Inclusion Statement LUCES is pleased to introduce Kaleidoscope, the second annual publication of a literature and arts journal for women of color by women of color. Just as a kaleidoscope takes in and expresses light differently, the “Art of Defining� is an illustration of the many ways WOC interpret their shared experiences and uniquely define themselves. Kaleidoscope will provide a space for intentional sharing outside of the classroom and traditional community building arenas. The journal will include articles, essays, poetry, art, and photography. Kaleidoscope is a multi-generational collaborative effort. The publication is open to all self-identified women of color. This includes cis-sexual, cis-gender, transgender, and masculine of center (MOC) women of color regardless of gender presentation or sexual orientation. Opening statement Greetings from the Women of Color Journal Committee: This journal seeks to discover the meaning of the term Woman of Color, while entertaining the possibility that one characterization may not encompass the unique identities and experiences of the many women of color represented in this journal. Through this discovery process, we reveal the experiences of women who embrace their color, not solely by degrees of shade, but through cultural heritage, connections to community, and/or upbringing. We highlight the experiences of women who proclaim their identity as a woman of color by their own right, and we honor them as their literary and artistic works create a shared art, the Art of Defining.
table of contents Special Features To honor the LUCES committment to intergenerational women, we have chosen four women who embody sistership, scholarship and leadership to illustrate the art of defining through storytelling. Mirror Worth Defining 13-14 Untitled 23-24 Untitled Monolgue 33-34 Ni De Aqui, Ni De Aya 39-40 Inner Strength Red serves as an indication of courage. Envisioned as the color of fire and blood, red is primarily associated with strength, power, passion and determination. Red Lipstick 1-2 I Am Who I Am 3 Untitled 4 “Beauty� is Her Name 5 Being Conscious of Self Blue is a soft hue that evokes a search for understanding and intellect. Picture the sky and the sea, blue is associated with depth, stability, mind and body. Untitled 6 Colorblind? Why? 7 The Color of My Skin 8 Bushes 9 Deformed Desires 10-11 LUCES March Gathering 12 The Depths of Our Souls Purple defines the rarity in life. Like royalty, this hue illicts power, ambition, wisdom and emotional balance. El Rostro de Laura 15 Nature in India 16 A Swing Set: A Regret? 17-19 Invisible 20-21
Women of Color Retreat
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Shared Sisterhood: Places I Belong Yellow serves to provide strength and optimistic relief from our past. Like the sun, a yellow hue cultivates a warming effect leading to happiness and joy. Finding Home 25-26 What Family Means To Me As An Adoptee 27-28 Feminism Is For Me 29-30 Standing in Opposition of Myself 31-32 Overcoming Adversity Purple is the most vibrant wavelength within the rainbow, emitting energy to combat fears and struggles. The bravery found within this hue exhibits the strength in our spirituality and dignity. Untitled 35-36 My Truth... 36 The Color of Revolution 37 Gagged 38 Torn In Between Blue is a prominent hue that represents the complexities of relationships that creates a strong influence on both culture and nature. The subtlety of this hue satisfies the need for reassurance in a complex world. Whitesplaining 41-42 El Espejo 43-44 My Nani. My Grandmother 45-48 Defining: I Am Yellow is a lively color promoting clarity and a new outlook on happiness. The brightness of this hue sparks confidence that will flourish throughout all life experiences. What Are You? I Say 49 Mixed 50 The Staff
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RED LIPSTICK / / ELIZABETH O. SMITH “Red is too grown a color for a little girl like you.” What makes a person a woman? What makes a person a girl? What marks the difference between the two…? It’s a tragedy that womanhood is defined by just about everybody but herself, Her self-image and confidence ridiculed and mandated from above. Don’t dictate to me what a woman is, show me all sorts. When I picture a woman not a thousand but a million words are conjured up in my mind. Shapes as thin as a twig, as big and as curvy as the mountains of Virginia wind and wind around. Blood and bone not of Adam but of the Earth, a woman to me is anybody that’s a person before all else. Not some emotional “creature”, or some standard looking European model flaunting down the cat walk. A woman can be as pure as snow or as dark as the night and everything in between. It’s not what’s between their legs that matters, or the things they carry on their chests, a woman to me is a human being living the best they can. Women are judged either way. . . If we try to cover up our “flaws” with makeup we’re called “fakes”, If we try to explore our bodies we’re condemned as “whores”, If we try and go bohemian we’re considered “misfits”, something “different” and, worthy of disgust… The fairer sex, in trying to shape their identity, has been handed the short end of the stick. What will it take for people to realize woman are just as human as them? Bombarded on the daily basis by mass media trying to rework us in the image of MAN. “Red is too grown a color for a little girl like you.” What makes a person a woman? What makes a person a girl? What marks the difference between the two…?
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Strip away all the fancy terms and I’ve come to a conclusion, That womanhood is a power play between the established legal definitions, Usually born that way and cultivated by civilized society, And, all those who have been “Othered”, “Objectified”, and made to subordinate themselves to some vague ideal. It may feel comfortable to present oneself in the way we’ve been exposed to, But, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t call into question what we’ve been taught. Show me a kinky haired African sister, or a pale skinned beauty from the Far East, Reveal to me the pretty pink cheeks of a tanned European, and the mixed goddesses’ in-between, Don’t dictate to me what a woman is, show me all sorts. “B i t c h. E x o t i c. B o s s y.” All backhanded complements and insults, When women try to reclaim these titles and rework them, they are shamed. Just as race is a social construct that some believe can be unlearned, I believe a woman is somebody that has the right to define herself. Not stuffed into some neat box, but free to explore and, put on red lipstick or a pair of black slacks if she so chooses to, A work of art, incomplete, not some statuesque “creature” cast in marble from antiquity. No, show me a woman like a flowing river, which bends and shapes and molds herself to and through her environment. Oh yes, show me first a bona fide person, before you stick an outdated label on nearly half of this Earth. “Red is too grown a color for a little girl like you.” What makes a person a woman? What makes a person a girl? What marks the difference between the two…?
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I AM WHO I AM / / KAYLEEN ENRIQUEZ

I am Filipino-American. Growing up, for some reason… I had to prove to everyone I was born here. I hid everything that made me feel (different). I needed to just… blend in. By denying my heritage, I was ultimately denying myself. No longer do I feel shameful For a part of me that makes everyone special.
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As my mask begins to shatter, I will have “Redefined” AUTHENTICITY.
UNTITLED / / KIMANI SPEIGHTS
The curls are as wild as waves. I see the blackness, the mixed-ness, the very definition of a person in those waters. I'd rather let the waves hit me; a mix of water and sand, mixed like me, like her, than conform to the shadow behind.
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“BEAUTY”
IS HER NAME / / DE’NEATRIA ROBINSON
You should be flattered Honored that I even took time to tell you that you mattered I mean look at you, you broke the status quo Most people like you look nappy headed with an un-kept afro “Natural”…. is what I think they call it But you, you should be proud that’s one mold you do not fit You’re lucky, you’re blessed You don’t look like any of that mess Beautiful is what we’d call you Even though you have that less than flattering hue That’s what I hear every time someone forms their mouths to say, “You look pretty... For a dark skin chick.” In a society where I have to face sexism because I have breast And racism because my people worked without rest You have the audacity as a black person too To even try to oppress me because of my hue I would be happy to let you know I. Love. This. Skin. And the gold and red undertones that are woven within I am easily the most reflective representation of my ancestors Back before there was moral-less media, they were the storytellers Sweetie, being dark skin is not for the faint of heart It takes self-esteem, courage, and smarts And let’s go ahead and add in God’s hand of grace That keeps me from using mine to smack you across your face Every. Single. Time. You tell me I’m considered two cents instead of a dime Because I look like your ancestors and mine The most popular things in the world look exactly like me Chocolate, brownies, Louis Vuitton, and coffee So next time you take a second look and see a dark skin goddess Tap her on the shoulder and tell her that she is beautiful.... Especially because of her darkness
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UNTITLED / / JACQUELINE NELSON When you think of the phrase "women of color" what comes to mind? No one culture or set of features can possibly encompass such a diverse group of women. Upon hearing the word "woman", many would associate the term with femininity. I associate it with strength. For my first piece, I created a woman. Oftentimes women are viewed as the weaker sex, but I did not want her to be viewed as weak or fragile. Thus, I stripped away the softness often found in female features to convey her strength. However, my second piece embodies an entirely different view. My second sketch celebrates the curviness and softness of a woman's features. (This theme is echoed in my third piece as well.) My last piece celebrates the vibrancy of this diverse group of women, which I chose to express (very fittingly) through the use of striking, highly pigmented colors. While this piece symbolically salutes all women of color, it definitely doubles as a nod specifically to Black women.
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COLORBLIND? WHY? / / PENSIVELY YOURS
Colorblind? Why? Why be colorblind when instead you can have an open-mind? A mind that is receptive to the subtle and sometimes blatant hues that at times are labeled as “those people” and “other,” but as I’ve been told since a child “make you, you” and therefore meaning my skin color makes me, me. To be color blind is to purposefully choose not to see me, and that’s disappointing when I work so hard at simply being that… me. I work hard at managing my melanin injected skin, always embracing the sun so my glow is sun-kissed and bronzinated to reflect the joy and happiness of what it means to be me from within. Instead of being colorblind, why not have an open mind to see me as human; as a person, an individual with hopes, bigger dreams and larger aspirations than the strong shoulders of those on which I stand, being pushed forward and lifted higher, so those coming behind me will have something even greater to aspire. Why not have an open-mind to put the stereotypes aside, without giving a blind eye to the skin I wear with pride, reflective of where my personal culture resides? For by choosing to be colorblind, you deny seeing the inner and outer beauty of me found in the hues and various shades of brown of my skin. Pensively Yours
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THE COLOR OF MY SKIN / / KEESHA MOLIERE
To Women of Color, I learned to love my skin in the fall of 2013. I learned this through using a new, popular social media outlet twitter. With 140 characters, I had the ability to spread ideas to the billions of people who use this small app. Within a few days, I had found my safe haven. This haven was filled with enigmatic, charming, and beautiful women of color on twitter. These exquisite women proudly expressed their features - features that we, as women of color, had been bullied for throughout our lives. By proudly sharing photos of sisterhood, they disrupted unfair standards of beauty put on women of color. They empowered one another, affirmed each other’s worth, and comforted each other through solidarity. This was my safe space. Before finding these women and these accounts, I had only known loathing and deep resentment for being the color that I am. As a child, I would scrub myself hoping to wipe off the “dirt” that tainted what I thought my true skin color was meant to be white. From family, to peers, to media - I had no one encouraging me to love my skin. I did not have a role model who looked like me, nor anyone I could look to who was a representation of femininity and beauty with my skin tone. I felt abnormal. Unfortunately, this feeling did not pass with adolescence. I carried these negative sentiments on to adulthood, believing that my skin pigment was becoming worse. I used coping mechanisms such as laughing at myself and those who looked like me, just so that I would be accepted. This frequently left a sour taste in my mouth. Ignorance was another tool I used often to combat feelings of isolation. I pretended to not see business owners become more alert when I walked in to their store. I pretended that I didn’t notice the look of disapproval on faces of others when they saw a white father-figure with my HaitianAmerican family. I pretended that the slander about my skin complexion was not hurtful. The fall of 2013 was when I had a revolution; I started to finally realize my own selfworth. Acceptance, respect, and affection were things that I did not have to deny to myself because I did not fit societal values of beauty. I deserved all of these things! This understanding led me on a path of self-discovery that ultimately made my life more fulfilled. Women of color, I hope when you read this you know that you are not alone. You are not alone when the kids at school laugh at you for your thick accent. You are not alone when you feel like you are not represented in media. You are not alone when you like you need to conform to western standards of beauty. You are not alone when you are staring back at faces filled with fear and disgust for your identity. You are not alone when you feel like your skin color is something to be ashamed of, rather than it being something to embrace and celebrate. I am with you! Countless of other women who went through the same experiences are also here for you in solidarity. I know what you are going through. I know you will overcome. Love that brown, black and yellow skin that stretches and clings to you like a warm hug; appreciate and honor it. You are worthy. You are loved. You are valued.
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BUSHES / / OGUGUAM UGWUANYI The bushes see things that our eyes can only imagine. They see the tears of village women, who instead of receiving the love they yearn form their husbands, they receive words that create pain and self-hate. They see the violent struggle between women and men who believe that a woman’s body is everything but a temple, and instead of respecting it, they treat the body any way that they see fit. They see the births of children who have promise, but due to socio-economic factors they are forced to live a life of pain and tragedy. They bushes see, oh yes they see. They see how women degrade one another instead of uplifting each other in times of pain and sorrow. They see how women gather around jus to spread negativity about their fellow sisters instead of finding solutions to help solve their problems. We either see bushes as being helpful to the environment or useless green shrubs that are just existing for the sake of existence. Little do we know that when the wind blows it causes the bushes to move. When they move the bushes talk amongst themselves and share stories of what they’ve seen with their non-existent eyes. They bushes see, oh yes they see - but what they see causes them unbearable pain. It makes them realize that this world - a world that was supposed to be full of sisterly love is actually a world full of hate and pain. The bushes see, oh yes they do see, but due to the pain and hate their ryes behold they wish to see no more. Although as women we may go through unfortunate circumstances, but at the end of the day we still stand strong and that is the only thing the bushes fail to see. Oguguam Ugwuanyi
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DEFORMED DESIRES // ESTEFANIA CORPUS The clinging and clogging of her heels followed her throughout the hallway and into the theater, whispering behind her, revealing the insecurities that were not immediately captured on first sight. She entered the theater, breaking the silence that had embodied the audience. No one moved. She walked to the stage as three porcelain face judges, black suits, broad shoulders, no trace of hardship, not a single thread that could have gotten caught on the brick wall, on the staircases that stuck out behind the neighborhood grocery store, the one she had to pass by every day, praying, breaking her record of holding her breath in the irony that only through doing so would she be lucky enough to come out unharmed, alive, as so many others weren’t. She looked at her dress. A pale, perhaps cotton, front closed dress with a clumsy flower pattern that resembled drapes and rose a little too high in the back. She unbuttoned her dress button by button, her fingers waving through the fabric as if she were the strings on a guitar. But there was no music. No melody. No conductor. No opening act. She was the main function. The dress fell behind her and she looked up staring at her own reflection in the ivory surface of the judges faces. Her eyes fell to her own body completion. Lines of sunburns from visiting her family at the coast, la playa, ran through extremities, with a trace of lighter skin though her stomach and thighs because you see mama was a strong woman, and back then it wasn’t
muscle but curves and that molded women. Women…? Women the ones she had seen in magazines through her life, the ones that didn’t have stretch marks racing through her back, the ones that didn’t exhale, holding on to that perfection that only they could breathe, the ones that told her many many times with that picture perfect smile that no, she was no women…that times had changed and those curves of mama were wrong, so she hid them behind layers, behind cloths, naming her own body parts “shame”. They composed her. She SLICED it off. She sliced OFF the extra layers of warmth that had held a man once. She sliced the warmth that he only wanted then and was disgusting to him after. SHE sliced it off with her bare fingers, razor sharp knives that had threaten her thighs so many mornings. HER flesh slid down her legs. She stared at her blushed palms as she rose them gently toward her eyes. Then she began to pluck at her wild mane that stretched out, like the sun reaches out to the blue sky. She PLUCKED. Ripping her scalp, tearing the curls of her great grandma who danced to the rhythm of the drums, she plucked as she clenched her teeth, ONE by ONE, strand by strand. The curls that never collaborated, that were not gentle curls or light enough, CURLS that sat on her head swaying and frizzing with every rain drop. SHE PLUCKED THEM!..... as petals to a flower that was so commonly mistaken for a weed. Her heart was pounding, poor piteous organ
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DEFORMED DESIRES CONT.
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caged in this soul, pounding against her rib cage, desperate to survive, desperate to end. She embraced herself, just for a second. She swayed herself as the dolls she’s had before when they would cry but only red dripped to her cheeks. But those breasts, those breast were in the way. DAMN breasts that made her seem as if she was asking for it, BREATS that spoke, apparently to men, that labeled her as easy, BREASTS, why a part of her, destined for life, would be a source of humiliation, BREASTS!
I saw her grip my lips within her moist palms, and she shoved them back into my mouth, tightening my jaw so no words could come out BUT I bit them, I GNAWED them and slowly the pieces FELL, dripping near her heals. The words were free, so many screams that had been enjailed within my lungs were FINALLY free. I saw myself, teared within their faces, I saw every shred of me that I had given up for them... but they didn’t see me… they didn’t see every red tear that fled from my body…
She ripped them. She TORE them, she PULLED them until the very LAST stand of muscle, the very LAST vein gave in, SHE TORE THEM from HERSELF.
She bent down to the floor and reached out for a tiny golden can of white powder in front of her.
She patted the cushion that topped it violently against her wounds, she planted the wired fenced cushion that delivers the powder to her exposed muscles. And she…and she stared at No more judgment, no more battles, no more…. the porcelain, at the marvel masks before her breasts…. -never letting her eyes fall from the judges’ faces, screaming through her retinas, yelling, Her lips trembled upon her chin, coming to life, shakingburning, aching, but not of pain, but the push of the words that were captured and executed PAT. in her mouth. Words that condensed so many PAT. frustrations, so many oppressions. Words that PAT. were shot, as an electrifying bullet that projected toward her being. TELL ME, tell me how dare The judges didn’t move. Not a crack broke the they, storm on her, pour on me, toss her to the perfect tone of their porcelain faces. bottom of the society, call me weak because my privilege does not swing between my legs. TELL She bend down again and tossed the cushion ME, how dare they toss dirt on her, continuing to the floor and picked up all of her flesh from to torrent on me, and see us bring life with the between her heals. Wrapping it between her miserable earth that they’ve placed us and still dress, she walked and let her pieces fall fiercely fail to recognize our achievements. against the judges table. How dare I... Stepping back, she took a bow. She stared directly at the porcelain faces, and if eyes had arms, they would stretch out to them As she walked off the stage there was only and touch their surface to see if there was any stillness. This time not even her heels made a imperfections, any cracks, but no. She stared and noise. Simply silence. only I stared back. We were alone.
LUCES MARCH GATHERING / / SILENCING OUR INNER CRITIC
At the March Gathering all participants explored the sources of negative messages we tell ourselves so that we could begin to embrace a journey of self-love and self-care.
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MIRROR WORTH DEFINING / / BRIANA MATHEW
Feature’s Biography Briana Mathew is a South IndianAmerican woman, educator, artist, and writer living in New York City. After receiving her Masters in Higher Education from Loyola University Chicago, she dove into her work in higher education. Her work over the past five years in urban institutions have developed her understanding of how learning happens in the mind of future leaders. Briana believes a person’s story and history help shape their purpose and influence in society. She thrives in interpreting and capturing those stories through her work, photography, and writing. The world is a complex and broken place, and Briana hopes that the work she does will help those around her lead a life filled with purpose and influence them to be positive change agents in our world.
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The mirror is an object of great influence. Its reflective magic has made the most powerful fall and the weak thrive. It can reflect your deepest fears and many times define your darkest insecurity, while also be the tool to enhance the features you like and hide the points you do not want others to see. It is a place of security or a place of debilitating insecurity. What is it for you? What command does this reflective object have in your life? How often have you stared at the mirror wishing things were smaller, bigger, symmetrical, a different color, etc.? How long do you take to change the way something looks with make-up, tweezers, razors,
body shapers, hair products, etc? There are industries making millions and billions of dollars surrounded by what you look like in the mirror, and we have all, in some way, bought into the hype. Your insecurities and capitalism are in bed together and having a good old time causing havoc and destruction - all because of a mirror. The mirror, with its great influence, also holds a great lie. Yes, the mirror lies - right to you face. What you see is in the mirror is not what other see.
of beauty to your worth, and the object you use to help define those things (the mirror) is flawed, then your perceived worth is flawed. Then what defines your worth? Who has that power to define it? The answer is simple. It is you that defines your worth no object, institution, person, place, or thing can tell you otherwise. Do other outside forces try to mold and influence that definition? Yes, and many have succeeded to give positive and negative notions of your self worth.
It is scientific. What you visualize when you stare at the mirror is a reflection, a flip, of what is seen by others. You walk around assuming that what people are seeing is what you saw in the mirror that morning; when in actuality, they are seeing you differently than from what you see in yourself. You can test this. Have someone stand behind you while you look into the mirror and have them look at your reflection and see what they say. They will see something different from what they are used to. What an interesting thought - everyone you meet sees you, in your perfections and flaws, from a different angle than what you see yourself. This then changes the way you are defining yourself as a woman, at least in a nuanced way. There are a couple of layers to this. If a mirror is the tool you are using to define our beauty, and you equate certain parts
As women, and especially women of color, your worth and definition in any given space has layers of stories, experiences, cultural/ personal expectations, and deep-rooted emotions. To sift through those layers and find worth seems like an impossible tasks that can be never ending; and, it is neverending. Everyday, you must get up and choose to define your worth with positivity, support, grace, and love. The definition of self-worth is an active task that requires constant reflection and rejection from the lies that the world feeds society and in turn you. The next time you look at yourself in the mirror, choose to define your worth knowing your worth is not defined by what the mirror reflects, but rather by the beauty that your failures, successes, imperfections, and experiences tell. Choose to define your worth, not your worth to define you.
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EL ROSTRO DE LAURA / / LAURA ROMAN
I believe that one can learn and mature as an individual when they are given the right tools and space to flourish. We are constantly being shaped through the lessons we are taught in the classroom and through the lessons in everyday life. The painting I created allows people to see the type of person I am on the inside. The painting also gives them an idea of the type of leader I am. I would consider myself a situational leader. Situational leaders frame their leadership style to each situation that they are presented.
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The painting is a representation of me; I am a person of color who stands proud of my identity. The mask of colors represent the versatility I encompass. Every shape is different, representing the various people I have encountered in my life; each one is just as important and irreplaceable as the next, they make up the person I am today. The glittered lines represent the people who I have yet to meet; those individuals who are waiting to be supported by someone like me. The glittered eyes represent the beauty I see in the world, I hope to never let go of the optimism and hope I have for humanity. The red glitter lips, probably the most important part of the painting, represent never forgetting to use my voice. I want to always hold the ability to stand for what I believe in and to advocate for those that are often silenced by society.
NATURE IN INDIA / / KAVYA TIWARI This is a series of small acrylic paintings focused on young Indian girls and their vibrant relationship with nature. India is a country that is closely connected to the land, therefore, plants and animals hold importance in culture and religion. These paintings range in subject from cultural relationships with plants and animals to traditional Bharatnatyam dancing. When I visit my homeland I always experience this intense connection with the beautiful features of India’s nature. Being a Bharatnatyam dancer for 8 years taught me that the many movements in this classical temple dance intentionally invokes nature and the power of the environment. Girls dance with their bare feet on the earth and the belief is that the good vibrations of our mother planet cleanse them. I feel most unified with my culture when, like many Indian girls, wear flowers in my hair. We believe that flowers are a gift from mother earth made especially for girls; we are the daughters of the earth after all. Just like India itself, the flowers have many complex languages and meanings that honor different parts of our culture. As a woman of color, the concepts that are valued in my country hold special importance to me, and nature is an international force that crosses all boundaries of race and religion.
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A SWING SET: A REGRET? // BREANNA WALKER I’ve always loved writing. It allowed me to express myself in ways that I never imagined. I could see words I was too afraid to speak. Jeanette Winterson is a British writer that loved literature. In her memoir, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? She says, “That is what literature offers-a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place.” I found myself in words when the only life I knew someone else became the writer. I made similes and metaphors that brought happiness and sadness only writers could explain. When I couldn’t express myself, I wrote it down. To me, paper and pen were the only ones that loved me, the only ones that could truly understand me. I had a child and suddenly I became the biggest secret my mother wanted to keep. My whole life has been a finger to my mouth. When I was in the seventh grade a man I saw in the park raped me. Every day my cousin would walk me from school to my grandmother’s house. This time, he allowed me to go by myself and I walked through the park. I crossed the street and fixed my eye on the swing set that was approaching. This park wasn’t much; it had two and a half swings, and a broken teeter tooter. I remember seeing him, he looked at me, and then he disappeared. The pain was so intense. I felt like I was screaming but no one could hear me. He pressed his hand over my mouth and I closed my eyes hoping that he would kill me. Each thrust I could feel him leaving his mark inside of me. Writing his name on my blank wall and signing his
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signature on my uterus. I died that day. A few weeks went by and I told no one. I don’t remember how it ended, or how I even got to grandmothers house. I didn’t have anything to tell. Until one day, I was violently throwing up. I was pregnant. I looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t the person I use to be. I couldn’t even look myself in the eyes. I remember pulling at my stomach as if it could come off. This couldn’t be happening to me. It was a mistake. I felt trapped inside of body that I couldn’t escape. I never even thought about childbirth, let alone birthing a child that would mirror a part of him everyday. I dressed up in what I could find that would disguise me from the world; I lied to myself over and over again; like a broken record. I just kept telling myself that I had a stomach virus, I ate something bad, I was getting my period soon. One day the stomach virus wore off and the period never came. I stood, belly convexed in front of a mirror that exposed me. I remember my mother coming in, shame felt tears cascaded from my soul, and I tried to drown in them. I pulled my shirt down and tried to hide what she already knew. The look on her face tore through my flesh. I felt as if the fetus could feel it. The next day she told me “pick yourself up, tell no one, and don’t leave the house.” After that my life became a routine. No
one came over, no one called to talk to me, I stopped going to church because my mother feared what people would think. I stopped living my life. I started living behind the silence.
herself from me and I suppose also reality. Even when I thought I was going into labor. I cried out for her and she wasn’t there. The blood rushed down my leg, and in that moment “it” was all over.
A part of me knew that I wouldn’t love this child. The more miserable I grew laying alone in my bed the more I hated the thing growing inside of me. Most days I’d sit in a corner and weep uncontrollably until I made myself throw up. Some days I’d talk to it. I’d talk about our lives together once he/she was born. I remember saying, “I’ll be mommy and daddy, I’ll be here no matter what, and the moment you ask for your father I’d tell you…” That’s where it ended. I never knew what I was going to tell it. Maybe it just wouldn’t ask. The more I tried to cultivate a good enough story, the more I remembered him. I remember the dirt under his nails and the scar on his cheek that stretched from his lower jaw to his ear. I remember the dingy blue shirt and black pants that were covered in mud and my blood. I remember the sounds of him breathing over me, and the hairs on his arm that brushed against my face. I remember my cry. Then it all goes dark.
I wrote about rape in books I burned when I got older. I wrote about how you never think about it, until it happens. I wrote about the way it felt. The smell of his everything.. The dry taste of trying to yell but you can’t get the words out. I wrote about the shame, fear, and guilt, that all follows. For some reason it was easier to write then to speak about it. With writing, you could make anything happen or unhappen. You could erase, backspace, and delete, new page, exit, and throw away anytime you wanted to. Each book told the same story with a different ending.
Some days, even now when I close my eyes I can still imagine him. I look over my shoulder and see him. Faintly in the background mocking me. Reminding me of what happened. No one ever knew the whole story. Not even my mom. She never cared to ask for details. I think she was just to ashamed. She made me feel so guilty. She distanced
In one, I never got pregnant, in the other I carried the child full term, in the last one I wrote about fate. The fact was, I knew that I wasn’t ready to have a child for I was still one myself. Writing allowed me to be any character that I wanted. It allowed me to escape the fears of being a mother, the fears of being judged, the fears of it happening again. Writing allowed me to change my ending. It defined who I was in a way because writing gave me the power to change my situation. It gave me courage to say things that we choose to silence. Writing allowed gave me a voice that he tried to silence. It gave me the words I could never say to my mom. Writing saved me because I’ll never forget
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A SWING SET: A REGRET? CONT. what happened to me, but I’ll never let it condemn me. Rape is a hard thing to go through, especially at a young age. It took me many years to full understand what happened. It took me looking back at poems and stories I used to write to fully grasp where I’ve come. I wrote about dark times and death after rape. Today my writing has matured in so many ways just as in myself. I wish that I could’ve said that was the only time rape and myself became synonymous but it happened again. That time I know exactly how to handle it because of what I reminded myself in my writing. “You are not a mistake, you didn’t deserve this, you are not alone..” Jeanette Winterson said “I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/ returning, never stops. The whole of life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance.” After the miscarriage I returned back to life. It wasn’t the same life, but it was enough to keep me from killing myself. It’s been some years since I’ve last read this piece. I chose to share it for I remember what it took for me to finally write down something like this and no longer be ashamed.
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I wasn’t afraid of who would read it, or what people would think. I was just relieved to finally not live behind something that I blamed myself for, for too long. I think that’s the biggest lesson that I’ve learned in my life so far. Things happen, good and bad but life will always go on. I have learned that you have to pick up the pieces
and move on. To me tears filled my eyes and I would close my mouth because no one could hear my cry anymore. I lost all hope in life, and in people. I thought that every man that would come into my life would be just like him. I thought that I deserved what happened. I blamed myself for the rift in my mothers and I relationship. I blamed myself for things that I couldn’t even control. I lost faith in God and turned to people that didn’t have good intentions. I LOST MYSELF In losing myself, the greatest moment of finding myself is what I wanted to share. You can get broken down but you are not damaged goods. You can get lied on, cheated on, beaten, and misused, but you are still standing. You can be at the edge of the world and want to jump but you are stronger than that. You can have all of the weight on your shoulders but that’s why God gave you two to help balance out the struggles. Life is about finding yourself. Creating yourself and loving whom that person is. I know that one-day I’ll be a mother, a wife, and whatever else I decide to be. Just like I wrote myself different endings in my stories. I will change my fate. I will change my story. We’ve been told not to judge a book by its cover, that not all books are the same. That’s life. So take this. Look at your life as a story. Be the writer. Remind yourself that this is your story, the people reading it may not always understand.
INVISIBLE / / AWATIF “RUTH” ELIAS As a little girl growing up in a village in Sudan, Leaders to me were my elders, my parents, and my relatives Those were the individuals who had power and whose ideas and values I idealized As I moved from one continent to another, my assumption of leaders shifted slightly Through my high school and college years in the United States, Leaders were those who could intelligently articulate their ideas concisely and persuasively At that time, I was beyond that stage, still trying to learn to speak English I refrained from participating in classes thinking my ideas did not matter I saw leaders as people who were properly dressed in suits and skirts, hair well kept, and appearances well put together Leaders were those whose parents were wealthy and attended prestigious educational institutions Leaders were fearless fighters with their words and actions As I recall, one of my classmates posed this question at the beginning of our virtual twitter session “do you believe you are a leader? And I was quick to respond with my understanding that I did not yet consider myself a leader. In my observations, assumptions and thoughts, I was beyond reach of being one But, it was not until I entered the door of ELPS 419(my leadership course) every Wednesday that my views of leaders and leadership were transformed Leadership is a life-long learning process Ways of leading are developed through learning As I progress through the slow evolving philosophy of leadership, I realize what is essential Leaders create connections with people from different backgrounds Leaders actively listen to the opinions of everyone They listen to opposing views because they are important As different issues, such as racism, classism, sexism, and religion continue to divide us, Leaders take the fight upon themselves to unite divided communities for a common purpose They fight persistently to create change with words and actions They engage in dialogue with strangers, neighbors, family, and friends They empower and inspire others to join in the cause to change social injustices They realize change is slow but critical hope motivates them to continue the fight They strive to improve the struggles that emerge They all do these for the love of humanity
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INVISIBLE CONT. As I continue with my journey, I realize that I am not invisible anymore My ideas and contributions matter and not only of those outside myself I embrace my roots that have and continue to shape my identity as a woman in this world Even though challenges exist for women of color, I have an igniting confidence to make positive change in my own spheres of influence Through my experiences, I have seen women of color succeed despite insurmountable obstacles Their examples inspire me to believe in myself and follow my dreams I am not invisible anymore!
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WOMEN OF COLOR RETREAT / / RESIST. RELEASE. TRANSCEND. At the WOC Retreat all participants explored the pressures we face as Women of Color, identified healthy ways to release stress and found ways to resist and transcend by embracing the unique identities we posess.
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UNTITLED / / CANDACE HAIRSTON
Feature’s Biography I am a very proud Native New Yorker. I was born and raised in the Bronx, NY. I completed my undergraduate degree at SUNY Geneseo with a Bachelor of Arts in Communication. I am currently in the Higher Education program here at Loyola University Chicago. I hope to work in an office in Higher Education supporting diversity initiatives. I am honored to be featured with these amazing woman of color here at Loyola University Chicago.
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I had the opportunity to hear actor, and activist, Hill Harper give the George E. Kent Lecture at the University of Chicago. Hill Harper’s talk addressed Black men, and their constant battle with police brutality, and mass incarceration. Although I was glad to hear Hill Harper address systemic issues facing Black men, erasure was the one word that could not escape my mind throughout the lecture. Here I was, listening to yet another talk in which Black women, and other identities were not included into the conversation. Frustrated with his lecture, I posed the following question in the Q&A segment on an index card: How do we stop the erasure of Black women, Black LGBTQ folks, and Black people are who not abled-bodied or able-minded? How do we begin to include these
other identities within the Black lives matter movement? Harpers, lackluster response did not satisfy me. He stated these groups needed to find voice within the struggle. What he failed to address, or even recognize are these voices are often squeezed out of the conversation, told to wait their turn, or have their turn revoked altogether. When I was charged with the honor to write what it means to be a woman of color, I could not help but to write what I want it to mean to be a woman of color. What it means to be a woman of color today, and what I want it to mean, to be a woman of color in today’s society are two different entities. By society standards, to be a woman of color is to always be second. It means to be second to men and to white women. It means to be seen and not heard. It means to bear the weight of the community, lead the fight in struggles, and receive no credit What do I want it to mean to be a woman of color? I want it to mean women of color are not second to men of color, and white women. I do not want women of color to be first, rather, I want our accomplishments, our beauty, our pain, and struggle to be seen, to be celebrated, to be acknowledged right along with our counterparts. Women of color have never been silent in struggles of freedom, yet we are barely designated footnotes in history. When communities shout and hashtag Black lives matter, Latino lives Matter, Muslim Lives Matter, we all need to remember women also endure pain within these struggles, and are on the front line-not just for their lives, but for
the whole community. When you liberate a woman, you liberate the world around you. What I want it to mean to be a woman of color, is not to see our gender, or race/ ethnicity separated from our humanity, but seen as powerful forces that illuminate and shine within us all.
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FINDING HOME / / SABRINA MINHAS I have spent my life traversing cultures. I grew up at the crossroads between a suburban, middle class neighborhood and a low-income community riddled with gang violence. As an Indian girl, I had to find my place in complex cultures different from mine. My friends at school told me stories about the happiness and heartaches of gang life. They never decided to join gangs, but instead found in them a family-oriented community that served as an extension of their homes and culture. My friends did not perceive their involvement in gangs as a battle between right and wrong. It was a lifestyle that rewarded allegiances with a profound sense of belonging and support. The benefits of gang life, however, were not without risks. My friends admitted that the guns at their sides elicited terror. Their lives were spent in a warzone, requiring constant vigilance. The most intimate confessions were of the anguish experienced after a loved one was lost to ethnic and racial conflicts. I remember how my world was silenced as I listened to my best friend in elementary school explain that her past partner had been killed by a gunshot wound during a gang fight. We were the same age, but I struggled to empathize with her experiences. For a moment, I tasted pain that I would not understand until much later in my life.
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My neighborhood, with its safety and isolation, felt distant from their stories. I lived in the epitome of quintessential, middleclass suburbia in which all the houses are variations of the same floorplan and every yard is an identical square. My childhood was marked by the laughter and screams of children playing until their vibrancy faded into the repressed angst and desire of adolescence, and silence of adulthood. I always returned, however, to a traditional Indian household where I was enveloped by the remnants of a culture that felt simultaneously close and foreign. Indian culture was entrenched in my experiences and intertwined with my life. The language in which my parents spoke to me traced its heritage to medieval India. The dramas and films on my television reflected a society with entirely different norms and expectations than the one in which I lived my life. The meals my parents prepared incorporated spices imported from across the world, but the savory scents lingered as they intertwined with the fibers of my clothes and transported me to the dinner table I shared with my family. Indian culture coexisted with the western world in which I was raised, but the two often came into conflict. I did not understand why my conversations with boys were always carried out in secret. I did not understand why activities my friends took for granted were forbidden for me. I was not allowed to
be a cheerleader, attend parties with male classmates or stay out for as long as my friends. I did not understand why falling in love was an unrealistic dream, or why I was the only Indian girl in my classes. The rules regulating my life originated in a religion, culture and society that I could not place in the context of my life. I constantly felt the underlying tension and fear that being a good Indian daughter and being myself were mutually exclusive. I reconciled the dissonance I experienced by appreciating the nuanced beauty, triumph and pain of each community with which I formed relationships, but I never felt at home. I ached for a place akin to heaven, cocooning me in the warmth, comfort and safety of unconditional love and acceptance. For a heartbeat, I found that place in the arms of someone I loved. Our lives, however, are based on conditions, and we are forced to accept when they are unmet. The displacement in which I spent my life left me with an acute awareness of my loneliness and lack of purpose. I understood on a frightening and fundamental level that everything in life is impermanent. It was in the midst of my travels that I finally found pieces of myself, my home and culture. It was in a plane flying over Mount Fuji that I felt most grounded, and in the midst of the lush green mountains and
rice paddies of Okuizumo that I discovered serenity. It was in the shadow of a white mosque at the top of the dusty mountains containing Tunisian troglodyte homes that I understood spirituality, and in the midst of a crowded medina overwhelming me with its rush of colors and scents that I saw a glimpse of my heritage. It was in experiencing the world that I found my happiness and home. It is in the unfamiliar that we are forced to see the world through new perspectives, experience beauty without reserve, and stand in solidarity with the only constant we know - ourselves. I returned from Tunisia determined to create permanence from the transitory. I realized that my profound experiences needed to impact and alter my life for them to have lasting meaning. I decided that I would spend my life traversing cultures, creating intimacy in what was once strange, and becoming intertwined with the societies I encountered. I realized that public service fulfills my yearning to find a home in the world while using my skills and passions to make a profound impact on all the communities with which I interact, giving my life purpose. Like my childhood self, I continue to absorb the nuances of all the cultures I contact in the hopes that I can share pieces of myself in their betterment. Traveling the world eventually brings you back to the nuanced colle
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WHAT FAMILY MEANS TO ME AS AN ADOPTEE I was born in South Korea, but adopted when I six months old. Just like many of you may not use the term “biological” to share about your family, I often do not mention that I am adopted unless, of course, someone asks me. It usually starts off with someone asking about my name: “How come your last name is St.Clair? Are you married? “The Korean last names I know are only one syllable: Kim, Choi, Cho, Lee, Song, Sang… Yours is St.Clair. How is that possible?” After I share that I am indeed adopted into an Italian and Irish family, I often hear these comments or questions: “How old were you when you were adopted? [I was six months old] “…Oh you were six months old? Do you remember Korea?” “Do you know anything about your real parents?” ”Do you have any brothers and sisters?” “Where were you born? [South Korea] Oh, was it North or South Korea?” “Ohhhh, that makes sense! You are one of the loudest Asians I have ever met.” I’m fine with questions and comments that come from a genuine heart and from a place where they hope to understand the best they can. That’s the thing, however, there has to be a space where people are earnestly trying to come to a place of mutual understanding. I do not expect people who are not adopted or have adopted to understand the things I have felt or experienced. I don’t even think being adopted allows me to speak on behalf of all adoptees, but I hope people try to have more of an understanding of what their words or comments can convey to someone who is not from a traditional background - as in family background within “biological” terms. My thoughts and feelings as an adoptee from South Korea raised in an Irish and Italian family: • I don’t remember what it was like being born in South Korea, because like you, I do not have memories from when I was six months old. • I am forever grateful and indebted to my biological mother, who had so much love in her heart to know that she could not give me the life that she would want for me. With that, and with what I imagine takes insurmountable strength, she lovingly “gave me up” for adoption with hope I would be given a better life.
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// MIA ST. CLAIR • I am thankful for my real family (which is the family that I was adopted into). I am thankful for parents who could not love me more than if I was related to them by blood. • I used to hate my name, Mia. It was not a popular name when I was growing up and Mia does not always rhyme with the best words (I’ll let you think about that for a minute). As I’ve grown older, I have learned to LOVE my name. In Italian, “mia” means “my own.” My mom showed me love that could not be any deeper than if I had come from her own womb. I am forever grateful for that love too. • Growing up in a family where I was surrounded by the majority culture, I sometimes feel as though I lack the solidarity of being a woman of color because I am more familiar with the majority culture. I have often told close friends of mine that I felt “too Asian” among non-Asians and “too white” among Asians or Asian Americans. There have been multiple times when my friends who are also ethnically Korean American joke and say that something I do or say is “so white of you” (whatever that means). As a friend summarized, I have felt like an outlier in the Asian American community as I cannot personally relate to many things since I was raised in the majority culture. However, I also don’t feel part of the majority because I look different and am judged to be someone who is different. • Instead of trying to put me in a box of “Asian”, “White” or “Other” I would like you to just get to know me. I’m Mia St.Clair. I like to cook and eat anything and everything. I can’t sing on key and I love to dance. I enjoy being outdoors and I love to learn. I would love to adopt when I am older because I believe that you can love people deeply and genuinely who aren’t biologically related to you. Thanks for reading this, or rather, listening to my story and understanding more about me.
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STANDING IN OPPOSITION OF MYSELF // ANNA LYTICK The first time I thought of myself as a woman of color was probably when I decided to better myself. I never realized that my version of better was always far way from the image of women and men being vocal about their emotions, speaking rather loudly, and dancing to the sound of rhythmic drums. I was always told that I should be proper. Proper meant quiet, graceful, calm and, because I was a woman, not too smart so as to not scare away a potential spouse. As I’ve grown, I interpreted part of these instructions as a request to simply not act black. I’m not really sure if my understanding was accurate but that is nonetheless the conclusion I came to. After all, I was always given the impression that blackness was bad and that I should be grateful that I was a bit lighter. Somehow that meant that I was saved, or that I was better because my blackness wasn’t as rich as those around me; as if I would naturally be less loud and behaves more properly. But, to me, blackness was more than just loud noise and inappropriate behavior; it was sweet, warm, vigorous, passionate and strong. It was rhythmic and went to the beat of the drums I could hear in the night during my childhood in the heat of Haitian nights. Blackness was this unsolved mystery, like this thing I was kept distant from because God forbid, Erzili forbid, Jehovah forbid, I would be black-er. Blackness was eroticized and hated all at once. When, looking in the mirror, I could see
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the blackness my family was forcing me to avoid, and I didn’t know how to understand myself. If I was black did that not make me inherently bad and shameful by default? But to me, blackness isn’t something to be ashamed of. Where the world saw violence, I saw built up frustration. Where they saw stupidity, I saw lack of access to knowledge, Where they saw chaos, I saw a lack of understanding that the world wasn’t designed for blackness to thrive. Yet, in the back of my mind, I couldn’t escape it, I still believed that Blackness should be avoided at all cost. That is what brought me to the realization that self-growth had always meant to me that I should surrender parts of my blackness and of my womanhood. It had been drilled into my head for so long that I hadn’t been able to escape the thought that being a woman, as well as being black were the worst things to be. Yes, blackness as I understood it was to be rejected. How do you live with the knowledge that your skin is dirty if it is tainted with warmth? How do you understand yourself in ways that are not related to color? How can’t you be white enough, and not black enough all at once? How can I not understand the intricacies of the struggles of having a black skin but not white enough to benefit to a full extent of what whiteness brings? Being a woman complicated things. My small dose of whiteness made me coveted by black men. I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or worried. I was the redbone, high yellow girl. I often asked how that was
a good criterion to pursue someone for a romantic relationship; No one seemed to neither care nor entertain the question. It often felt that it was simply this need to appropriate whiteness as colonization had allowed their blackness to be appropriated, and that I was simply the shortcut to black men’s appropriation of whiteness. No one in my immediate surrounding thought the behavior odd. After all, I was just the spoiled light skinned girl who had it good because of the color of her skin. Understanding my identity thus meant that I needed to understand my womanhood independently of my racial affiliation as well as in conjunction with it. It has been challenging to separate racial identity and gender identity as I’ve come to realize that the two are intimately tied to each other.
must I not embrace it as well? Can I truly surrender one for the other? How can I make my womanhood, my whiteness and my blackness cohabit in harmony, when the world tells me that all those aspects of myself stand in opposition to each other? I think that understanding my identity as a woman of color is a much more complicated task than I had initially believed it to be. I don’t see myself solving this mystery any time soon. However, I realize that I must accept that my whiteness, my blackness as well as my womanhood must coexist in peace. Unfortunately, it is abundantly clear that the current society we live in renders very difficult the balancing of these multiple facets of my identity. It is a journey that I must take on, and on my way there, I hope to find many women with the same goal.
Now I understand my womanhood as synonymous to the inevitable appropriation of my body because I am a woman and because I possess a bit of whiteness. Spending my childhood in my dear old sweet colony left me confused about what blackness truly is. Understanding this conception of blackness has become a lot more important to me as time passed. My path to self-growth and self-improvement requires me to understand my flaws and myself. So what do I do when I look in the mirror and the flaws I see are simply bits and pieces of my womanhood and my blackness? Does the ideology of this white-heterosexist world blur my vision? And if whiteness is also a part of me,
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FEMINISM IS FOR ME / / PAIGE GARDNER Each year the LUCES Team develops a theme for the year that sets the tone for excellence and high achievement. This year has been the year of “New Horizons”, which inspired me to challenge myself intellectually, spiritually and physically. This challenge has forced me to face some of my fears and push beyond the sphere of my comfort zone. In an effort to combat my fears of academic writing, I enrolled in a PhD course allowing me to work beside other Doctoral students. Through this journey I have come to realize I am more than just a Program Coordinator in the field of Student Affairs, I am also an educator and with this role comes great responsibility and care. Taking this course also required me to write a paper on my topic of choice and is entitled: The Miseducation of Feminism and the Exclusion of African American Women. Below you will find pieces of my final paper that explores feminism and the intersection of social identities as it specifically relates to African American Women (AWW) and therefore correlates with all Women of Color identities. I will reflect on 4 excerpts from my final paper that help show why Feminism is for me.
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Excerpt 1: Feminism is a word clearly defined by definition yet at the same time seen as a complex concept that has been misinterpreted, upheld, and often misunderstood (Winkle-Wagner, 2008). Bell hooks (2000) explains that feminism is the process of ending sexist oppression, she notes that “its aim is not to benefit solely any specific group of women, any particular race or class of women. It does not privilege women over men. It has the power to transform in a meaningful way all our lives” (p. 28). When focusing solely on gender identity, there is a risk of excluding the intersections of race, class, sexual orientation, religion, socio-economic status, and several other social identities that shape
life experiences. (Okolosie, 2014). Since feminism is generally not studied with in public schools from k-12 education; Students are not engaging with materials related to feminism until they arrive to college. I didn’t learn the word “Feminism” until I entered my undergraduate experience at an all women’s institution, Mills College. I struggled with this word because I didn’t fully understand the meaning. I prided myself in being a strong Woman of Color who enjoyed leadership positions. The organizations I got involved with were all culturally based, such as: Black Women’s Collective, Mujeres Unidas, The Womanist, etc. The organizations that focused on feminism didn’t have members and leadership who looked like me, so I made assumptions about these spaces. Perhaps I wasn’t welcomed, perhaps we didn’t share the same values, or express ourselves similarly. These feelings prevented me from wanting to explore or step out of my comfort zone. I may have missed some great opportunities because of my assumptions, but the other side of the coin shows that if organizations do not provide welcoming environments or value the issues I face as a WOC, chances are slim that more WOC will get involved. There’s a message in this for all of us, meaning, student leaders and members of organizations have a responsibility to create a space that is open-minded and supportive of all members who share similar and different identities. Excerpt 2: Women of Color should not discount themselves from Feminism. As bell hooks (1994) proclaims “Without our voices in written work and in oral presentation there will be no articulation of our concerns. Withdrawal is not the answer” (p. 105). Removing ourselves from the cause will only give more room for oppression to manifest.
The physical absence of black women in the feminist movement allows White scholars to continue depicting AAW and telling their stories through a dominant perspective. Walking away does not solve the problem. I learned from this assignment that feminism can never be inclusive if it does not recognize that race/ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion, and all other identities impact each individuals experience. Even whiteness, shapes the experience of White women’s experience. As bell hooks shares in some of the excerpts above, the true intent of feminism is to represent all women and to hold no person above the other. By getting involved with Feminist organizations, we can share these perspectives; uphold these perspectives, create more inclusive and welcoming environments for those who do not share the dominant narrative. Excerpt 3: Feminism cannot achieve liberation for all women, without using a critical lens to examine the multiple intersections of identities through use of Critical Race Theory and Intersectionality Theory. The foundation of Critical Race Theory is rooted in the complexity of multiple identities, examining and critiquing the dynamics of dominance, power and oppression. Intersectionality Theory highlights the ways in which race and gender intersect and shape the experience of individuals who possess multiple identities (Crenshaw 1991). With research examining the intersections of race and gender, it is found that AAW experience a dual form of oppression where sexism and racism shape AAW lives. Feminism must include gender and intersections of all identities in order to support all women. During my research I had the chance to explore theory that reflects my experience,
recognizes and validates the multiple identities I possess. I examined Critical Race Theory and Intersectionality Theory to show how our experiences as Women of Color have value and that the diversity with in womanhood is beautiful. I’m proud to say that because of social media, literature, educators and allies, we have more access to current literature, live discussions, and videos that spark individuals to think critically and take action. The more Women of Color get involved with feminism, the more others like us, will want to get involved. Excerpt 4: Much of bell hook’s work is inspired by Friere’s (1970) definition of liberation; the praxis of reflection and action, where one function cannot exist with out the other in order to create effective change. Feminism is the state of practice that requires all individuals to be constantly aware of themselves through critical reflection which then aspires to put all insights into critical practice. If feminism is not taught from a critical perspective and carefully crafted to engage students in critical consciousness, students will never be free of the existing oppressions within feminism. Friere is one of the most inspirational theorists I’ve engaged with through literature and classroom discussion. His meaning of liberation directly aligns with our mission as a Jesuit institution in which reflection and action are at the core of transformative leadership. I encourage you to explore what feminism means to you and find a way to engage in it through out the school year. Remember, liberation is a state of praxis, which means you are constantly reflecting and acting to promote growth in mind, body, and spirit. Spaces like Feminist Forum, Gannon Center for Women, and The Women’s Project are all spaces that lack our presence as Women of Color. I
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UNTITLED MONOLOGUE / / AURORA CHANG Feature’s Biography Dra. (Doctora) Aurora Chang is an assistant professor in Curriculum and Instruction at Loyola University’s School of Education, where she teaches coursework on multicultural education and urban schooling. Chang’s research focuses on the intersection of education, identity and agency within traditionally marginalized communities. Chang’s personal and professional values are based on the following principles: (1) the need to understand the impact of identity and agency on students’ and teachers’ educational experiences and practices; and (2) the desire to empower diverse marginalized communities. Currently, Dra. Aurora Chang focuses on undocumented students’ paths of educational survival, resistance and persistence and how these experiences affect the “American” sociopolitical landscape. Her other research interests include: cultural studies in education, identity, agency and education with a focus on Multiracial & Latina/o students, experiences of female faculty of color and Chicana Feminist Theory. She is a graduate of UC Berkeley, Stanford University and the University of Texas at Austin. By the end of 2015, she will have published fourteen articles and chapters in peer-reviewed journals and books and will be working on the draft of her first book, Undocumented Latina/o Students, Schooling and the Pursuit of Citizenship: Hyperdocumentation and the Hidden Curriculum of Americanness.
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[slam papers to floor] I have a Bachelor’s from Berkeley a Master’s from Stanford and a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin [bend down to floor to shuffle through papers] I’ve written at least 10,000 pages in my lifetime and will probably reach a million before I’m dead. [sort through and pass out different papers to people in audience] I have file cabinets full of papers:
certificates of achievement, perfect attendance awards, straight A report cards, French student of the year, Mathletes winner, Academic Decathlon Finalist, #1 Doubles Tennis Champ, Excellent Citizenship award, applications, forms, personal statements, reference letters, Alumni Scholarship (full ride), Mellon Fellow (full ride), Asian American Award for Leadership, Hispanic Faculty/Staff Association Member of the Year, University Fellowship $50,000
[find CV, reveal it and put it on like a shawl around body] My CV is 20 pages long I wear professorial clothes and talk academic talk. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do, right? But
[stand tall and let the CV shawl fall to the floor, quietly talking aloud] Yesterday, today and tomorrow when I again get confused for a food service worker, hotel staff or maid - it’s like I NEVER EARNED ANYTHING. [hands extended to audience] Don’t get me wrong - my father worked coat check at a San Francisco hotel, my mom sold tamales from our house, I bussed tables to get through school It’s just that people have no problem assuming that we do THOSE honest jobs that
everyone else WON’T do I’ve just never had someone accidentally assume I’m a professor, a doctor, an author. You get me?
[Hands in prayer pleading] Understand that brown skin, prominent nose, black hair and Mayan features TRUMP 21 years of schooling, a prestigious job and authored articles, chapters and books. I thought my days of fearing everything as an undocumented “illegal” immigrant from Guatemala were over. I deluded myself [collect papers from audience] thinking that I had hyperdocumented my way out of racism, sexism, heteronormativity, classism, ableism, ageism and xenophobia. [tone gets powerful, holding papers close to chest, on heart] I’m a writer I’m a scholar And a professor at Loyola University but you wouldn’t know that. Would you?
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UNTITLED // LAUREN O’BRIEN They tell me not to take it personal... Remain Unbiased. Unpolitical. Yet, the personal and the political are an integral part of my being, my existence. My existence… I am the daughter of warriors the descendant of slaves, immigrants y indios My ancestors were fighters They were political Their blood flowing through my veins makes me political my whole being is political Yet they tell me to not be political. I am the embodiment of juxtaposed contradictions. A being of resistance in every instance. With dark wavy hair, high yellow skin, almond brown eyes, an irish last name... all these things cause confusion I am confusing. I am a black woman Made from 2 black parents a woman with 4 black grandparents. I am 2 souls diverged in 1 body. My duality ever present. I am fluent in a language of dark diction full of words that cause friction because they evoke my black diction
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a foreign diction a diction that appears foreign to them my being is foreign to them because I am foreign because my existence is confusing because I cause confusion. Their resolution for me being confusing is fusion. They want to fuse me into their categories their binary categories their black and white categories their racist, patriarchal categories their uncreative categories their rhythmless categories their very bland and flavorless categories and they do this because they say I am confusing. I cause confusion so they want to fuse me into their mental capacities they want to reduce me want to compartmentalize me want to unbias me want to depoliticize me want to make me a symbol an ideology a false ideology that paints the world as colorblind a world where there is no color a world that sees no color because they don’t see my color because they don’t see no color But I see color and I see my color and I want them to see my color
because I am confusing I am the embodiment of contradictions I am resistance in every instance not an object for fusion because I can’t be compartmentalized and I can’t be depoliticized because I am political my blackness and womaness intertwined inseparable of my existence just existing I cause resistance An existence that causes disillusion because I cause confusion. Yet... they tell me not to be political.
MY TRUTH... / / OMEGA STYLES Each day I walk in my truth and it did not come by happenstance. Through experiences I have learned who I am and my purpose in life. As a woman of color, at times I have felt as if I did not belong. Sometimes I am surprised at how others are able to walk by as if I do not exist. As I live my life, I have learned to be comfortable with who I am and what I represent. I am a strong, determined, educated, funny, intelligent, optimistic, smart, and beautiful woman. I am who I am, and I am the one who defines who I am.
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THE COLOR OF REVOLUTION / / JANE BARON I was 9 when they stole me away from my mother’s garden and chopped off my roots. They chained my hands & feet and squeezed my heart like clay. My body was stripped of its growing leaves, stuffed in a tiny luggage, and checked-in for an 18-hour flight. …A flight to the land of gold streets …A land of endless opportunities
nipa & palm leaves …the rainbow of stars during the hot Christmas nights …the streets flooded with flowers in February …the community of brown familiar faces that nurtured my seed All forgotten and stuffed in a caged box. But my bruised heart still attempts to fight for Freedom. Hoping that one day… my Skin will regain its normal color,
Any traces of ancestral blood that dripped from my cuts were carefully bleached to erase any clues that would lead my mother back to Me.
my Tongue will regrow and my Soul will heal, …more resilient than before,
My skin was scrubbed & sanitized, until the color faded into purity and blended in with their own thoughts of normal. They cut off my tongue, sewed my lips shut, so that the honey-like words that my mother sang would cause pain & shame. My insides were cleansed & naturalized, and my brain had its memories beaten out of it. …the rice fields with houses made of dried
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…and sprout yellow roses, …in The Color of Revolution.
GAGGED / / DEVITA BISHUNDAT Ashamed. Ridiculed by classmates. Awkward stares. Heckling. Brown skin. Abnormally long black hair. Being called anything but my real name. Curry smell. Misunderstood as the only one who looked different. Stares from peers when called on. Never quite feeling comfortable in my own skin. Gagged by suffocating self-doubt. Questioning. Will I ever amount to anything? Will I be able to fall in love with the person of my choosing? Pressure to perform By self, by culture, by society To make my parents’ sacrifices mean something more than wishful hope. Gagged by expectations. Lost. Who am I? Where is my voice? Despite this awareness, I continue to gag myself Despite accolades, jobs, promotions, good grades, alphabet soup after my name. Where do I find the power to remove decades of being choked, suffocated Gagged by the world around me How do I remove this gag? Love‌ Time to heal Community love Manage triggers Self-care Belief in humanity Community care Self-love. I refuse to be gagged.
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“NI DE AQUI, NI DE AYA” (NOT FROM HERE, NOT FROM THERE) / / KAREN AGUIRRE Feature’s Biography Karen Aguirre is a first generation Xícana from the Back of the Yards community in Chicago. During her admission to Loyola University, the Cristo Rey Scholar program awarded her an academic full ride. This opportunity has allowed her to major in Health Systems Management under the School of Nursing while double minoring in Theatre and Spanish literature. Her current interests are on health care disparities among Latinos and African Americans. This interest began during her sophomore year when she took a course on vulnerable populations in health care. Soon after, she obtained a position in the psychology department as a Spanish interpreter for a federally run project for youth in the welfare system. In addition, her cultural background and focus on social justice has led her to attend and lead some of the alternative break immersion trips to the following locations: Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Guatemala, Mexico, and Jamaica. These trips are offered through the Campus Ministry and provide students at Loyola the opportunity to stand in solidarity with marginalized communities. Some of Karen’s notable achievements also include her acceptance into the Biomedical Science Career program at Harvard University and her acceptance into the Ronald E. McNair Post-Baccalaureate Achievement program in 2014. Karen will continue to immerse herself in the healthcare field and will be pursuing a Master’s in Public Health at the University of Illinois at Chicago this upcoming fall of 2015.
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I was born in Chicago in the year of 1992. Two years later, my undocumented parents made a journey back to Durango, Mexico after spending many years without seeing their loved ones. As a way of returning back to the U.S. a month later, my father decided to use a permit he was given by his job through the late amnesty of 1994. Although he had some type of documentation that could possibly let him back into the country, there was no guarantee. My father knew this was a risky move, so he sent my mother and I with a Coyote. The person in charge of crossing us illegally made us walk through the Sonoran desert from Nogales, Mexico into Nogales, Arizona. So there I was, Karen Aguirre, a young citizen
of the United States being smuggled into her own country like a piece of contraband. After this incident, I questioned my identity for the following 20 years. The clashing of two cultures created challenges for me to easily self identify. In my case, growing up in the United States within a small Mexican community led to an abyss of questioning. Especially because surveys at school always categorized me as “Hispanic,” racists referred to me as a “wet back” and my family from Mexico argued that I was technically a ”gringa” (whitey) since I was born in the U.S. Nonetheless, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t considered something that sprouted on both sides of the “big fence.” On September 2014, the Health Systems Management program nominated me to represent my major in a medical delegation that was traveling to Tucson. This delegation had signed up to spend a couple of days in Arizona and Mexico with an organization called BorderLinks. I was so thrilled about this opportunity because I knew the organization’s mission was to teach other individuals about the humanitarian crisis happening along the Mexican-US Border. I remember that at the beginning of the program we were given itineraries and the minute I read “Sunday: Stroll through the Sonoran Desert”, I knew it was going to be a trip down memory lane. During my stay in Nogales, Mexico our delegation did service at a comedor (lunchroom) called “Kino Border Initiatives.” This location offered breakfast and lunch to undocumented immigrants who were deport-
ed from the U.S with nothing but a slip of paper documenting their illegal entry. Some men and women walked in and a boy had to be carried in because of the blisters he got on his feet for walking so much in the desert. This image struck me, but I had to see it, this could have been my family years ago. Regardless, I remained focused and started to help set the tables by putting batches of warm tortillas for the migrants to eat. An hour later, after many finished eating and left, I decided to sit next to a young Mexican immigrant boy who looked lost and tired. He told me he was 16 years old and that he was from Oaxaca, Mexico. He also mentioned that he didn’t know what to do next, he kept debating the idea of whether he should try crossing again or staying in Mexico. He said he had no family to return to back home and because of this I suddenly became disheartened by his situation. As a way of empathizing, I told him my story about crossing the border. I joked about my story by saying that the only thing I remembered was being hungry and because I kept saying it throughout the walk, my mother scolded me to be quiet. He laughed, and then he said something to me that I’ve never heard before. “Tu eres uno de nosotros” (You’re one of us.) I self identify as a Xícana. I have Mexican and American blood flowing through my veins. I know both cultures well, but that day I realized that I was more than just one thing. I am also one of them. I crossed the border, I lived it, and now I have the missing puzzle piece to my identity.
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WHITESPLAINING / / LORENA ORNELAS During my years in graduate school, I experienced a peculiar feeling familiar to many women of color in academia - the feeling that comes with having our experiences described to us. The people who are doing the describing are, very often, not women of color; they are members of the dominant class who have a well-meaning interest in issues that affect communities of color, though their eagerness to discuss these issues can often come off as condescending. To the person of color, the conversation feels like a micro-aggression. Worse-these members of the dominant class leading the discussion are hardly interested in firsthand accounts from women of color, as their texts and research, apparently, suffice. But what is lost with such a limited perspectives are more informed discussions that would add to their knowledge. Although I appreciate the interest in the marginalization of communities, I think it is important to point out the dominant class’ inherent privilege, especially when they largely gloss over our experiences. So many academic discussions revolve around summer trips to Chiapas to meet brown people who, apparently, are in need of help by more privileged white society. Their hearts are in the right place, but it made me think of the term “mansplain,” defined by the Urban Dictionary as “delighting in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course he is right, because he is the man in this conversation.” Borrowing this colloquialism, I propose that the term “whitesplain” be entered into the pop culture lexicon, defined as “delighting
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in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course one is right, because one is of the racial majority.” Most recently, I encountered whitesplaining during a trip to Mexico where a fellow latina colleague and I were discussing migration and its multigenerational consequences. A white classmate joined the conversation though it quickly became her lecturing us, providing statistics and reflection borne of research. We tried to offer insight from not only our studies but also our personal backgrounds, though by the looks and body language of our white classmate it was not received with interest or curiosity. My friend and I looked at each and smiled knowingly, letting our caucasian sister dominate the conversation. Incidents such as this are common and often the woman of color has to develop a sense of humor if she is to survive in higher education. But a closer look at the handful of occasions when this has happened makes me see the phenomenon of whitesplaining as regressive. It prevents a real conversation, one that might allow for the dominant class to form a truer understanding of the realities of women of color. Ironically, the whitesplainer offends the very people who they are trying to “help.” It is in the spirit of solidarity and respect, which I have for any person willing to study the complexities of migration and social work, that I write this, to nuance the help they wish to offer by helping them discern that their assistance, while benevolent, can
be a form of soft oppression if it leaves no room for the lived experiences of those whose culture they are interested in. The whitesplainer is not an overt racist and while their actions start out in the right places, they may fail to consider the people with whom they are in conversation. Lacking true open discourse, the discussion will remain stunted; the whitesplainer will remain comfortable in their knowledge of the history and culture of their “other,” their brown counterpart. In the meantime, women of color can share a knowing laugh and simultaneously lament this kinder form of subjugation but it bridges no emotional gaps and delays true fellowship between cultures. the complexities of migration and social work, that I write this, to nuance the help they wish to offer by helping them discern that their assistance, while benevolent, can be a form of soft oppression if it leaves no room for the lived experiences of those whose culture they are interested in. The whitesplainer is not an overt racist and while their actions start out in the right places, they fail to consider the people with whom they are in conversation. Lacking true open discourse, the discussion will remain stunted; the whitesplainer will remain comfortable in their sense of authority and knowledge of the history and culture of their “other.” In the meantime, women of color can share a knowing laugh and simultaneously lament this kinder form of subjugation but it bridges no emotional gaps and delays true fellowship.
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EL ESPEJO / / KARINA SANCHEZ
I look in el espejo and I see the lies you made me believe. Like “calladita te vez mas bonita” and “don’t you dare challenge the status quo.” You introduced me to the darkness and you stripped me of all my innocence. You robbed me of my trust in others’ genuine kindness. You slowly plucked me of my wings, binding me to your machista ideology. For twenty- two years I let you control and define me. I look in el espejo and the scars you left still run deep. My body still jumps and tightens responding to a perceived attack. I am still consumed by the painful memories I thought I have suppressed. Our family loyalties kept me from exposing your dirty secrets. And as a result I was forced to be smothered by the weight of my silence. For twenty-two years I let my anxiety, my depression, my eating disorder control and define me. I look in el espejo and I see the broken pieces of myself. The broken pieces have filled me with feelings of low selfesteem, selfdoubt and guilt. I became a prisoner of my body and I was left to mend the disjointed pieces you left behind. My body hungered to stay busy in activities that didn’t sustain the void in my restless soul. And hiding behind a smile, you prepared me for a war in which I was forced to fight alone. For twenty-two
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years I let the silence and the walls I built control and define me. I look in el espejo and I see a sickly, pale woman who is weary and tired. I am tired of bottling twentytwo years of pain and silence. I am tired of feeling alone. I am tired of being on this emotional roller coaster. I am tired of feeling numb. I am tired of telling people I am okay when in reality, I am struggling to catch my breath. I am tired of being paralyzed by the fear and the darkness. I am tired of not feeling worthy. For twenty two years I let my burdens control and define me - sucking t he life out of me like a leach slowly feeding on its prey. I look in el espejo and I see a woman whose eyes cry out for an urgent need to break free of the chains - the chains that have kept her passive, apathetic, disconnected, afraid, and bedridden. It is time that I reclaim my thoughts and make them my own again - coloring them with the simple vibrant colors I once knew. It is time that I piece together the picture of who I truly am. It is time to reclaim my happiness. It is time that I restore and renourish my fragile body. It is time I embrace all of me. It is time that I rediscover the fire that ignited my passions, dreams and motivations. For twenty- two years I have been lost and disconnected from myself, but not
anymore.I refuse to be a victim of the chains that have immobilized and kept me silent. I look in el espejo and I see a woman who is transforming into the warrior she always was. My broken wings, like a phoenix are slowly replenishing, getting ready to rise above adversity. My eyes are finally seeing my worth, my strength, my beauty, my intelligence, my wholeness. After years of darkness I am finally starting to feel the sun shine in places I forgot existed. And I have made a promise to myself: to not only silence the distorted labels others place on me, but to also silence my inner critic so that I can begin to embark on a journey of selflove. It is not going to be easy but I am ready to love myself, to see the world with a different pair of eyes. For twenty-two years I have always let something else control and define me, but not anymore. I am taking back my power! I am taking back my voice! I will not be silent anymore! I will no longer live in someone elses shadows. I will simply be me - a warrior.
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MY NANI. MY GRANDMOTHER. // NASEEB BHANGAL Balmy and hot, I cannot sleep. The fan creaks as the spokes move in a circular direction, but even after continuous momentum the air is still stagnant. Outside I hear a cacophony of sounds, the horns of taxis and Marutis beeping every two minutes, the hollow high pitched voice of the man selling spintops on the crowded street, and the latest Bollywood songs coming from the rikshas. My thoughts are interrupted by my Nani, who offers me comfort by bringing me three things: a bowl of chicco fruit, a cold glass of water, and a kiss on my head. Even after years have gone by since I have last seen her, my Nani still embraces me like the two-year-old baby my parents left behind with her. My Nani. My Grandmother. *** The summer time always stirs memories of my childhood. The months of June through August weren’t spent planning exotic vacations at other locations, but for my parents, it was a chance to go home to India. When my parents migrated to the United States over twenty five years ago, they left every single family member behind. And left a large part of their cultural identity in limbo. Even though the distance was daunting, my destiny and that of my parents’ facilitated a connection between my grandparents and me. Between the ages of one and four, my parents left me with my grandparents in India, which my mother describes as one of the hardest decisions she had to make as a parent. With two young children at home, it was difficult for my parents to save up money. Luckily,
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my fondest memories of childhood are of my maternal grandmother and her village in India. Over the years, my Nani’s soothing voice, the smells of her shawls, the taste of her pickled mangoes and the softness of her skin still are fresh in my mind. My Nani. My Grandmother. *** “Nani, Nani, you are so cuddly. I love you so much,” I bellow across the marble veranda outside. I storm my Nani and wrap her in a bear hug. “You are my grandma,” I say in Punjabi. Do you know that Nani?” I leave the room, fast, only for a second and rush back again to the same place. “You want to play Laddo, Nani?” The game is already set up to play. I never really wait for my Nani’s response. I always assume that she will always play. We play almost five games of Laddo and in-between sets, my Nani cuts my favorite fruit, chiccos, and places them in a white bowl. I continue to talk, laugh, eat the fruit and hug my Nani again. I fixate on the brown skin under my Nani’s arms, fascinated with the jiggle as my finger moves the excess back and forth. That same day I learn how to make my first Indian dish. We move to the kitchen outside and begin making stuffed potato chapatis, a popular homemade Punjabi bread. Nothing says “home” like a chapati made by Nani with her homemade mangoe-pickle. And the comforts of this daily staple from a grandmother’s kitchen, fully exceed anything eaten in a restaurant. I pick up a rolling pin and start to move it over the dough. Despite being clueless about the shape I am forming, I am still
content. I hold up my creation and ask for approval, “Is this right, Nani?” With a nod of a head, we both continue to roll our pins in unison while laying out each roti like it is a treasured jewel. “Both achi roti bani hai, Naseeb,” my Nani says. “You have made a great chapati, Naseeb.” In response, a giggle comes out from my mouth. “This is so much fun. I love you Nani.” My Nani. My Grandmother. *** Every time I cut my nails, I think of my Nani’s first trip to the United States. I learned a lot more about my Nani during her visit than I did when I was living with her as a 2 year old. Our relationship had suffered cultural differences, and at the end of her visit I couldn’t help but feel responsible. My Nani was the same but I had changed so much. She first visited the family after I turned 12 years old. She couldn’t stay for long, since it was her daughter’s house. Over the years mom still rationalizes with her… telling her she is not a “burden” and that if she stayed in our house, she wouldn’t be committing any egregious sin.
old I had become. I could care less. Looking back now, I realize my Nani’s Indian upbringing challenged my Western lifestyle — although I have always loved her immensely, I never understood why she did the “Indian” things that she did. When Nani decided to visit us that’s when the real conversations — nay, debates — began. She’d tell me not to ever cut my hair like my “Uh-merican” friends. “Why?” I’d ask. “Because it isn’t good,” she’d say. “Not good for whom?” I’d question. “For you! Bad things will happen,” she’d retort. “Really, Nani? If I cut my hair? Like there’s someone in the cosmos monitoring that?” I’d look at her doubtfully. “Do whatever you want,” she’d respond defeated.
But Nani was set in her ways. She’d practice the same daily rituals, waking up during “Amirt-Vela,” the holy time at 3am, to pray every single day. She wouldn’t eat pumpkin. I asked her once why she hated it so much. She said, “I love it, that’s why I don’t eat it.” “Weird!” I replied back. A snarky 12-year-
There were other similar things she would try to check me on — don’t leave your shoes on top of each other, it is bad luck; don’t leave the house without your head covered, or else you will attract someone’s negativity; don’t jump over your brother’s legs: he will stop growing; don’t shake your legs when you’re sitting: you will cause family fights; don’t kill any bugs intentionally: you
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MY NANI. MY GRANDMOTHER. CONT will become that bug in your next life! But the one that got to me most — even more than not being “allowed” in the kitchen during “that time of the month” — was her mandate of not cutting nails after sunset. She wouldn’t let mom — her grown up 40-something daughter — cut her nails inside the house, so for me to cut them inside and in the evening was the horror of all horrors. One evening, as I sat with a newspaper sheet sprawled under my foot, clipping away at my big toe, Nani entered the room. Aghast at the sight that greeted her, she yanked the nail clipper from my hand. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” she furiously asked. I had never seen her this angry. Instead of reacting with the same passion, I calmly asked her to sit down and explain to me why this was wrong. I wanted her to rationalize her crazy, superstitious beliefs. “Because you just don’t cut your nails at night,” she said. “That’s not a good enough reason,” I responded. “Let me guess,” I start out sarcastically. “There was no electricity and people lived in tiny one-room mud huts, when this ‘tradition’ began,” I narrated. “They couldn’t have clipped nails scattered around the cooking area…and there was danger of them cutting themselves if they weren’t careful. So, the warning: cut your nails ONLY during daytime and outside the house.”
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That seemed like a rational explanation, I thought. I felt clever in that moment, feeling sensible and mature in comparison to my Nani. Nani shook her head. “You’re just making that up,” she said. “Sure I am, but doesn’t it sound reasonable?” I asked earnestly. She scowled and said, “You think you know everything, huh?” “No, Nani, I don’t.” “You are well educated and I can’t even spell my name, so you negate all my traditions and customs. You think nothing of them. You come up with all these scientific things to explain them; but this is who I am.” “You are this way, because this is all you know,” I retort back. “And when you find out something that is contrary to what you believe — even if it makes sense to you — you choose to ignore it.” She kept sitting there, looking at me. “Do what you will. I will be gone soon enough, so you can go back to doing what you want then,” she said finally. We had agreed to disagree. A couple of nights later my mother made pumpkin-squash. Nani wasn’t served any. “Why don’t you eat it even when you love it so much?” I asked.
“You won’t understand,” she said. “Since there’s nothing ‘rational’ about it.”
But I’ve come to respect those who can and do.
Turns out she had given it up as a young girl — her mom had asked her to give up eating something they really enjoyed for their faith. She chose pumpkin. But even in making that choice, she didn’t know why she was being asked. And she never thought to question her mother. She didn’t think of it as a test of her will power. She didn’t speak up to question or challenge.
Those from my generation choose this path knowingly.
She did it just because. My mother didn’t follow most of what Nani did but she never argued with, or openly flouted, Nani either. I see Nani every time I go back to India. She is in her 80s now. She doesn’t keep too well but she is as staunch as ever. Firm in her beliefs. It used to baffle me when I would see Indian friends and my very own parents blindly following the same things Nani did. What was wrong with them? Didn’t they know better? I questioned them, too, and more often than not got the response: “It’s our custom. This is who we are.”
They follow customs that even they know don’t mean anything. They saw their mothers and grandmothers do it, so it’s familiar and comforting. I’ve adopted a policy of live and let live. But even so, every time I cut my nails, the memories of that conversation with Nani come flooding back to me. I shake my head, smile, and carry on. Nani can’t see me, so it’s ok I tell myself. My Nani. My Grandmother. *** I finish up my bowl of chicco fruit and hand the bowl back to my Nani. She was in the kitchen cutting and prepping okra, my favorite dish. She asks me how my studies are going. “I am half way done,” I answer her. My attention moves to her hands, as she continues to cut the okra. Lined, cuticles pushed back, weighed down with rings. Elegant hands of an elegant woman. Her face is equally lined. And, among the bags that were her eyes, her large brown irises still pierce—a thriver in her own right. My Nani. My Grandmother.
But that statement is still unsatisfying to me. I can’t not question things that seem irrational. I can’t perform rituals or conduct day-long fasts just because I am Indian and this is what we do.
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WHAT ARE YOU? I SAY // DESTINY HOOPER What am I? I’m human. What are you? You must be confused, since you cannot clearly identify me. You mean that the color of my skin does not give you a clear indication? Or is it that my hair has too much curl and not enough kink? Shall I continue, or give you time to think? I am human, just like you. My appearance does not create my identity. Nor does your impertinence disrupt my serenity. You say: “it’s weird” that I’m darker than milk, yet lighter than chocolate. You say: I’m “not really black,” but “pretty for a black girl.” You say: I’m so lucky for my Latina hair, yet you ask if it’s real. You say: I’m “just like one of you” because I talk “white.” But I say: Why do you think white is right? Is not every color of the rainbow just as beautiful? I say: I am a paradox. Although you might be confused, I am not! I say: I am of milk, chocolate, and caramel. I belong to all, yet not to one! I say: the labels are obsolete, for I am so great and they so small. Look beneath the surface and cherish the individual above all!
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MIXED. / / MARISSA BOULANGER M I X E D. I am mixed, Mixed race, Mixed heritage, Mixed background. Mixed, I grew up with a foot in two cultures, Ambiguously tan skin, Looking neither like my mother nor my father. I grew up mistaken for adopted. I grew up mixed in a culture unused to the concept. Mixed, I have learned the meaning of acceptance, The truth of seeing both the beauty in race, And the ugliness in differentiation. Mixed, I have been shunned for being half, The othering term assigned to biracial. Mixed, I have realized I'm not half. I am whole, uniquely whole. Mixed, I still have a foot in two cultures, And ambiguously tan skin. Still look neither like my mother nor my father. Still mistaken for adopted. Still mixed in a culture unused to the concept.
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INTRODUCING THE KALEIDOSCOPE TEAM
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OUR DEFINITION OF THE “ART OF DEFINING” Paige Gardner: Position Having the power as Women of Color, to name and claim our purpose on this earth without needing the permission or validation from others. Soumya Mathew: Position The art of defining is owning our truths, and finding the beauty in all the experience that shape who we are in relationship to this world. It means to reclaim the power of storytelling and speak life into our existence. Jane Baron: Position -insert quote-
Marissa Boulanger: Publishing Editor Defining yourself is knowning yourself, which takes time to master. This journal attempts to delve into this art in hopes of revealing new things to those who read it. Dianna Chericlet: Publishing Editor The art of defining paves a path to an opportunnity where individuals can come together to share their life stories without barriers. Talaya Legette: Position Sharing our experiences and telling our stories opens doors and provides opportunities for much needed understanding. Kaleidoscope does exactly that - recognizes, accepts, and celebrates the variety in being women of color.
China Hill: Position The art of defining means recognizing the unique person you were created to be in the midst of and because of God’s internal and external gifts. Mia StClair: Position The art of defining is being real and raw with what you have experience in life while empowering other Women of Color to share their stories. Lauren O’Brien: Position As a woman of color I feel like I am constantly negotiating my identity as I navigate a seemingly black and white world. However, I do not believe that my identity and self can be defined by such simplistic frameworks. Therefore the art of defining for me is the process by which I create my own visions of my identity and place in the world. Jen Sunah: Position The art of defining means to expand beyond everyday language--the art of defining is the ability to reflect and utilize creativity to communicate and immortalize our stories. Andrea Alexander: Position -insert quote-
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kaleidoscope
a journal for women of color by women of color
C losing Statement The WOC Committee would like to thank you all, contributors and readers, for continuing to support LUCES and the growth of this journal. Our goal and hope for the journal and its transition to Kaleidoscope is to provide a myriad of expression surrounding a select theme for each volume. For the 2015 second edition, the theme and focus was “the art of defining.� We hope each piece allows you to reflect on what defines and allows you to defy as a woman of color; taking time to acknowledge the interconnected idiosyncrasies that exist amongst all things encompassed in the embodiment of you. As always, we hope Kaleidoscope inspires you to express yourself unapologetically as a woman of color within the Loyola and Greater Chicago community. Please consider contributing to our journal in 2016 and continue to support the LUCES community at Loyola University Chicago.
the art of defining