well and alive like testing her. I wasthe “testing” her being as a Black problem Woman. great divide our continuous I was acting dangerous and a little senile to be coming which Audre equated to the theft of what was n that tenderness which has become foreign for far too many of us. But wait... I am talking about spaces reading in-between lines and refusing the margin cause hooks wrote books on our behalf made yams white and black black and white to set us free

into her house, the one she let me know that she constantly paid for, with the clothes she paid for on my back, talking recklessly and asking those questions that she was not ready to answer like “Why are you always hollering?” But as I got older, and had removed myself from that little small country town and finding laughter through memories with Zakiya, Womanish started to take on various meanings. It went from a term of chastisement to a feeling of endearment. It was Momma, seeing her ways in me and modeling it back to her. It was Granny acknowledging your physical and mental growth and recognizing that although you were a child, you really were growing up. Womanish was the development of Black Womanhood and maybe just a little nervousness from the Woman in your family to see you all grown up and leaving them behind. Lovingly, they wanted to curtail your blossomed Womanhood and keep you as little Peaches, or Re-Re and Lucy. This is exactly what our Sista Manifesta, “Womanish” embodies. Its falling somewhere in the middle of being aware of your place as a Black Woman, but still testing those boundaries and moving beyond them by being defiant. This Manifesta is a space where other Black Women will acknowledge you and check you on your words, by creating dialogues, upon dialogues of asking questions to move the discussion along (never moving backwards, always forward, keep the line going). This Manifesta will be a space where you will feel like a little Peaches at times, and an Othermother at others. This Manifesta is for Black girls and women to be Womanish and to redefine what that means in their own ways.

I Almost Lost My SELF!! Charlotte Hill O’Neal aka Mama C

“She ain’t from here!” (ANATOKA MAHALI INGINE, BWANA!)

It used to amaze me that Even though Pre-dreadlocked, Dressed in khanga from head to toe, Carrying my babies on my back Basket on my head Chewing sugar cane sticks And pepper sprinkled muhogo roasts… Just like everybody else… …before I even opened my mouth

I almost lost my fierce, laughing, In yo’ face SISTAH Tone of voice And My Hands-on-hips-finger-wavin’snake-charmin’“You ain’t ‘BOUT to tell ME I Can’t”… Neck moves!

I couldn’t hide it even though I tried And I almost Lost My SELF!...self…self…self…

And I almost lost it, in giving it up… But I woke up just in time… And place… And attitude

to speak Charlotte Hill O’Neal aka Mama C, is an internationally known visua They could somehow tell that I I tucked that ‘me’ tightly and spoken word artist of many years experience. She was born in Ka was under my khanga wraps her husband, someone Pete O’Neal, who is the founder of United African Alli And ELSE… Demure gaze She is mother of two children, Malcolm And and Stormy Ann. Mama C has a DIFFERENT… and she is the author of Warrior Woman of Peace. Other THAN… Soft, gentle handshake

Charlotte Hill O’Neal aka Mama C, is an internationally known visual artist, writer, musician, film maker and spoken word artist of many years experience. She was born in Kansas, USA and has lived in Africa with her husband, Pete O’Neal, who is the founder of United African Alliance Community Center UAACC since 1970. She is mother of two children, Malcolm and Stormy Ann. Mama C has an album called “Music is My Medicine” and she is the author of Warrior Woman of Peace.

In my freshly landed Just-got-off-the-boat enthusiasm Of living in Africa, I tried to Blend, To Melt, Homogenize, Disappear, Erase The essence of what made me who I WAS and AM… An African, Who grew up in and was molded by The ‘hoods of America, And I almost Lost My SELF!...Self…Self…Self… I almost lost that distinctive stride that signals

I had to learn to remember that the “I” that is “ME” Has a history as rich and as valid as anyone born With the dust of our African Ancestors squished lovingly between their baby toes I learned to remember that the Middle Passage memories still twisting in my DNA (causing frequent bouts of claustrophobic episodes) Are as real as the recollections of those who had never Been ripped from the reassuring womb of Family And history And language And food

And religion…religion…religion… I learned to remember that the French etymology of my name Was just as valid And honorable And blessed As Habiba’s or Amina’s or Aisha’s ‘cause it was given to me in love, By those who loved me And marked me as surely as the eternally swollen scarification cuts Of a Dinka Lady I learned to reject feelings of embarrassment at having been born An African in America, Off-land Off-shore Thousands of miles Off-course From where I might have been Had those captors not had such a pressing need for Dark rum And Cotton gins I’ve learned to remember and bring honor to the fact that I’m STILL The fly in the ointment The Lump in the clotted cream The Wrinkle in the dried cloth The Hard green pea under the stack of mattresses! And after having lived in Africa for going on 40 years… I’m still DIFFERENT… SET APART… MNEGRO!!!! But It no longer bothers me that folks STILL ask me

(even after I’ve explained that I’ve lived in a village In the heart of WaMeru homeland… In Africa… For years and years and years… Probably even before they were born) It no longer bothers me, I tell you… when they say in response to my explanation… “…uh huh…Yes…yes… I do understand that But, (now watch out…here it comes…here it comes!...) But… WHERE ARE YOU FROM??” A poem for my Sisters …Women of the Nile By Mama Charlotte Hill O’Neal Let’s celebrate who we are my Sisters! Know that you can achieve WHATEVER you set your mind to With focus and commitment and work and stick-to-it-ness! Know that you come from a legacy of brave women! BRAVE… you know that word spoken daily, acted out by our Mothers Sisters Aunts

Grandmothers! Realize your beauty, dear sisters and Know that you are beautiful in your own natural African way Without Chemicals and straighteners Without Lighteners and skin tight clothes Know that you are beautiful in your own natural African way! Your full lips are the envy of others who shoot chemicals into theirs in emulation of yours! The swing of your full, full hips are the mark of your women-ness… Don’t diet that legacy of beauty away! We are all roundness and softness not sharp angles and hardness! Be full with our abundance and swollen with our grace! Walk with the gait of a proud lioness Dancing feet and laughing heart Even in times of sorrow…we smile Facial Hair Part I by Charlotte Hill O'Neal aka Mama C I graduated from tweezers to razor blades at the tender age of twelve I started 'taking company' and arching my eyebrows at about the same time blood letting marking both events And I remember graduating to sharp, single edged blades that came in stacks of six, all individually wrapped in a little white box with dark blue lettering

Even in times of weeping…we smile Even in times of struggle…we smile It’s our way… It’s our way Our African woman way… Oh…but we have been known to lash out… To scream and to shout! Our claws can be sharp in defense… in attack and Oh yes…sometimes, in love! Wrap your strength and beauty, dear sister, in the cloth that marks your beauty! Wrap your body in long swatches of khanga and kitenge And know that you are beautiful… in your own unique African Woman Way! Khanga and kitenge: colorful cotton cloth that is very popular in East Africa and worn by most women as sarongs, shawls, head ties, baby slings, and a hundred others ways!

The sight of those blades nearly always stimulated my tongue for some weird reason making me want to lick the razor's edge teasingly... just a hair's breadth... barely touching... like a wildly erotic fantasy an outrageous dare not quite acted out... without bloody consummation REMEMBERING... My finger dips into the Vaseline jar

and smears the grease carefully across the whole eyebrow making the hairs lay down obediently weighing down all resistance Like the most gently, considerate foreplay... to the beat of an unheard vibration... the attendant finger spreads the oily lubrication then lifts and spreads and lifts and spreads getting things ready to receive what is to come Like an expert Amazonian blow dart hunter who learns to make constant, instant calculations of wind velocity x distance through the forest canopy leaves my fingers learned to compensate blade angle x the grease that built up before it like the bulldozer shovel of a snow plow cleaning city highways Oh but believe meâ&#x20AC;Ś oft times the calculations didn't save me! blood would be drawn time and time again from cuts above both eyes as I struggled to learn the ways to hold the blade at the correct angle while trying to decipher the reverse image of my fingers delicately stretching the skin that held the wiry black hairs of my brows captive for the sharp chop soon to come 'WILD'!!!

That's what we learned to call the un-arched un-tweezed un-plucked un-cut un-bleeded hairs that sprung up every week as if they'd never been sliced off at the roots WILD HAIRS! I'd concentrate hard peering into the mirror at my reflection mastering the blade learning to slice not only using the flat edge but also the very tip of the steel's corner that required a little 'english' on it... a quick twist a slight of hand for those hard to reach places And there was always that inevitable slip not every time... but guaranteed to happen at some point in time... The pink and white meat slit that opened up during my 'careless' handling of the blade during my first attempts of shaping the arch was fascinating to me It always took a split second for the blood to begin pooling and dripping quickly in a race to slide out and flow away before the tissue plug halted its escape Year in and year out... from the age of twelve!! i did it! and my eyes got used to seeing the artfully tamed and arched version of my God given Wildness!!

CHANGES When I went to Algeria at the age of 20, in a burst of my Panther Woman's Rebellious Spirit I threw my razor boxes away and tried to toss out the mind set that had led to this highly traumatic decision... And I did NOT like the brows that stared back at me! Like an anorexic mind deceiving 75 pounds into thinking it a

200 pound reality, my relatively sparse naturally curved eyebrows screamed at me with a wild woman's I-don't-give-a-damn-whatanybody-thinks voice and attitude of Frida Khalo, the ultimate brow warrior... and it took me years and years and years to listen!! But LISTEN... I did!! April 2010 NY

valuing herself and setting herself an apart from other Black Women by being an illustration of a Queen, an Earth. In my senior year of college, I stopped building with the Nation of Gods and Earths, but kept the head wraps…also around that time, I picked up a Black feminist agenda and became a Women Studies major in college. But my head wraps started to become something very fetishlike to the White girls in my class, as one White girl said to me one day “I wait everyday to see what color head wrap you have on your head”. I eventually stopped wearing my head wraps and just let my naps be exposed to the world. A couple of days ago, I found a bag at the bottom of my closet, with my colorful head wraps and I started to question why I had even stopped wearing them in the first place. Had I transitioned from Queen Mother Earth in undergrad to Black feminist academic Sistah in graduate school, where I NEEDED to actually show my naps on my head, because I was now in a place where acculturation looked good to even the most confident person? *maybe* Or, was I tired of the stigma attached to them (external representation of Afrocentricity—which I do not ascribe to)? *shrugs* Or, was it because of the rampant Kemars and Muslim Women in Philly that I wanted to distance myself from? *Nodding*

Picture by z.bediako

Wrap Your Head With This Material Iresha Picot Anyone who knew me a couple of years ago, or even a year and a half ago, knew that I was good for ‘rocking’ a head wrap. I mean the ones that shot straight up [think of E. Badu’s “on and on”] and pointed to Allah, saying “yes, I am a refined Queen”. But I transitioned out of head wraps over the last couple of years because I started to feel confined to a piece of cloth. I started with the art of head wrapping when I became a citizen of the Nation of Gods and Earth [Five Percenters] at seventeen—dutifully wearing my 3/4ths (rockin three-fourths of cloth never showin' your stuff off, boo—Method Man) of clothing and keeping myself refined and fly. Moving from occasionally wrapping my hair to rocking 3/4ths and sporting head wraps as an everyday part of my clothing was something that transpired during my sophomoric and junior years of college. An African Woman from Ghana first showed me how to master the wrapping of my head, but it was an elder in the Nation of Gods and Earths that help me put meaning to what I was doing. Black Women she told me, “Who were Earths in the Nation of Gods and Earth were to cover every ‘curve on their bodies’ including your hair, so your body could not be seen”. So for most of us, if any part of the body was exposed---you wrapped your hair. If legs were exposed---wrapped, if your arms and/or legs were exposed--wrapped, if skirts were floor length and arms not exposed, you could wear your hair out. It was the “Queenly” thing to do…. because dressed in 3/4ths signified the beauty of a Black woman

Although those questions may have had some bearing on my decision, I think the real reason I stopped wearing head wraps, was due to my own confinement in attaching “Queen” to a piece of cloth…it became gimmicky. Between the ages of 17 and 22, I kept hearing that real Queens never exposed themselves….real Queens wore their hair covered for their righteous Black man, (even though he never had a dress code)….real Queens never let their bodies be exposed to the White man’s eye…blah, blah, blah….it was like my crown or something…..my cape… and if I didn’t have it on, my super Black Woman powers were juiced out….so the head wraps had to go, because if my self-worth was tied to a head wrap, then I was in big trouble. But I say to the Sistahs that rock head wraps, keep rocking on (I may rock one tomorrow), but know that a head wrap starts with a mental elucidation, nor does a mental understanding starts and then a head wrap follows…with or without the head wrap, we still can shine as beautiful Black women.

Center Page Zakiya.Bediako i'm shifting from places i used to sit comfortably questioning to whom i belong fighting for space in a picture with no room within four corners for my reason to exist i have to have a fight this world is too backwards to hang up my swollen gloves there is still more red to smear on its face i'm shifting for presence on a center page besides, i am your sister. my back been burnt too long my floor still carries the weight of holding down, keeping up wearing out for your battle my struggle, too, has depth i thought we were holding hands rejecting the oppressor not manifesting itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rhetoric to tell me we come last like weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been sitting on a pedestal not standing on the forefront i'm shifting from places i used to sit comfortably letting my sisters comb my naps spread the oil on my scalp braid my hair and prepare me for the battle where you are on the opposite side (skin color, gods finest dark as the night) fighting for space in the picture. Little Causalities Zakiya.Bediako how can i see rainbows through this cloud of grey smoke reeking of fresh ash dry bones and sizzled hair

once grown from the heads of 4 little black girls 4 little black girls 4 little black girls from alabama who liked to lick the sweet potato batter from big mamas spoon little brown girls little brown girls of bagdad who laid their heads in the grass and watched their brothers pass orange kites across the humid sky to tease and tickle the clouds kinky haired boys of southern sudan who fetched big buckets of brown water from the nile for big sister big sister thick lipped girls of haiti sewing sequences muticular sequences on car-ni-val costumes. to please oshune. chestnut face boys of gaza building tents on dry land next to debri from bombed schools bombed schools little sun kissed kissed boys of Aboriginal Australia watching uncle play the didgeridoo yearning for the day they could play, too little ebony girls of kampala, uganda sleeping soundlessly on stacked beds before the fire roared swallowing them whole am i suppose to see rainbows rainbows? through this cloud of grey smoke?

Her & She (10/22) Zakiya.Bediako s If I have learned one lesson about relationships in the past year it is not to be fooled by the butterflies. It's easy to allow the flicker of their wings to encircle you while simultaneously lifting you from the ground. How simple it is to get caught up in the whirlwind as they flutter around you . A dance. I'm so turned off by it all. I'm so immersed in it all. Call me a cynic but i know the suspension won't last long. Call me a fool, but i love the height. One day your feet can barely touch the floor and the next, you've crashed; legs sprawled in different directions beneath you. Butterflies don't live long after they've changed their form. Just like love, or something like it. It changes form, too. Even fades. As long as there is nothing to constantly preserve its color. Time can be the strongest bleacher. Time can be the greatest intensifier. A tiedyed contradiction. But I can't trust beginnings. Or the Larva that develops into an unrecognizable shape. Beginnings are important; it's what pulls you in. But I still can't trust them. I can't trust butterflies. Especially their wings; a stunning distraction to the body of an insect most of us would run from. z Most people I encounter, who learn of my profession (a teacher, soon PH.D student in multicultural education & equality), are amazed when I tell that I'm actually an extremely literal person; that metaphors are not my friends and similes and I don't get down like the closest of comrades. They ponder why one interested in the language arts, actually divorce the two--figurative and literal. I separate the two like the selfish mother encountering King Solomon. I understand that words wrap us in their flows, their rhythms, and their rhymes. All the while, the meaning, whether harsh or sweet, is left by the wayside. Words have lives as interesting, if not more, than most people. They travel from mouth to ear to heart to head to lips to necks on a rotation that would make the most energetic medical resident dizzy. These duplicitous elements are not my friends. Ergo, the truth plain and simple. I don't know what to do with heart. Ruthie Foster sang that. I live that. I'll don't know how I'll get by; I wish you knew how hard I tried. Those words speak to my situation. I miss you as a lover, a confidante, but most of all a best friend. I understand that those who cause your pain cannot be the ones to help you heal that pain. I also understand that I can't have you as a best friend now because we are in different places in our lives. I get it. Ironic, isn't it? I'd often say, when we were together, that I didn't get it. Now, I do. After the fact. I understand the butterfly references. I remember talking to you about love not being enough. The irony of it all is that I was also referencing us. I call you at night not because I have to, but because I want to. I call you at night not because I'm obsessed with you but because I don't know where I stop and you start. We, in my mind, are connected in a way that can never be broken. But it must. I love you with a love that is not black and white but fucks with the grays. That hurt you at times; that loved you more than I loved myself. A love that took you through the ringer; that might have made you feel crazy at one time for sticking around and completely loved at other times. I want you to be happy, but I can't lie, at this moment in time, I want that person to be me. But going along with the irony of it all, I know that can't be. "I have lost and I have known All kinds of love so wonderful and through it all I have found there's only one true love and you were my miracle" --Ruthie Foster

High and Low Culture: Black Women and Art For Z. For Black Women in this society, we have a limited construction of what is reality from the dominant culture. Everything we do, is in constant comparison to someone else; handicapping the creative importance of our art. We loose so much of the imagery and meaning of our work, when we try to compare instead of critically analyzing and embracing it for what it is: Black Women’s Art. The inclusion of Black Women’s Art, is ever present in Barbara Christian’s groundbreaking article “The Highs and Lows of Black Feminist Criticism”. Christian argues that we must look foremost to the work(s) that Black Women create in order to understand why it has not been embraced by the larger culture. She separates the search into highs (read Caucasian/White) and lows (read Black/Afrikan). The high is what we are told to look at, but the low is where we reside in the margins; encapsing the question of “who cares about Black Women and their creativity?” Black Women have to. It has to be Black Women who care about discovering other Black Women’s art that lurks underneath and has yet to be discovered by other Black Women. Until we are able to embrace the “low” of our culture, we will not see it in all of its beauty. One issue that Christian states in her article that hit home for me was the way Black Women have to constantly assimilate themselves in the mainstream culture in terms of language. My origins are from a small country town, so I have this thick country accent, which makes the pronunciations of my words not so “perfect”. An accent that doesn’t pronounce all of the syllables in a word. An accent that sometimes I am conscious of correcting (like inside of the classroom) and a accent that I just let go and whatever comes out, I let the person that I am communicating with try to decipher it on their own. During my years in college, I tried to eradicate the accent with no achievement, but for some reason, my tongue rejected any type of assimilation on my part and resisted the unnecessary change. It wasn’t until I was introduced to Sojourner Truth, that I got exhausted of playing the game. Sojourner Truth, who the dominate culture would describe as having “broken” English, stood boldly on her square and spoke with great passion about the racial injustices that her people faced. Although her standard English was not perfected, the significance of her words are not lost and surpasses any grammatical errors. This goes along with Christians’ argument that Black Women can speak the “high” language all they want, but it looses any significance if we have yet to dully grasp and gather an understanding of what is conveyed in the margins. I still have a hard time putting my English words together or even having them agree but after you realize that trying to perfect the English grammar becomes trapped in a word prison and a slave language, then you start to twist it in on itself and change the inference and implication. So now I speak a multitude of languages-all perfected by me. Rejecting the attractiveness of the “high” ground, because as Black Women, we loose more than we are gaining when we reject the “low”. ---Iresha

Solo-Man (Prose in Continuation) There was a time that I liked myself---I really did, until you came along. I was willing to overlook the comment about you not liking my hair, saying that it was too short for a woman, even though you met me practically bald….I secretly cried when you suggested that I get a long straight weave to enhance my femininity. I was willing to overlook the comment about my stomach being too big and your constant recommendations for me to lose weight. I was too embarrassed to let you know that calling your mom about my weight made me feel so low, even though my stomach was the same size when you met me. I was willing to overlook the White girl fetish that you had…stating that you needed to connect with your "Sistahs"…although the only girls you would say out loud that was pretty were white girls….. I was willing to let you take away my Feminism. You told me that Woman who practiced such things did not want relationships and families…even when I broke down the term for you, you gave me a "choice" to choose between you and Womanism…and well, you won. When you called me a racist, I was willing to water down my seeds of Black consciousness because you said that I was too "pro-Black" and you convinced me that my critique of White supremacy and institutionalized racism was equated to hating White people and that I needed to love THEM more. I was willing to leave a friend alone when you told me that she hated you, but come to find out, you actually had a crush on her and since you could not have her, you wanted me to cut off all ties with her. I was willing to learn the rules of obedience for you, because I bought into this half African traditional/upper middle class America lifestyle that you promised me. You told me what a real African woman was supposed to be like---subservient and to listen and move to the beat of their African men (even though you had a colonized education from London and I might know more about Africa then you). But in reality, marrying you, and having your children while living in the suburbs scared the shit out of me. Understand, I never loved you, but rather I confused love with security, because I had someone around me… you have great credentials, you come from a high powered family, and your existence at your Ivy League school seem quite impressive to me.…but I loved myself before you…maybe not completely, but I loved everything that you hated. I loved my hair, the fact that I intertwined my feminism with my nationalism and although I know that my tummy needed some work on it, I wasn't having big girl blues at all, until I met you.

But now, I take a strong declaration that I want me back. I want Iresha back and I can say with affirmation that I have devoted the time and energy to discover her and enhanced her capabilities so she will never confuse love with control ever again. I will come back to myself. ---Iresha Gawga. age five or six. the years when long car rides would hypnotize me and my twin sister into daydreams that would tumble effortlessly into sleep. a light sleeper, my eyes would whip open at every red light as my father attempt to break caused his old red Chevy to screech the same sound that would later have me wishing parents didn't pull up in the front of elementary schools. i remember the winding gawga roads. the weaving of cars in and out of lanes like hooks dipping through yarn. i knew when we were almost home. i felt the familiarity of the three right turns it took to get us through traffic, the train tracks we galloped over towards the abandoned warehouses bringing us closer to sylvan road, and finally, that left turn that would end us at 1444. although I’d be awake, my eyes remained closed. an impending grin waited impatiently on the inside. felt four eyes peer at me from the front seats. any sign of life would have engendered the rise in my mothers honeyed low voice, "we're home." my twin sister authentically overpowered by the darkness snored this deep windy noise that softened my fathers heart a bit. my oldest sister, afi, knew my trick and resented the little bumps growing on her chest, " she ain't sleep! " my mama commanded her quiet with only a look from her eyes. success. my daddy would get out of his side of the chevy and i would feel a cold or warm breeze hit my coat or bare arm. daddy would unbuckle my seat belt and lift me in his arms. i allowed my body to hang limp and helpless like a fresh fawn. when my head finally rested over his broad shoulders i would finally release a huge smile sneaking out the cracks of my brown cheeks. if i was lucky my older sister would meet my eyes and i would eject my tongue. the final slam of the door lead us through the squeaky gate. up four steps and through the porch where my favorite play dough station sat with bits of putty stuck at the bottom of plastic ice cream cones. finally in our room, my shoes would be removed and i would feel the warmth of my twins body as we were both tucked in, my mom would hum our favorite story orange tree growing and growing and growing, orange tree – step mother is not real mo-ther orange tree. and they would leave out and down the stairs to their separate rooms. then i'd roll over to my twin sister and pinch her nose close until she exhaled awake.

honey suckles I suckled Zakiya.Bediako

A poem for her. Zakiya.Bediako

for all that i have left are paper thin dreams laying flatly on pale pillows don’t mistake them for water colors just cause they dissipate at the touch diluted and bright; fragrant of moon beams that gently swayed through the curtain of blinds like the slow motion of swing sets stuck, speckled in a grainy old film fallen back in time yes, i still remember the sweetness of abundance a cornucopia of oblivion while white envelopes piled up on the kitchen table out of tune piano top crooked mailbox; stiff and brown from summers' sweat while cocoa butter legs ran the distance of a country block covered in honey suckles shrubs what precision it took to pull the stamen through the bloom fearing that poison resided at the tip, a globular body of nectar but i tasted life anyway

i haven't written a poem for her. that says a lot. maybe i'm speechless. (ha. i'm sure thats not it.) there isn't much to say. about a she who says ' bi-racial babies are the best babies ' to which i could only reply with a subterranean sigh while simultaneously understanding her position as black settles so deeply in her face you'd think Sun was her mother and father she who hates the the summer time you'd think she was the daughter of Midnight she who still dwells in the halls of it's birthplace second grade where 'tootsie rolls for fingers ' and 'your mama so black jokes' really ain't funny when you're almost purple. she with skin so smooth it looks like dark chocolate was poured on evenly against her face i haven't written a poem for her. but if i did, i'd have to speak of her embrace and how she breathes me in/ nose buried in the crease of my neck smelling the black coconut that resides there

Black(en) the Mystique Betty Freidan was wrong. Didn’t she know that we were happy? The brown ones anyway. In our homes. But she forgot to seek out our mystique. If she did, we could have told her: Our homes were safe spaces, Warmth-enclosed by Granny’s soft wrinkle hands, Good food Matriarchs Reaching back. Thigh Slapping, Head back: Laughter. Homemade creations Embracement Solitary Communion Generations: Meet. Refuge Sanctuary Loud mouths: tongues running free Smiles Othermothers: Loving Oral Traditions At kitchen tables Sisters. Homegirls. Dexterity Affirmations Testimonies Whole. ….If she would have asked, we would have told her, our homes were not desolated in patriarchal prisons. Our homes belonged to us. ---Iresha Picot

Call for Submissions Calling all Black Women and the celebration of their voices to Womanish. The first issue of Womanish included mostly the editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work; we extend this Sista Manifesta to our Sistas as not only readers, but also as co-creators. We are seeking essays, poems, letters, prose, artwork, plays, and all other forms of literary and creative blackgirlmagic that celebrates Black Women. If you would like to submit a piece(s) of your work, email us at summerforthesistas@gmail.com Iresha & Z thank Mama Charlotte Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neil for blessing us with the usage of her work. We would also like to thank Cyan Jeffries (Blu) for putting the magic touch on our cover and Nashay Jones for her art that completed this issue.