Taboo: Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy

NYWC PRESS

Copyright © 2019 NY Writers Coalition, Inc. ISBN: 978-1-0708179-1-0 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019905814 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

Editors: Ashley August & Judith Ohikuare Cover: Frantzia Merceus Interior Images: Frantzia Merceus Layout and Design: Daisy Flores NY Writers Coalition Press is proud to present Taboo, a collection of prose, poetry, and visual art from GUMBO (Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves), NYWC’s after-school workshop at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

GUMBO is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventure (CASA) initiative and supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and New York City Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

NY Writers Coalition Press Inc. 80 Hanson Place, Suite 604 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

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Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy

NY Writers Coalition Press Summer 2019 5

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CONTENTS FOREWORD Judith Ohikuare

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Original Writing & Art

BRYANNA ARNOLD

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LENNY LEAL

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FRANTZIA MERCEUS

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JESSICA MONROE

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MIA MONTGOMERY

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AMANDA MORRISON

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GABRIEL M. WILLIAMS

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ANONYMOUS

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Acknowledgements

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About NY Writers Coalition Inc.

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♦ FOREWORD ♦ This year’s writers at Benjamin Banneker Academy were all juniors and seniors in high school, meaning they faced a special challenge: staying connected to the present (filled with tests, heartache, application forms, triumph, anxiety, joy), while hurtling toward the future (work, more school, indecision, hope).

On top of all that, as members of the GUMBO writing club, they were tasked with writing together for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon—something I still struggle with many years removed from high school, even without the looming pressures of homework, endless exams, and the stresses of early adulthood. But no matter how tired, overwhelmed, or giddy they were, they always brought their A-game, even when it came to writing about the most intense topics.

This year’s members were poets, short story writers, essayists, visual artists, dramatists, and more. And they didn’t need more than a room, a meeting time, notebooks, and pens (sometimes not even that if you count cellphones) to express themselves.

We watched clips from popular shows today and connected them back to centuries’-old folktales, reflecting through writing on the impact of these stories on our lives. We listened to music in a variety of genres, picking out lyrics or beats that inspired our work and each other. We considered the space we were in—a high-school full of mostly black and

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brown youth—and thought about what it meant for them to spend most of their days there.

Some days, we just sat and shared what was happening in our lives that day, week, or month. Taboo is the compilation of all that deep thinking. It is a presentation of these students’ musings on love (imagined and experienced, as well as love of friends and with romantic partners), the public education system, reproductive rights and sexual agency, body image, and more.

One of the rules of NY Writers Coalition workshops is that we don’t assume the writing someone produces in our workshops is fact. We treat the work as fiction to give each participant space to hear what is compelling about their work without having a spotlight placed on their entire lives.

At the same time, this collection shines a light on the topics that matter most to these students today, and I’m grateful for the insight and hope you enjoy it as well.

Judith Ohikuare NY Writers Coalition Summer 2019

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Bryanna Arnold •

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T HANK YOU Thanks for being here I have a special seat for you Right here in the front, 5 seats from the left You’ll get a perfect view of me Okay Here I go First off I want to say thank you so fucking much I just love the fact that you taught me what a real friend is and that sure as hell ain’t you Let’s just say that I’m better without you You chose a boy over me That was cute or whateva’ but you won’t know what you lost until it’s gone Let’s just say that you must be better without me Thirdly, I really want to thank your mother Your mom decided to take you back with her Your mother has taken such a huge burden off of my shoulders Let’s just say that we’re better off without each other I don’t know about you, but I’ve gained so much knowledge from this experience So while you sit there and beg on your knees to have me back, I’m going to mind my business and live my life hella lavishly 13

W HEN I S TARTED L OVING Y’ ALL When did I first start loving y’all?

That’s a good ass question It never started with a yes or no question but When I first started loving y’all, y’all gave me your hearts to hold We spoke on serious levels and we also joked around a lot No amount of money or fame could make me lose sight of who y’all are in my life Our memories are like the most precious gold I have discovered We have our moments when each of us is in a mood, but it’s going to take a lot more than one of our attitudes to break this gold apart Like coal that needs to be under a lot of pressure, we’ve been born into diamonds We are loaded with love and joy even though we have our off days we find our peace Being reminded of who we are separately is cool or whateva’ but nothing can compare when being together as one Y’all are my partners in crime on any day and I would have that no other way

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And every day, I try to wonder how my life would be without y’all in it but that seems too scary And that’s what it means to love y’all the way that I do

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Lenny Leal •

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L AST DANCE Dancing cheek to cheek Heart to heart Swaying with the tone of the sax Your hand holding mine Never the last time Tears run down our faces You pick up mine with a smile I pick up yours, staring into your eyes Our eyes lock one last time Tonight, dream a little dream of me One step forward One step back with tangible sadness Knowing every next step Brings us closer to the end Brings us closer in the end It’s been a long, long time Since I can’t remember when I’ll kiss you once Then, I’ll kiss you twice Again, for one last time I hung up my tattered up boots Changed into an old uniform of mine Made me feel like a soldier again 16

But with your heart beating next to mine Your cheek next to mine Makes me feel like a whole Never the last dance

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L UCIFER M ORNINGSTAR Why, hello there, pleased to meet you. Let me introduce myself: I am the man of the hour and hopefully, the man of your orgasmic evening. I am “evil” incarnate, desire in the flesh, I am the Devil himself. Now, besides not being able to walk in a straight line for the next 72 hours, what is it that you desire most in the world? Money? Fame? Power?

Women? Well, sorry to inform you but that last one has been taken by yours truly. My world consists of woman after woman, drink after drink and orgasm after wild orgasm. My expertise only requires one thing from you my dear, apart from your luscious curves and breathtaking smile, and that is consent. I may be the Devil but I am no Weinstein or Cosby. Take faith in that, after I have you in my embrace, you’ll soon be screaming yes instead of just saying it. I’d start with some light teasing of your lips while bringing you ever so closer to me. I want to hear the raspiness of your breath as I take it away from you, among other things. Next, I would slowly drag my fingers from your collarbone, in between your heavenly mounds, to your hips where I would give them a firm grasp, prepared to give you whatever you’d like. You would start to feel the air around us getting hot and heavy as the tension between us got to its tipping point. Everything soon became a blur of clothes being torn away from their respective owners 18

and the subsequent rush to the bedroom. You humans love to blame every one of your follies on the Devil yet the only wrongdoing I have done to you was not giving it to you sooner. You gasp at every kiss, nibble and suck I give to your sweaty, sex-depraved body. The constant release of serotonin and dopamine into your brain sends you into hormonal overload. You don’t want it anymore...You need this.

You can’t get enough of whatever I am doing to you.

Making love it is not because you’ll hate for me to ever stop what I’m doing with a bottle of warm, oozing honey and your dripping, wet pot. Everyone forbids it, and it’s making you want it all the more. At this juncture, it is a matter of life or death because now you are hooked. You are hooked to the feeling that is dancing with the Devil and you love it. It’s intoxicating and addictive. Every moan let out of your lungs, every gripping of the sheets and every creak of the bed, couch, floorboards and balcony bring you ever so close to your now daily dose of Lucifer Morningstar.

As the sun rises, and the dust settles, and the gleam of ecstasy fades into the New York City sky, you begin to wonder “where has this been all my life?” I’ve been here for eons my love, right under your nose is where I’ve been waiting. “Waiting? Waiting for what?” To strike my dear….and strike I did.

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REDENCIÓN First of all, I have got to give it to you man. You want to talk about addiction? Let’s do what we say in Spanish, “Vamos a hacerlo a chile” — let’s tell it straight up. Truth is: I am an addict and I am a liar.

About two years ago, in this very school, the school I have grown to hate, oh man. I was crying bro… I was CRYING. I don’t remember much of that day, but what I do remember is them, my friends, carrying me out of this school. They carried me straight home to be alone. I did that to myself and that was just the beginning of it: For two years, not only did I lose my job, I lost my friends, I lost my girl, and I lost myself. I lost my spirit.

I disgraced my race. I disgraced my family. I disgraced myself. But you know what I did to overcome that? Do you?! I came to a point in my life where it was do or die. I had to make a decision. Do...or die. And you know what? I did, because I’m still here right now. Day by day, by the grace of God, I have earned the respect of my loved ones. Day by day, I earned my life back.

All of you, those who didn’t believe in me, you have no reason to fear me. You all have quite the resumes, I’m impressed. Vatos, if I had half the resume like you all, oh man, I wouldn’t be afraid of Lenny Leal. Oh. Hell.

No. See, people, I don’t have all your accomplish-

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ments. The only thing I have going for me is that every obstacle that has been put in front of me, I have overcome. But I didn’t overcome these obstacles by listening to people like you. See, all my life, guys, I have had people like you in my ear, “Hey, Lenny.

You’re not 6’7 and 165 pounds. You’ll never make it in the construction business.” “Hey, Lenny. Those personal demons that you battle every day? They’re too strong for you. You can’t beat ’em! You’ll never gain your mom’s love back. You’ll never redeem your name. You can’t do it, Lenny! You’re no one, a nobody! No eres nadie!”

No. By the grace of God, I am beating those personal demons. I have overcome those obstacles.

As I stand across from you, the object of all my hatred and suffering, and I visualize beating you to dust, that symbolizes a lot for me. That symbolizes for me: “I’m sorry.” That’s my way of telling my friends who are too scared to be around me, “I’m sorry.” That’s my way of telling my girlfriend, who is constantly asked “Why him?” that I’m sorry. That’s my way of telling everyone that I am going to provide them a better way of life. I’m going to see to it personally that they get a bite to eat and that they reach the top of their education! To do this, I need to overcome obstacles.

All I do is picture people like you in my mind. I hear the voices just like I’m hearing them by looking at you.

Just like I see and hear all those people say, “You can’t

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do it, Lenny,” that’s what I see in you man. I see nothing but a big, fat face of hatred when I look at you, vato. I see nothing but my next obstacle.

You see, that’s my NEW addiction. I am addicted to the high I get from seeing my friends smile. I am addicted to the high I get when I get to go to my mother and my family and tell them, “Hey, I’m doing it. I’m getting better.” I’m addicted to the satisfaction I get when I get to tell each and every single person like you who didn’t believe in me, “You can stick it up your ass!” I am addicted to the do or die feeling I am going to get the day I get to kick your ass up and down Myrtle Avenue. Oh, what a high that’ll be!

But the difference between me and all of you nonbelievers is that I’ll do anything and run over anybody just to get my high. And when that day comes, you won’t be facing Lenny Leal. You’ll be facing all of my inner demons and all of my struggle. You’ll be facing pure Latino Heat!

— R.I.P. Eddie Guerrero

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Frantzia E. Merceus •

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DANCE OF D IOR “Your dress is beautiful,” I say to her. A smile creeps on her face, and she nods slightly.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replies. I raise an eyebrow.

“Me?...Or the dress?”

She chuckles and puts down her drink. The lively music drowns out the click of her heels on the stone.

She circles me. “Haven't seen you at any of Dawn’s parties before.”

“I don’t get out much,” I say.

She stops in front of me. “How do you know her?

Acquaintance? Coworker…?” She trails off.

“Girlfriend?”

She looks at me eagerly, awaiting an answer.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Sibling.”

“Ah,” she says. “I can see the resemblance.”

I smirk and playfully roll my eyes. “Oh riiight… Now you see.”

The music is upbeat now and people are beginning to move around a lot more.

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“Care to dance?” she holds out her hand.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

She walks me to the center and as if programmed by a clockmaker, we strut, quickly raise our hands. Bringing them down slowly, glossing over the curves of our bodies. She moves her hips as I dance behind her.

Immediately, she spins me. Grabs my waist and I am dipped to the floor. I see bodies hanging from the ceiling moving out of the way to see us dance. The rush from her lifting me back up gets my blood pumping even more.

We continue to dance and she burns my eyes with her own. Darting back and forth from my left eye to my right.

I pull her forward and we’re inches apart.

“I didn’t catch your name.” I say.

She smirks. “Don't remember throwing it….”

She turns me away from her, still holding onto to one hand. Then just as quick, she spins me back. I am against her chest, feeling her quick heart beat in my back.

She whispers, “But since you’re so good at this, I wouldn’t mind doing so. It’s Elise.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Likewise.”

The song is coming to an end. We circle each other, ruffling our dresses. She pulls me in and at the last beat, our hands go up and our feet stomp. The party is full of

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applause and whistles.

“And who might you be?” she asks, now out of breath Breathing heavily, I smile. “It’s Dior.”

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S UCH AN ANGRY BEING Why do I put thee on such a high pedestal?

For thou art nothing in reality.

Thee probably have not the same feeling towards I, the unstable psycho, angry being that cries for no reasonable reason.

I live for silence yet am so afraid to be within its presence.

It as if I might get so lost within mine thoughts that I might travel to a realm I won’t be able to come back from.

Who knows what I might do in such state.

I have ideas, several that thou can’t even begin to fathom.

Evil, for at this very moment, I have no regrets.

Let’s say thou shall gain the curiosity of a cat, and decide to take a trip into my mind.

You will surely die. For it is not due to your curiosity but the mental cavity that you decided to explore.

Thou hath begun at the frontal lobe and couldn’t proceed from there.

You became engrossed with such…unexplainable, unspeakable things, that shall remain unsaid.

I shall not allow thee to take me back on that road that was so damn hard to get off of.

It sucks to see thee so happy while my own thoughts are driving me to insanity.

Hidden, of course, for thou art sensitive and I shall not 26

want to ruin thy day.

But now that I think about such idea, I shouldn’t give a flying fig whether I ruin anyone’s day. For as long as mine is good…

Wrong! Stop it...

Thou shall stop that way of thinking this instant.

Why should thee be subjected to such a world where thou is the only soul that knows everything will come to an end soon, not by a blast of gas but something ever more great that thou can’t explain.

The names will fly out of the mouths of the ignorant and those just fearful, which is understandable, ’tis the reason one is so unstable.

One, being me.

Hard for thee to just leap into the ocean without testing the waters.

Are they poisoned?

Freezing?

Boiling?

Just plain unpleasing?

This is all over the place for I must go, but I have more.

More to spew to thee that may heed what I say.

What I have been saying.

Who am I really kidding?

These are just words spoken from the tongue of an angry being, who has no healthy way of releasing the tension.

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Whether you heed my words Or damn yourself to hell on thy own I must relay such a message to thee.

Forget thee!

For I am contempt with my current position.

Stop trying to have me switch.

My favorite color is black And I am sticking to it.

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T OO HARD I S WOON Swoon. I was mesmerized by her smile.

How her eyes crinkled every time I made her laugh.

Swoon. Her blush as it rose from her cheeks to her ears. Her nose wrinkled when I said something dumb.

But she always laughed afterwards.

She made me swoon.

I let her take me.

Take me to vulnerability to stupidity and shame Swoon, she became aggressive and I loved it. The sweet, sweet aggression.

She’d hit a nerve at times, but I’d bite my tongue and take it. I took it as if I was strong.

She would hit me.

“I love you.” Then a tap on the shoulder.

“I love you.” Then a punch in my arm.

“I love you.” Then an uppercut to the gut.

Not official but I had her.

She had me wrapped around her little finger.

Swoon. I’d watch her speed past me, not knowing what to say. She made me sad and I loved it.

She made me sad, she made me cry, made me wish I died as long as I played her game.

The longer I play, the longer she lets me play, the easier it will be to deal.

Swoon. I’d catch her smile at someone else then look at me with disgust.

I’d watch someone else make her blush and I’d get so 29

angry.

Don't laugh with him, laugh with me!

Don't slap him, slap me!

Don’t belittle her, belittle me!

Is this what I have succumbed to? Allowing myself to be driven six feet under by the one who caused my death? The death of my confidence, my will to feel, my will to care.

The death of my free mind, to care too much and feel an overload of rubbish.

I asked for her and got this.

The prodigal child won't return in this story. My father isn't waiting for me at the door.

She made me laugh, she made me cry; they made me small, they made me quiet.

So I sit and cry, I sit and write, I sit and try to keep occupied awaiting my final minute.

I swoon behind a thick black curtain and I walk the valley of the shadows of death without a candle.

Never to return home. Father, you can’t hear me for I am gone. Too hard I swoon.

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UNTIDY T RUST I see him emerge from his room looking relieved. He entered full and came out empty. He entered dirty and came out clean.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Do you trust me?” he answers.

I give a confused nod. He brings his left index finger to his lips and his right hand holds mine. Then he blows out a Shhhhhhhhh.

He leaves and I drown in curiosity. I enter his room.

It is neatly unitidy.

As a master in deductive reasoning, I surmise that something is hidden under a pillow. So cliché, I nearly gag. I remove a tattered composition notebook. Truly looks like it's been through hell and back, except for the pages inside. Precise and clean. Neatly untidy.

Bound by morals, I refuse to read.

Persuaded by curiosity, I decide to skim.

Many expletives are written, usually in LOUD, deep graphite.

One page is neatly written but the words have such a disgusting tone of hurt, loss, and betrayal. On the next page, he doesn’t even bother to follow the lines. His words are LOUD. I can hear him scream: “I AM 31

HAVING SUCH A GOOD DAY!” He wrote so hard he imprinted the next page. The next page has no words.

Down the middle are dried wet spots along with dried yellow blobs and dried red splatters. The rest of the book remains inconsistent. Neatly untidy.

He's hiding within hiding this book in which he hides.

The last page has cross hatching framing the page all over ’til it forms a square in the middle of the paper.

The writing within reads: “Hard to interpret, I see you scan me. Your curiosity will reveal my neatness while revealing my clothes are untidy.”

I freeze and the doorknob clicks.

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Jessica Monroe •

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HI, I’ M A GIRL Hi, I’m a girl I have a vagina that bleeds monthly.

It’s completely normal and natural but I’m told that it’s gross.

When I reach for a pad in my bag, the world stops and all eyes are on me. The crinkling of the bright green packaging haunts me.

Hi, I’m a girl When I go outside at night, I can’t have my headphones in. I have to keep my keys between my fingers in fear that I might need to stab the nonexistent man that’s walking behind me. I immediately turn into an owl, turning my head 180 degrees.

Hi, I’m a girl I can’t wear ripped jeans, shorts, tank tops, or even sandals to school because it’s “provocative” and I’ll distract my male classmates. My, my, my, how the shoulders and knees really make a boy go crazy.

Hi, I’m a girl I have a vagina that bleeds every month, I have to keep myself armed every second of every day, and I 33

can’t wear breathable clothes for the sole fact that boys will lose their control.

Hi, I’m a girl, yet I’m told that it’s a “tough time to be a man in America right now.”

I just wonder how tough it can get.

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Frantzia Merceus

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Frantzia Merceus

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Mia Montgomery •

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J OSIE Josie didn’t keep her secrets in a book. She knitted them into worn out sweaters, into scars on her skin, and in little patches of dirt in the ground. She whispers to each drop of water that falls into the bucket, a resounding drip to each syllable, only for it to be dumped away by the landlord minutes later.

Her lips on the shell of an ear told toe-curling stories, but the fingerprints left on an old Polaroid told more than you can imagine. Josie has so many secrets that the wind blows in protest.

The pieces of wood that she pulls out of her skin leave little comments like only the devil could live with that and one day your time will come. When she picks her fingernails, the dead skin and dried blood hold a gossip circle, and the polish that she routinely chips off from her toenails leave a few additions.

When Josie offers someone food, they say that the aftertaste makes them nauseous and that maybe there was something in the food. Josie apologizes and says that she’s never been a good cook, but let it be known that Josie doesn’t wash her hands, per se. Her secrets — her sins — are woven delicately into the meal she has prepared today, and maybe you have a

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weak stomach but today it seems like she didn’t hold back.

The spoon she used to taste test feels dirty and the salt she sprinkled in for flavor tastes almost spicy.

Josie keeps her secrets everywhere, and it’s up to you to find them.

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P EAS AND P OTATOES My dad is mad at my mom today. he made peas and potatoes, one of which if she eats she will die and the other a long-standing dislike from childhood. i can imagine the hurt and distaste on her face when she comes home from work and sees that there is no meal for her today.

My mother does not love my father, and my father does not love my mother.

I am mad at you. instead of making your least favorite food, I tell you I love you. I will pretend that I’m not mourning a lost opportunity and that you should have waited for me. I will not make you peas and potatoes, but I will wish that the next one your heart pulls for will eat them, and you will be overcome with hurt and distaste.

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S UNSET B OULEVARD Sunset Boulevard.

They said it was a land of excitement. I wanted to take him but he died two days after I found the brochure.

I don’t know what I expected.

His ghost lingered in the seams of my sweater, and I could feel his touch all over me. I wanted it gone.

Sunset Boulevard.

It took everything in me not to burn myself alive. I was irritated. I just wanted freedom. The only, the faux, time I could remember feeling in retrospect, was when the sky was red like My hands, my blood, his blood, the bed, my shoe, my sweater, my beating heart. Have you ever killed to show you can live?

Sunset Boulevard.

I’m held to the devices of my own mind. I like my steak bloody red, my tomatoes raw, my wounds 40

deep, and my 8-ball fractures black. If you’ve never seen the face of a bloody man you should check it out; he’ll either sit there and look at you with lusty eyes and a cigarette, or he’ll look at you with pain and an inferiority complex. Frailty, thy name is woman, Hamlet boasted. With a golden watch he’ll check the time, toss his cigarette and kiss you with a busted lip.

Sunset Boulevard.

The devil tastes raw and coppery. He smells just the same. His ghost likes meat markets but not the fish market, so I became a pescatarian.

The water is inviting.

Fish smell bad because they’re rotting, but I grew accustomed to the flies that linger over my head when I sleep I have a few days until my trip, and it is spent with lemon and seltzer water. My mouth waters at the 41

thought of eating my steak again. Bloody.

Sunset Boulevard.

Everything comes full circle.

The sun is a sphere.

Life is a circle.

The mandate of heaven continues.

When the sun sets it is viewed over a curved horizon, red, orange, yellow, gone. Hamlet was performed on a circular stage, my sweater has four holes and my tomato slice is a circle.

But the boulevard is straight.

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Amanda Morrison •

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B ULL E E M ICK “Amanda lost a lot of weight” And a sort of hush falls over the room Then, as if we didn’t hear her, she says it again My mother opens her mouth then shuts it As her words have just justifiably failed her My mother doesn’t know how to explain to her mother That the daughter of a woman who, at a point, didn’t always have enough to eat Refuses to partake in the bounty that surrounds her She doesn’t know how to express to her mother the concern that her daughter Might just starve, in a house full of food All in the name of conventional beauty The silence looms So she adds “Well whatever you’re doing keep it up” The absurdity of it makes me burst out laughing “I plan to” And I can almost see my mother shudder Out of desperation Out of fear my desire will stop my heart And for the first time A fat girl getting skinny doesn’t seem to be a good

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thing Took a relapse following recovery to see There was never any healthy weight loss here Just thin blood Hair that shed by the clumps Leaning over vomit filled toilets just panting All gears turning with a focus on whether or not that streak is blood Aching bones and weak limbs Days where your food tastes seasoned with defeat Always peppered with flashbacks to your reflection Or what you think is your reflection, you’re really not sure any more When the laughter leaking out of my mouth dies down the room is coated once again With silence, laced with a worry you don’t care for You get up and stroll slowly away Dangerous how the hunger pangs in your belly feel like strength

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ON ABORTION My hope is that one day the arguments I am about to express will be rendered completely irrelevant. They’ll fade into obscurity and become outdated, as they have been argued and proved time and time again.

However, we are not there yet so there are points still necessary to be made.

On the topic of abortion, I align myself with “prochoice” entities, or as like to call them, “pro-freedom”.

Yes, I say freedom — not to say that motherhood is a form of enslavement (though some mothers may argue that it is). I say freedom because how can we call ourselves any “home of the free” when women are still not free to decide what to do with their bodies without the government deciding for them? How can we call ourselves a scientifically and technologicallyadvanced nation in which my phone can recognize my face but where our vice president can’t recognize that medically speaking, birth control cannot possibly be labeled “abortion drugs”. When in the year 2019, the word abortion can silence a room, like it’s taboo.

I am the granddaughter of a woman who lost two sons in infancy due to a third-world country’s lack of medical care. She has never said a word against abortion.

I am the daughter of a woman who almost died in an

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American hospital giving birth to her last child — the child’s life being put ahead of her own every step of the way. A woman who has said to me on countless occasions, “Your body is your own and only you can make decisions for it.”

I myself am a woman who has witnessed firsthand the best biological argument you can find for being “profreedom”: My body would never choose a fetus over me on its own. It would never choose reproduction over its own well being; that is just another aspect of homeostasis.

When you are unwell in any way, whether due to a lack of sleep or a lack of nourishment, that stress causes a hormonal imbalance that sends a red flag (or, rather, pink slip) to your uterus which says, We don’t need you right now. Stay tuned for further developments. Any little thing can cause the female body to go into survival mode — and the body will choose itself every time. To demonize a woman for a choice her body could also have made for itself is unreasonable.

I am a woman whose body has made choices countless times to stop menstruation, wave the white flag, and say, “This is not the time, reproduction! She can hardly care for herself.” My body would have chosen me, why can’t I? I saw my mother in a hospital, her belly bandaged and

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a tube up her urethra because her bladder was ripped during an emergency C-Section. She lay there immobilized and in pain for a baby she had yet to lay her eyes on, a baby who had been rushed to the NICU, where my mother was too weak to go. It was the most genuinely selfless thing I have ever seen. It was a superhuman act and should not be the standard for womanhood. Motherhood doesn’t make a woman.

Fertility doesn’t make a woman. A body doesn’t make a woman. Hair doesn’t make a woman. Not even a uterus makes a woman. Only a woman makes a woman — that and that alone.

I adore my mother even more for risking her life and enriching mine and my sister’s, but that isn’t something I would have ever asked of her or demanded of any woman, and no one else should either. “Pro-freedom” doesn’t just have biology on its side; it has human empathy, too.

As an economic argument, people who are pro-life will often throw up their hands in passive-aggressive defeat and say, “Have your abortions but my tax dollars won’t pay for them!” I may not agree with your set of morals but it is your very right to hold them.

Still, why is it so reasonable in your heart of hearts that your tax dollars can violate that explicit commandment against murder when people are sent off to war? Why is reasonable to say that tax dollars are not well spent if the pay for women’s reproductive

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care, whether that be birth control to prevent pregnancy or pregnancy termination when you wouldn’t pay to support that child if it were carried to term?

As for the term “pro-life”, pro-whose-life, exactly? You say, “These kids would rather have a shot at life,” but on any given day there are roughly 450,000 kids in foster care that may be inclined to disagree with you.

There are thousands upon thousands of abused children struggling who may be inclined to disagree with you. There are depressed mothers who struggle to scrape themselves out of bed to care for a child they may not have decided to have in the first place had it been their own choice who may be inclined to disagree with you. So, PRO-WHOSE-LIFE-EXACTLY? — because what kind of quality of life is that?! All because you think it will help you sleep at night to have legislation dictate a woman’s reproductive rights.

Love of and ownership over your body is the best thing I can wish for you. What I'm arguing here is not hard nor is it unreasonable. It is only human empathy, and biology.

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Gabriel M. Williams •

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T HE OLD M ILL “Neil, it’s almost time for the trip roll call.”

I stopped and looked towards Cameron, the teacher’s assistant. “Control-Freak Cameron” was what my friends called him. Ever the teacher’s pet, he was always picked to be Mr. Hal’s second in command. All of the class resented him, and everyone who didn’t barely tolerated him. His favorite book was the rulebook, and if you stepped a toe out of line, he’d call you out in that nasally alarm bell called his voice, before citing the exact mistake you made in that little journal of his. Don’t get me started on— “Neil! Come to roll call, or else you’ll be breaking Rule 44: Students who are caught late without a pass will—” “Alright, I’m coming.”

Trudging back to the line, I stood in place to be counted. Today, we’re taking a trip to Capstone Mill, named after the dead guy who built the place. Rick, Mickey, and I hope to do everything in our power to prevent death by boredom. Of course, Mr. ControlFreak will do everything in his power to prevent our prevention. Probably because “having fun” violates Rule 621: “No fun allowed on trips.” Heh, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was an actual rule.

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Sitting in the sweaty bus filled with sweaty kids, my friends and I made jokes to pass the time. Luckily for us, Mr. Hal was out of earshot from our more gross jokes; I still caught Cameron shooting us the occasional glance at the jokes that involved him.

Finally, after playing punch buggy for the 100th time, we finally got to the mill. We lined up in front of a sign welcoming all “grain lovers.” The only grain lover I know is that nerdy kid from science class who loves farming for whatever reason.

Mr. Hal and Cameron stood next to the sign and listed out all of the rules: Stay with the group; don’t wander on your own; don’t be disruptive, blah-blah-blah. I tuned out the rest of the rules until the tour guide came. He looked as if he jumped out of a 1900s photograph, and he ushered us into the mill. The guide detailed the long history of Harold Capstone: He built the mill to help speed up his grain production on this date, production boomed for his farm for x amount of years, and then he closed the mill on this other date.

“Hey, why did he close the mill?”

The guide stopped reciting obvious trivia, then went into something that didn’t bore me.

“According to legend, Harold Capstone closed the mill after five workers vanished without a trace. No one knows what happened to them. Some say the workers 50

never existed and that Capstone just closed the mill to retire; others say the workers died, or were even killed... but then again, it’s just a legend.

Nobody but Capstone knows, right?”

I was mildly interested by this story, and then the guide just went on to talk about how grain is made. Mickey nudged me.

“Hey, Neil, don’t you wanna go have some real fun with me and Rick?”

“Sure,” I replied. Looking up, I saw that everyone was invested in the tour, with Cameron scribbling notes in his journal. “How do we make sure we’re not caught?”

“Don’t worry. I have the perfect idea.” As the class turned a corner into the storage room, Mickey asked to go to the bathroom. Of course, Cameron accompanied him there.

“Don’t worry,” Mickey whispered. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

The class walked on but Rick and I stayed behind, before going in our own direction. We went back to some of the previous rooms, running up and down the stairs, before noticing some pieces of wood on the ground. We stacked the wood slats for a while until Mickey met up with us, without shoes.

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“I said I had diarrhea and then took off my shoes, placed them in front of the toilet, and snuck out,” he told us.

“Wow,” Rick replied. “You might become a spy—if every guard you’re sneaking by is Cameron, that is.”

We laughed at Rick’s joke and decided to make a wooden fort with the slats. Of course, we got bored of this after a while, and decided to go find the group.

Leading the way, I retraced our steps back to the storage room.

“Hello?”

My voice echoed through the empty shelves, and I started to get worried. Turning back out of the room, I went back towards the entrance, and— “WHERE IS IT!” Jumping up in a panic, I looked around to see Rick and Mickey. They looked just as alarmed and confused as I did. We heard the sounds of running footsteps and saw someone run right outside the storage room. But when we creeped out the door, we saw nothing at all.

“What was that?” I asked my friends. They just rolled their shoulders.

“Whatever it was, we better get out of here. Let me take the lead,” Rick said, leading us back through the mill.

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After turning around repeatedly, we got back to the room with our unfinished wooden fort. It became even more unfinished, as we saw a man tearing it apart with a scythe. He turned to look at us, and we immediately ran away as fast as possible. He wore bloodied overalls, and glared angrily at us when we disturbed him.

“You found my Secret! NO ONE DESERVES TO KNOW!” I quickly glanced back and wished I had not, as I saw him running after us, he was floating above the ground slightly, defying gravity.

We dashed back to the storage room and Rick slammed the door behind us. Mickey was sweating up a storm and Rick looked as if he was about to faint. I was shaking all over and my insides felt like putty. I glared at Mickey and tried to say something, but no words came out.

“Hey! We wouldn’t have gotten into this mess if it weren’t for you!”

My insides contracted; I had never heard Rick so frustrated at Mickey before.

“And who told you to follow me and Neil?”

“You did!”

“That didn’t mean you had to follow us! Look, I didn’t know that there was a crazy, glowing guy running 53

around with an axe!”

“That was a scythe, idiot! Now I know why Mr. Hal has you marked as a troublemaker!”

“You’re the idiot for blindly following me then!”

“No, you are!”

“No, you—” “Will you both shut up?”

Finding my voice again, I looked at Mickey and Rick.

“If we want to survive, let’s agree that we are all idiots for ditching the class, and find a way out of this mess.”

I looked around at the shelves. There was nothing particularly useful on them; I saw more wood slats, a hand clamp, and boxes. I took some of the smaller slats and clamped them together.

“Do you think that will do anything?” Mickey asked.

“No, but I do think it’ll distract him.”

I turned and peering through the keyhole, before hearing a whistling sound and feeling arms pulling me back. Falling onto Mickey, I saw the scythe slash through the closed door. We gasped as we saw the man push through the door. Right before he could do anything, Rick ran in and tried to swing at him with the wooden club; it stopped him about as much as the door did.

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“Huh?” Rick mouthed, before throwing the club at the man. We ran right past him as he was distracted.

Just when I thought it could not get any worse, we ran right into Cameron. He looked at us and sighed disapprovingly.

“Tsk, tsk. You all just violated Rule 58. Students caught—” “The rules don’t matter now, Cameron. We are being chased!”

He looked past us and nearly dropped his journal. “I-I thought that was just a legend,” he mumbled.

I looked at Cameron. “What legend?”

He led us back to the bathrooms and closed the door (not that it really mattered). Cameron opened up his journal, and started reading his notes.

“During the primetime of the mill, Harold Capstone realized that the mill was in dire need of renovation.

Therefore, he hired five people to help him. These people were skilled in painting and refurbishing, and since it was the least expensive material at the time, lead was primarily used in construction…”

“Wait, doesn’t lead make you go crazy?” Mickey asked.

“Exactly. And I didn’t know you paid attention in science class.”

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Noticing that Mickey was about to respond, I lightly nudged him.

“As I was saying,” Cameron continued, “the workers used lead in their methods. Right when they were nearly finished, one of the men, Walter, became frustrated with his pay. He accused Capstone of paying him less despite the fact that in reality, the owner had equally divided the pay among everyone.

Capstone denied underpaying Walter and the disgruntled man stormed off. He went after his fellow workers the following day and accused them of stealing his money. After hearing their denials, Walter attempted to tear down everybody else’s work however he could, exposing himself to more lead in the rampage and nearly ruining their entire business. Calvin, the head worker, threatened to kick Walter out of their group for his unruly behavior. This, combined with the lead poisoning, caused Walter to snap.”

“Hide!”

Rick, who was looking through the keyhole, immediately pushed us into one of the stalls, closed it behind us, and ran into one of the other stalls. Looking underneath the stall, I shuddered as I saw the man glide across the floor to the opposite side of the bathroom. He started to glide back, and stopped.

“Found you!” He raised his scythe, and I winced as he slashed down.

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I saw a piece of leather on the end of the scythe, and it felt as if time stopped. I was just about to dash out towards the man in blind fury before Mickey stopped me. With a look of what I guessed was satisfaction, the man glided back out of the bathroom. Mickey and Cameron started to tremble, and I felt sick inside.

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” Mickey said.

Rick came back to us and we saw what the man hit.

“Your shoes bravely sacrificed themselves.”

Mickey scooped up the remains of his shoes and glared. “Now’s not the time for jokes, Rick.”

Cameron continued his history lesson without missing a beat. “Since Calvin saw Walter as unstable, he proceeded to ban the worker from the mill while the others finished their work. Walter went to the nearby barn, grabbed a scythe off the barn wall, and returned to the mill. Harold Capstone was rather confused when Calvin did not return to make any repairs, but that confusion turned to worry when no one else came out of the mill, either. Finally, Capstone decided to check in on their repairs. He did not see anything out of the ordinary at first, and then he checked the back room. He was mortified at the sight.”

Cameron then proceeded to go into great detail about what happened to these workers, and it made me nearly turn green. I was even more grateful that Mickey’s shoes took the blow, so no one had to see 57

what happened when a person was cut open by a scythe.

“Capstone immediately used the emergency telegraph call box in the storage room, and got out before Walter returned. The police found Walter, restrained him, and sent him to prison. All the way to the end, Walter complained about his pay. It turned out that some money was stuck in the grinder at one point or another...”

As Cameron finished his story, I only had one question. “Now what do we do?”

Cameron shrugged. “I really don’t know. Mr. Hal never taught us ghost biology.”

Mickey looked more confident than normal, and stood up. “So, I was watching this movie the other day, and the main character was fighting a ghost. In order to get rid of him, they tricked the ghost into reenacting its last moments at that location, and just like that, he was whisked away.”

I was first relieved, and then worried. “I doubt that the emergency box is even working, and even then, Walter wouldn’t even be convinced.”

“Neil, you’re worried about a call box when we almost got chopped up?”

Cameron led us out the bathroom and towards the back of the mill. We saw more wood slats, pieces of

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colored cloth, and boxes. I picked up the cloth. “How about we use this for money?”

Mickey shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll believe it, and if he does, he’ll think we’re stealing it.”

I went over some ideas in my head, while Rick suggested his. “Maybe we could use the boxes to make ourselves taller, and trick Walter into believing that we are Harold Capstone?”

“Nope, that’s too risky.”

After looking back over the boxes and the wood, I tried to tap into my 5-year-old self. “Wait, can’t we just take the boxes, arrange the wood into a ceiling, and turn that into an emergency box?”

Cameron and Rick looked at me like I was crazy, but since no one else had any different ideas they stuck with mine.

Mickey and I set up the boxes at the bottom, while Cameron and Rick arranged the slats into a pentagonal shape. When we were finished, it looked decent enough. Cameron helped us strategize a plan: First, Mickey would wave the green cloth around to attract Walter; next, I would make a “call” in the emergency box; finally, we hoped and prayed that Walter would believe it. Rick asked what he could do; Cameron said he could distract Walter in case anything went wrong.

Taking our positions, Mickey started to raise the green

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cloth. “Hey, Walter, I have your money!”

Just like that, Walter hovered into view. “You! Give it back!”

Walter’s scythe whistled, narrowly avoiding Mickey, who ran away. Before Walter glided away, I quickly grabbed the small wood pieces and held them to my ear.

“Hello, operator? Please get me the police.”

Walter turned around looking dumbfounded, while Cameron looked as if he was told his journal was ruined.

“Neil! They had telegraphs, not telephones!”

I frantically tapped the wooden slats, hoping that something would happen, before I heard the sound of wood breaking. I saw wood collapsing over me, and I tried to step out of the way before my left foot exploded with pain. I looked to see that my foot was trapped under the wooden pile, then tilted up slightly and met Walter’s transparent grimace.

“Mickey’s shoes say ‘Hi!’” Rick threw the pieces of leather in Walter’s direction, which distracted him long enough for me to pull my foot out and scramble away.

Rick then proceeded to charge at Walter, attempting to tackle him to the ground.

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“Rick! Don’t do it!” I tried to get up and stop him, but the fire in my foot stopped me. Like I expected, Rick charged right through Walter, and Walter retaliated with his scythe.

“AHH!” Rick clutched his arm, rocking back and forth on the ground. Walter hovered slightly above Rick and raised his scythe once again.

RING! RING! RING! My heart froze. Cameron froze. Walter froze. There was a great light, and the only thing I heard was the faint sound of tapping coming from the storage room.

When the light cleared, Rick and Cameron were gone.

Looking at a Walter who was now standing on the ground, I felt dizzy. Looking around, I saw a group of people wearing jackets and suits. Some of them were gawking in my direction. Looking behind me, I saw the remains of the four workers, looking even worse than Cameron’s descriptions.

“Walter Pike, you are under arrest!”

“Don’t you think about stealing my money!”

Walter charged at the group of people, who swiftly disarmed him. The man in the center of the group spoke.

“Walter, why?”

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“They stole my money, so I decided to pay them back!”

Walter tried to swing at the man but was restrained and taken away. I heard his voice call out, “And I’ll pay you back too, Capstone!”

I shakily croaked out a “Hello?” but it was as if the group did not even hear me. There was another flash of light and I saw Cameron standing over Rick and Mickey stumbled out from the storage room. He ran over to Rick and Cameron while I went by Rick’s side.

Cameron started wrapping up Rick’s shoulder.

“I think he’ll be alright, he just nicked him.”

We helped Rick slowly get up, before we slowly walked back towards the entrance of the mill.

“Neil! Cameron! Rick! Mickey!”

We saw the red face of Mr. Hal, before it quickly faded upon seeing Rick’s injury. “What happened to you?”

Cameron interjected before Mr. Hal inquired further.

“On the way back to the group, one of the machinery parts malfunctioned and it almost fell on us. Fortunately, Rick pushed us out of the way and saved us.”

Mr. Hal looked us over, and sighed. “Mr. Jensen, is the mill safe?”

The tour guide looked worried, and stammered, “We haven’t really had an inspection since—” “That’s all I need to hear. I’ll make sure to tell your

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boss about this.”

We quickly hopped back on the bus, and I was just surprised about the day’s events. I checked back to make sure that Rick was okay, then I turned to Mickey. “What did you do?”

“I just turned the dial of that black box in the corner of the storage room until something happened.”

“Well, all I know is that we did indeed have an interesting trip.”

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Anonymous •

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M OCKERY REGENTS Why should we be subjected to a test that we already passed? Give us one valid reason other than “If you passed it the first time, it’ll just bring up your grades.”

Explain to us how 100% can go any higher? That is what we thought. You have created these tests in the hope that we’ll love the opportunity to make our grades better, but you forget that a test of this caliber can also kill a grade for good. Some of us fight tooth and nail just for that 65 all three marking periods for what? Some random, out of nowhere test that can shoot us down faster than the Hindenburg? It gives us a feeling of dread and overall hopelessness. For us to work hard and have our hopes killed and our spirits beaten more than a Cherokee drum. You may claim to understand what we’ve gone through, what we are going through, but you’ve only reached the tip of an iceberg made of our misery. Paper after paper, article after article, newsletter after newsletter, we are shown to have had enough of tests and stress.

Another one bites the dust, another one gone, and another gone after dropping out or transferring out because of the quasi-maniacal faculty who believe that we are “not reaching out full potential.” We are trying, and trying, and trying, but every time we’ve

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tried to meet your impossible standards, you manage to make it that much harder. Every single time we’ve thought that you couldn’t make it more difficult for us, all you say is, “Hold my beer.” We grow weary of this impotence and overall incompetence, and we will have a stand. You will listen for we are not the few, we are the many. Where you see chaos, we see bliss.

Where you see belligerent nobodies, we see an army that will usurp the quasi-maniacal powers that be.

Where you see idiots, we see a flood of intelligence capable of doing more than just sitting down and filling in some bubbles. Where you see lazy students, we see students under pressure of the world on top of them. It’s the terror of knowing there’s no way out, watching good friends screaming, “Let me out!” The insane laugh while under pressure and we’re breaking.

Everything you’ve built, will fall. And from the ashes of this despicable and toxic wasteland, we will build a new one...a better one. No one knows what is better for the people than the people themselves. This is not a threat, simply a promise. Tear down the Mockery Regents and their subsequent grading, tear down the disgrace of the grades of the people depending on a test. We know now that these tests weren’t made with us in mind, but with the allocation of funds in mind. The Department of Education cares for nothing more than itself and its own funding, so we shall care for our interests and our interests alone. Tear down all that may hurt us, or any future generations of 65

students, or you shall no longer have a school to need funds for. This is not a bomb threat, not a physical threat at all. Just a declaration of our intentions if these injustices continue to pursue and prosecute the student body and mind, for you cannot have one without the other. It is up to you: free the student mind to flow freely, or not have a student body to ensnare and trap?

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Anonymous •

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YELLOW S KIES I still live in two years ago I roam the memories like they were yesterday I refuse to let go of the land of love and yellow skies Only we exist here, only we matter anyhow Sound sleeping nights live here Sleep can’t evade me my peace lives here and the skies here are always yellow I knew you’d love it that way but the skies are really yellow because you’re the very essence of sunshine park benches and picnic tables, grassy hills love lives here Lauryn Hill concerts in our yellow skies The Fugees got back together just for us Amiyah is one here And I let you name her brother Cortez Laughs live here Bad teeth and all the smiles are still wide I’ve slept through every night for three years now Love like no other lives here We walk through rain on sunny days Stare at yellow skies water droplets falling and dare not even wet us I wear my glasses because everything is worth seeing

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here I live in two years ago like it was yesterday The world made sense there A hiatus for the years of suffering A muse like no other I couldn’t even fathom the words to talk about But you never let me stop talking I had shit to say My mouth doesn’t even work anymore But I’d still write every wrong on this paper If it meant I would right every wrong the paper I haven’t slept in months I haven’t eaten in days Kept food down in weeks I live in two years ago like it was yesterday Couldn’t it have been Every time i see you which is often I’m temporarily transported to the land of yellow skies I wish often that we still lived there Love still lives there She hasn’t come back to me since you left It feels like all the feeling has been drained from this body like a corpse functioning on autopilot Food tastes like defeat in the land of blue skies Sleep doesn’t live here I was two years ago to be today in the land of yellow skies I know love will always live there - happy anniversary 68

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GUMBO

Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves

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♦ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ♦ We share our belief that the world is a better place when everyone’s voice is listened to and respected.

Benjamin Banneker Academy’s GUMBO Writing Group is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and NYC Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community would not exist: Allianz GI, Cowan Slavin Foundation, The D.J. McManus Foundation, Emmanuel Baptist Church Benevolence Fund, Far Fund, Meringoff Family Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, The New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, the Tiger Baron Foundation, and the Two West Foundation. NYWC programming is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

We rely heavily on the support of individual NYWC members and attendees of our annual Write-A-Thon and Red & Black Fundraiser.

In addition, members of our Board of Directors have kept this vital, rewarding work going year after year: Laura Cococcia, Louise Crawford, Atiba Edwards, Marian Fontana, Kaitlyn Greenidge, Susan Karwoska, Cherise Lesesne, Brooke McCaffrey, Sophie McManus, Alexis Nixon, Lauren Sanders and NYWC Founder and Executive Director Aaron Zimmerman.

What you’re holding is the collective effort not only by the students in the GUMBO Writing Group but by the dedicated staff of Benjamin Banneker Academy and community arts organizations, as well: Many thanks to Principal Kwateng; Francie Johnson, our BBA faculty liaison; Ms. Scerri, GUMBO’s loudest cheerleader in the English Department.

Finally, special thanks to the dedicated members of the GUMBO Writing Group: Thank you all for another great year of adventure and magic in words.

To find out more about NYWC and learn how you can sponsor a NYWC Press publication or program, please contact info@nywriterscoalition.org or call (718) 398-2883.

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NY Writers Coalition Inc. (NYWC) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless members of society to be heard through the art of writing.

One of the largest community-based writing organizations in the country, NYWC provides free, unique, and powerful creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society, including at-risk and disconnected youth, homeless and formerly homeless persons, individuals who are or have been incarcerated, veterans of war, those living with disabilities, cancer, and other major illnesses, immigrants, seniors, and many others.

For more information about NYWC programs and NY Writers Coalition Press publications visit www.nywriterscoalition.org

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G REAT U NITED M INDS B ELIEVING IN O URSELVES

P OETRY +P ROSE +A RT

NY Writers Coalition Press is proud to present Taboo, a collection of prose, poetry, and visual art from GUMBO (Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves), NYWC’s afterschool workshop at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

GUMBO is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventure (CASA) initiative and supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and New York City Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

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