MELANINZINE
REPRESENT, REINVENT
IN THIS ZINE‌ Alexis Winfrey Black Congo Britt Britt Candice Steele Charlie Damocles Danielle Holmberg Helen Gould Ishani Jasmin Mahalia Mwaka Mshanga Rafeya Raquib Sophia Terazawa Sanaa Hamid Sushmita Paruchuri Sydney Colbert Thirteen Daggers Vaishnavi Nathan Van Nguyen Wendy Perez Whitney Romberg Yvelisse Bonano
I have drawn myself once, and only once. That didn't seem significant until now. I drew it in the car, driving down the motorway. I had flipped down the mirror in the ceiling for a reference (I've never been able to draw well just from imagination, even when it's my own face). Dad was driving. This was back when I still had the urge to draw, so I must have been around 14 or 15. At the time, I felt like I wasn't paying much attention to what I was doing - after all, I was in the car, and my lines were probably going to end up all over the place - but it came out actually looking like me. I don't remember what my Dad said about it, but doubtless it was something encouraging and constructive. He was an artist himself, you see, and I think he really liked watching his child draw. I never got to ask him, though. I found the picture again last year. I've come a long way since I drew it. Every time I look at it, I am struck by how seriously my own eyes are looking back at me. It makes me wonder what I was thinking, where my mind was. Almost everyone has an awful time as a teenager, even if it only lasts a few months. I had several years. Maybe that was my default expression at the time. I've come a long way since then, though I don't know where exactly I am. I look like a stranger to myself. But maybe that's part of what growing up is - growing away, growing apart from yourself into something new, like a tired butterfly clichĂŠ.
Helen Gould
TWO HEADS Sophia Terazawa i got two heads walking me away tempted to line an imperial garden with peonies of dioxin and at the orphanage ma ma dont teach me how to say OPERATION RANCH HAND in her own tongue how the U.S. military fertilized our bodies with RAINBOW HERBICIDES i come out with three defects and a million colors ma ma watch me walk
Sophia Terazawa
Alexis Winfrey
AN INTERVIEW WITH
SANAA HAMID
What inspired you to the up photography as a means of expression? Did you have a eureka moment with a camera at all, or was it a slower development? Well, since I was about 17 it was all that excited me, even when I was just trying to be a fashion photographer and taking goofy (and awful) pictures of my friends. It was only really in my second year at university a couple of years ago on my photography degree that I actually started taking it seriously and acknowledging my identity and how I could explore it through photography, so I guess there was that eureka moment! There was just something about analogue photography that was slo, calculated and made sense. How would you say your image has changed over the past few years? Would you call your representation of yourself passive or deliberate, or kinda in between? It’s definitely changed as my work became more conscious, especially after visiting Pakistan again to shoot my project My Body Is Not Your Battleground. I’ve become a lot prouder to look Pakistani, to embellish myself with my culture in a way I would have been embarrassed to do when I was younger. I grew up in a culture where Islamophobia and racism was normalised, and I tried my hardest to conceal my roots, even to the point where I had a lot of disdain for it. I’m glad that isn’t that case anymore. I love seeing other South Asian women repping the motherland too, especially on the internet! What first intrigued you about self-representation? So I wasn’t exactly intrigued, it was more along the lines of me looking at the meaningless fashion stuff (not to say all fashion work is unimportant of course) I was shooting and thinking, ‘Wow, I actually have so much more to say than this,’ and the idea of making work that can actually represent all the things i’ve felt. When I first started making work about myself, it was for my project Through Her Eyes, and it’s still the work that means the most to me. It really signified my shift in topic as well as methodology.
Do you have a favourite photograph of yourself? Yeah, probably this one (below) from Through Her Eyes. When I look at this, I see myself a few years ago, struggling with so many issues i’d internalised and couldn’t speak to anybody about, and that kind of silent discussion I had with my Mother through the collaboration. It was the most personal project i’ve ever done, and I really didn’t expect people to necessarily connect with it…but I still get emails from young South Asian women from all over the place saying that it really impacted them, so that’s lovely to hear. That was really a project of self-healing, and I’ll still go back to it sometimes when I need to, to see how much i’ve grown. It makes me feel proud of myself, because I’m a completely different person now.
Can you remember when you were first gendered? Haha, since I was born I’m sure! ‘Sit properly, like a nice girl!’ Could you talk about some of the women you encountered in Pakistan? So many, not ones I can share though I’m afraid. I met so many inspiring and passionate young women while I was shooting My Body Is Not Your Battleground II but I made promises to not share the stories of pain, victory and strength that were shared with me. I wasn’t there to take emotional snippets of their lives and exploit them for my own advantages, so I guess that’s the part of the project that was only ever for me and only me! Ha ha, sorry! But generally, there was this overwhelming passion for education by any means necessary, they really stood up to anyone they needed to in a really courageous way. And they’re all sooo cool like…my dream squad!
Have you ever had a ‘lifting the veil’ moment where you first realised that you WERE a woman of colour and thus disadvantaged in current power systems, or did the realisation come to you quite gradually? Well, there’ve always been micro-aggressions from a very young age. I’ve always felt very different, and often during school especially, uncomfortably so. So I don’t think I had one specific moment, British culture didn’t allow it. I was very much aware since I was six years old, playing with my twin sister at the park near my house, and called ‘Pakis’. It was the first time that ‘us vs them’ mentality became apparent to me, and the first time my ethnicity was used against me. Do you have any tips for POC creatives? Ok, so let’s talk about art school and creative education. I mean, it’s a problem in it’s very concept, how can you teach art? But as a WOC? It’s whole new levels of bullshit you’ll have to endure. But it’s so so so important to create your own creative scenes, support groups and crit circles in order to receive feedback that is beyond ‘so…why is it always about race?’ I felt very isolated during my photography degree, even though I had great friends who I cherish, the structures in place did not allow me to fully explore my identity and challenge the norm. I know I definitely blew out the candle before it had even lit for a lot of my projects, merely to make it palatable to the white institution, which is ridiculous in hindsight. Basically, make work unapologetically!
Check out Sanaa’s work a t SANAAHAMID.COM
Rafeya Raquib
FRACTAL FEATURES AND MANDELBROT BODY Mahalia The contours of my body have no well-defined length. Though you have traced and kissed and known it well, inches are insufficient to measure this madness; these miles are misplaced. The closer you come, the more you will find every time, the further my minutia will stretch, legs going on for days, breasts for millenia, round stomach for aeons. The butterfly of the storm recognizes its kin and lands, folding its eternity into its neatly patterned wings, settling on my collarbone. Or perhaps my ankle. It is at one and the same time too delicate to breathe upon and yet larger and fiercer than these bones will ever be. You may study me with care, I will be your butterfly, but content yourself with kisses; any pins will fail to hold me. I am smaller than you, but I am the one who diverges to infinity.
Mahalia
Rafeya Raquib
ON BEING ROMANTICIZED/ IDEALIZED Van Nguyen Here is a collection of my faults: I am messy, sloppy, uncoordinated, unbalanced, clumsy, trips over her own feet, trips over her own words, loves too easily, loves too much, loves the wrong people, lets go too fast, too capable of leaving without looking back, runs away from feelings, runs away from responsibility. So if you love me, love me in the spaces in between perfection. Photographs are manipulated images of reality. I probably don’t look as good as you’re expecting me to be. A human is just a human, and I don’t want to be turned into an idea anymore. My poetry is what the world looks like from inside my head. Here are the trees turned into metaphors. The sunlight looks like love and tonight, the sky is telling you: you are light, you are light, you are light. But out here, outside of this mind, I get tired and I feel small sometimes. I am tired of apologizing for being a mess. Sometimes I don’t feel as brave, and I need you to tell me that that’s still okay.
Candice Steele
BIRTHPLACE Yvelisse Bonano my mother gave birth to me in an unfamiliar blizzard she smelled of palm trees and mumbled lullabies under her breath when she held me in her arms her birthplace is my birthplace her Spanish sticks to my tongue and my ears and no matter where I go I will always be seen as her birthplace I will always be asked where I am from even though I am from this country of the “free” asked what languages my tongue speaks my mom’s broken English will always tell me that she loves me and that I should be careful in this country that saw me for mother’s birthplace
Danielle Holmberg
LETTER TO MYSELF (AND OTHER SADGRLZ) THAT I WROTE ON AUGUST 5TH, 2014 Sydney T. Colbert
I want to kiss your mossy parts, cradle your crackled bones. Bring me your hard, all your brute and might, and your facade. You may lay them, and you may forget them. Anyhow they are translucent to me. Humiliate your self.
Whitney Romberg
TELEVISION IN ME Angel Thompson Dusk was approaching but the streets were lit with headlights on vehicles, reflector lights on bikes, street lamps, and the conversations of pedestrians on the sidewalks. Usually the city is too crowded and noisy, so I tend to stray away but on this particular evening I was able to drown out the ambient sounds and selectively listen to conversations surrounding me. I mentioned to my friend that they all reminded me of television shows and as we walked past the people conversing, we were actually channel surfing. The first channel was something similar to Lifetime, a woman and her friend discussed their days and how the temperature had drastically dropped. They then went on to speak of their children and their behavior by describing their ages as “terrible two” or “angsty fifteen”. It was like one of those sitcoms that got cancelled by is being re-aired on a different network some odd years later. The second channel was Telemundo, two Latino men stood near the curb. One was an older gentleman, with a small straw hat, island button shirt and relaxed khakis; his friend rested on his motorcycle and wore a leather jacket, jeans and boots. They both laughed about their adventure the night before at a local lounge. I mentioned to my friend that the older gentleman reminded me of a ‘cool cat’. The third channel was the CW, and a woman and her male friend yelled ‘HEY!’ before embracing one another. They must have been old or mutual friends and just so happened to run into one another. They both asked generic questions “how are you, how’s life etc.” and begin to reconnect. The last two channels consisted of ABC in the daytime (soap opera) where a woman was walking in a hurry and another woman with her child asked how she were doing and the woman mentioned going to the hospital and the last one was a reality show on Discovery and four men huddled over a moped and spoke incoherently. There was a private channel after Discovery, and it was actually one that involved me. More like a documentary on the History channel or IndiePiex or Starz InBlack, about a young woman strolling through the city trying to conquer her depression and anxiety by being outdoors. My hair blew in the wind much to my dismay causing me to be self-conscious, I resembled a sunflower stock (standing tall, slim, undefined brown leaves sprouting from my scalp and absorbing the sunlight through my skin). I blended with the stone walls and plants that grew on, over and behind them. ‘Namia' by John Coltrane plays throughout my mind, but thoughts of self-doubt and a dim-lit future linger behind the sounds of the saxophone. All in all the scene would focus on me still finding beauty in simplicity, architecture and human interaction.
Whitney Romberg
Danielle Holmberg
MY LIFE, MY WORLD, MY BEING Mwaka Mshanga I don’t know enough about a lot: Searching for answers, Using lies to disguise, That maybe my life, my world, my being Isn’t as put together as it seems. I will search the stars And very far To come up with the reasons To hide the scars that Make up my life, my world and my being. Then I’ll wipe away my tears. If you will listen If you as least pretend, If you try to comprehend Ask the right question. Listen close to the words that are My life, my world, my being. Hopefully it’ll be clear.
Sydney Colbert
Whitney Romberg
MY NAME IS VAISHNAVI Vaishnavi Nathan
Fishnavi. Vashinari. Vishvani. Vashnav. Va..umm. My name, as if it were a wet bar of soap, fumble on first encounters. I stopped correcting them. The coterie made me believe that accommodating everyone is the easiest way to assimilation. "Oh, do you have another name?" "Anything short?" ”Yes, it’s a mouthful. V, will do.” "Huh?" ”V for Vietnam?” I, casually, negate myself from the primitive part of me my name, my Indian ancestry. "Could I have a name to go with the coffee order?" "Whom shall I say is calling?" "Hi! Please introduce yourself to the team" Just V. Barely V. Almost there V. Chronic censorship to accommodate you. "My name is Vaishnavi." Vai - ish - ner - vee Don’t be afraid to roll your tongue. Take your time with it. I am patient. Now, say my name.
Britt Britt
Sushmita Paruchuri
GANAPATI Ishani Jasmin It’s dark, but I know you’re smiling, and my head is on your shoulder; I have drunk more than I am used to. I’m full of cider. ‘Can I kiss you?’ No. If you want, I guess. Ganesha guards the gap between us. He holds a staff, and he doesn’t lower it when you tilt your head and move in. He does not let you into the bathhouse. Please don’t cut off his head — he is only a boy, he doesn’t know better than that, doesn’t know more than ‘Don’t let anybody come in.’ The last time was a hand — creeping around the door frame finger by finger, never quite coming in. Before that, it was a full body, hot and clammy with sweat. I never saw the face; I was turned away. You can stand outside for a day or two, but I am letting you stay. He won’t hurt you. Do not come any closer.
MIGHTY YOU Thirteen Daggers You have an army inside you, you know. Soldiers ready to storm any shore in defense of your dignity. Tidal wave-surfing snipers to eradicate your enemies.
Black Congo
A POETIC ESSAY Wendy Perez
I wish I had the body of my 17 year old self, the one with the sensual waist whose lips loved to drown those of men, I wish I had the valor of my 16 year old self, who wasn’t afraid of anything, not even breathing. I wish I had the selfishness of my 18 year old self, when nothing mattered except “being me.” I wish to be as stupid as I was at 19, because she was the last to believe that I could live. And now I am almost 21. A number so strange, and so divine, I have been running from it my whole life. Because I at 20 carry the promise stuffed down their throats, A frail secret which in seventy–one days will burst. And I just wish to no longer have the burden of words, for I am a slave to my 12 year old self’s voice. But, I think if I say it out loud, I will be free, and maybe that’s what they will say, my future selves, about me: I wish to be as free as when I was 20….actually I am. Because when I was 20, I chose to walk through the thorns of my memories, and I fought valiantly for my chance to live, and I did not cave to the words of my past, for I remembered there is a future waiting to be had, and it was gonna be mine. It is mine. My name is Wendy, and when I was 12 years old I made this promise: If I did not reach my dreams by my 21st birthday then I would kill myself. And that is the burden I have carried my whole life, but tonight I threw it over the bridge to die. This is my life. I choose who I am.
Alexis Winfrey
Charlie Damocles
BLACK GIRL VISIBILITY Alexis Winfrey
The coming of age for black girl… By the age of 7 your gender is prescribed, the Barbie dolls dipped in chocolate are good enough. The nose may be a little pinch, the lips a little thin and the hair being what you will deem ‘pretty’ & you stopped playing with the boys years ago simply because mama said ‘you need to watch me in the kitchen’… while you want to play with the boys you do your work in the kitchen mama calls it bonding time for y'all but when you try to tell mama about how you were touched she says nothing more than ‘_______ is just a harmless old man, he just lonely, thats all.’ _____ is the only one to show you any attention the boys at your school call you darkie and soon you become self-conscious of your blackness…you’re aloof since being a child is stripped away; your disposition is changing. The black girl… the marginalized, the sexualized, the aborted, the invisible. By the age of 14 your position in the social hierarchy is known to you because you never understood why you were treated so differently? You are made to choose a side, you can’t be too white but you have to be black enough to where they can think, ‘she’s different for a black girl’. Mama doesn’t know what to do with your hair anymore so she puts a relaxer in it and now it’s pretty; the kinks are gone and your kitchen is straight; but lord forbid your hair kink, they may be reminded of a culture that is shunned and you my be reminded of the brutalized black bodies that once swayed from the trees in a place you’re supposed to call home… ______ finally stopped coming over but you still think about it a lot and sometimes you cry and wish you kept quiet. The black girl… the oppressed, the marginalized, the sexualized, the aborted, the invisible. You’re older now, wiser now, momma say you got hips so now she got to keep a watch on the little boys. Little does mama know you already been touched. You tried to tell her but she didn’t believe you so you left it alone never to speak of it again. You know better, you do better, you have sisters now - y'all aint related but y'all may as well be. Y'all talk and you figured out you’re not alone anymore. The black girl… the delicate, the complex, the gifted: you are loved.
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Hello, bubs. I want to talk about things that happened this month, because there’s been some real confusion. There have been some clashes between me and my sub-editor, and basically I felt so inappropriately scrutinised that the best idea seemed to leave, given she seemed to be doing a fine job of taking over the editing. She decided to leave MELANIN straight after I announced my resignation. Which leaves me (actually she said she’d hand it over to anyone who was actually left, but didn’t see that through, so it’s me) handling this issue - I did not think I’d be doing that, but it’s always a delight to make a zine for this. However, things have been incredibly busy recently as is, and I have about 15k of words to write for university and also work and volunteering stuff. I’ve made some blunders - I informally passed over my editorship to her for about fortnight, and some mistakes were made during that period of time where I wasn’t editing that are still haunting all of us. I will be leaving after completing this issue: work is picking up a lot and right now I know it’s only going to get heavier, and having the additional stress of MELANIN is making my insides hurt a lot. I will be in and out, probably helping a little, but not in the same groundmoving capacity I have been. I apologise for everything. The team will still be around to pick up on submissions, and we have a queue to run out on. I can’t guarantee any more MELANINzines. Thank you for putting up with this. I love you all very much. Thanks for being a part of this, and thanks for reading. Love and prayers, and see you around, maybe.
Ishani
Curated by Ishani Jasmin* ♡♡♡ MELANINCOLLECTIVE.com ♡♡♡
*the theme of self-portraiture was conceptualised by Sarah Gaafar.