To the Allies: Poetry + Prose by GUMBO

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TO THE ALLIES Poetry & Prose from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy

NY Writers Coalition Press Spring 2018 3

Copyright © 2018 NY Writers Coalition, Inc. ISBN: 978-0-9986029-9-8 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018944504 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

Editors: Joey De Jesus, Cecca Ochoa, Chris Prioleau Cover Images: Jessica Monroe Layout and Design: Nicole Di Luccio To The Allies Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy contains writing by members of NY Writers Coalition’s and Apogee Journal’s creative writing and skill-building workshops for teens at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

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.

Learn more about Apogee Journal at www.apogeejournal.org.

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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CONTENTS F O R E W O R D CHRIS PRIOLEAU

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Original Writing & Art

Evening Connection CHARLOTTE BECKFORD

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T h i s C a n B e U s B u t Y o u ’ r e P l a y i n g ADETILORO BITOYE

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To The Allies ATIRA BARBER-ELLIS

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distracted boyfriend MIA MONTGOMERY

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Beginning to End: A Tragic Love Story LENNY LEAL

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Between EGHOSA IDAHOR

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ONYX ARBIN MOREIRA

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run this space MIA MONTGOMERY

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The Last Day IVY JIANG

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The Corner Piece pt 1 FRANTZIA MERCEUS

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Divine Arbin Moreira

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List Of Lenny: The People Behind What Made Me LENNY LEAL

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Between ADETILORO IBITOYE

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club drugs MIA MONTGOMERY

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The Corner Piece pt 2 FRANTZIA MERCEUS

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Exoskeleton ARBIN MOREIRA

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Benjamin Banneker VOICE OF THE VOICELESS

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Thirteen Butterflies CHARLOTTE BECKFORD

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Repair EGHOSA IDAHOR

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Wishes LENNY LEAL

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Drowning ARBIN MOREIRA

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hold on a minute MIA MONTGOMERY

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What I Wish Someone Would’ve Told Me ATIRA BARBER-ELLIS

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Runaway Bride EGHOSA IDAHOR & ADETILORO IBITOYE

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Self-Care ATIRA BARBER -ELLIS

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Annie R U Okay MIA MONTGOMERY

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Acknowledgements

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About Apogee Journal

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About NY Writers Coalition Inc.

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♦ FOREWORD ♦ “Freedom calls but she doesn’t listen” “Don’t give up on me now” “Tonight the music sings so loud” “My destination isn’t clear… I’m not sure if its near” “I ran into the nearest river and dumped my bleeding soul into the clearest parts of the water” “This is my sick day” A collection of voices rising from the ether, bubbling over with feeling: teen angst, anxiety, hope, first loves consummated and lost. This is To The Allies, the latest publication written by the students of the Benjamin Banneker Academy Writing Club. The writing collected here is brave, raw, and shines so brightly with the fresh voices and new perspectives that I’ve come to expect from this ultra-talented group of young writers.

As I look through this volume I’m struck by how—despite its eclectic mix of form and expression—the writing seems to have a unifying voice. The voice is powerful. The voice asks questions. Who am I? Do you see me? These are the questions that all young people ask as they attempt to find their own purchase in the world. It touches me to see this particular group turn to art in an effort to ask questions, discover themselves, and start to define the world around them. I’m reminded of something I wrote in the introduction of the first issue of this publication, which seems like so many years ago now and yet the sentiment rings just as true today.

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It can be a frightening feeling to be simultaneously artistic and young. In some sense it’s a burden. You’re burdened with a different way of viewing the world; you’re burdened with the sensitivity that comes along with being able to recognize great beauty; you’re burdened with the strange and sometimes overwhelming artistic desire to capture that beauty, to add to it, to make it yours.

To write is to simultaneously search for, create, and celebrate beauty and to discover writing when you’re young is to potentially set yourself up for a lifetime of beauty: a lifetime of searching for and cultivating it even when things are at their toughest. I firmly believe that writing isn’t just a hobby or a vocation, it’s a way of viewing the world. And I’m so proud to watch these students discover that each in their own original way.

Thank you for picking up this book. By doing so you are affirming and celebrating the collective power of these voices. As always, we hope that you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed making it.

Yours in print,

Chris Prioleau NY Writers Coalition Spring 2018

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Charlotte Beckford •

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E VENING C ONNECTION Time only exists in the static sound of music floating from an old radio. Everything seems to have blurred together, into a white noise sort of quiet that settles into treetops and carves into your fingertips. Behind the counter you’ve been sitting at is a man with quiet eyes and a stained t-shirt from hours of work. He barely makes conversation as exhaustion settles into his skin, but he occasionally makes you more tea and slides a pastry your way when you look particularly famished—always in tune to you.

As a bright blue sky shifts to shades of cobalt, he sits unmoving, head tilted back while basking in the cool air from a small fan. You watch enthralled, as he runs a ring-adorned hand through honey hair, once then twice until it is mussed to his liking.

All you have that matters has been spread upon the crimson countertop. A notebook with frayed edges, two pens, and a novel with words that will never truly lift off your heart. As you work, scribbling notes and flipping pages, the static becomes your heart monitor. The gentle rise and fall of its volume matching the way your heart pumps its steady beat.

“Don’t give up, please.” His voice is something soporific, min-

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gling with the static and filling your mind with cotton that soothes the most bruised places. You rest your head on folded arms and watch with content as the static moves into something slow and soft.

“No,” you finally speak after many hours of letting your voice sit on your chest with little use. It rouses him from his concentration and he smiles at you, eyes turning to crescent moons; you never knew you could see the moon so bright without gazing up at the sky. “I’m not giving up on you.” Your voice wavers at the end but you maintain eye contact, until your reticence pulls your vocal cords captive once more.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He responds, and the ache in your bones seems to lessen a little.

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Adetiloro Ibitoye •

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T HIS C AN B E US B UT YOU’ RE P LAYING This can be us But you’re playing You’re playing reruns of the Super Bowl From forty years ago That one X and two I’s reminding you of the time Where “men” could still be “men” Where you see yourself just a boy back then You call them ‘the good ol’ days’ You almost touch the touchdown You weren't even alive then You’re playing social security, getting checks Your dad just died just a decade ago

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A white boy bereaved just doesn't give you what you need You call affirmative action You call Obama You call sexism, liberals You call foul At the end, you just damn this entire town But you’re laying in it It’s been twenty goddamn years and here you are laying in it Lighting this salt city in your bitter flames with your sad hurting back You quit.

Blamed aliens, you need a wall To make your sadness galactic proportions When it’s Just you

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At 32 With still no clue about where you screwed up 2018 It’s not easy Thinking about how it was Way back when, way back then Where you weren't you This could have been us Half my family went blue, half of us expected at the SHU But here I am over here and you’re still you.

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Atira Barber-Ellis •

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TO THE ALLIES This is for everyone that was silent while little black boys and little black girls were still are being shot down in the streets but have Twitter fingers when they feel the need to express #MarchFor OurLives and put some kids on the cover of TIMES but at the time we were being shot down, hosed down, sprayed down, lynched up for marching for ours.

Joe can say “nigga” cause they got a black best friend I say cracker anywhere besides the grocery aisle and I’m getting shunned and shoved out the door.

This is for every Hispanic, Asian, and Latino that chose to ‘mind their business’

and keep hush well silence is complicit with the acts of the oppressor so, “Good-\\day, What’s the difference be- what can I getcha Massa?” tween marching for dark and marching while white?

This is for everyone that still Why is it us that have to fear shouts “All Lives Matter” standing in the light and since when my mother’s life doesn’t when was this fist a symbol to matter, my brother’s life be gentrified? doesn’t matter, my life does not matter so stop trying to While every Bob, Sally, and shut us up 20

To everyone that’s tried to To every white woman holddetermine the profession of ing her purse to her chest as if my hair every crime comes from a black hand To everyone that’s tried to To every professor, grade justify sexualizing my little school teacher, social worker, black sister before she even Boo Boo the Fool that said I knew what ‘sexy’ was, telling wouldn’t amount to anything her she’s too fast or too grown when all she did was exist To every smiling Cis white man or woman that shouts All we ever do is exist equality for all because the world they live in only consists To everyone that puts #Light of Cis white men and woman Skins vs. #Dark Skins on the internet Keep that To every person that voted Keep ya revolution, keep ya my skin made me only 3/5s of peace, keep ya support cause a man it ain’t doing nothing for me I’m about 3/5s from whooping ya ass To every person that’s asked to touch my hair To every “you’re so pretty for a black girl” 21

Mia Montgomery •

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DISTRACTED BOYFRIEND it was night and i’m surrounded by kids and i’m drunk and he keeps looking at me— i probably look sloppy, i can barely keep my eyes open and my shirt is slipping off my shoulders and the screaming hurts and then he asks why do you keep staring at me? he asked me why with teasing eyes. i know he knew the answer but i indulged him anyway. i'm not, slurred, but he kept asking and all i could do is look at him more. later i’ll reflect and feel awful for absolutely no reason, but now i just feel a surge of want. (i feel awful because this is a trick, i can want all i want but it’ll never be real.) i couldn’t keep my hands off of him, laced fingers, plucked faces, soft caresses with a soft hand. later later when he lays on me and looks straight ahead instead of at me (it’s not real) i’ll drunkenly say ‘what’s wrong with you’ and he’ll look at me and say ‘what’s wrong with you’ and then i’ll begin to drunkenly think. (he’s distracted, he’s not focused on you. it’s not real. he’s not yours.)

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Lenny Leal •

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B EGINNING TO E ND: A T RAGIC L OVE S TORY In class we were starting this love story. We sat next to each other everyday, all day and talked about our colossal problems. Then you told me that you were cold, no—freezing.

Thinking out of gentlemanly instinct, I handed you my leather jacket, still warm with my body heat. You put it on arm by arm while I sit there thinking, "She is beautiful, smart, funny, crazy and weird … where has she been all my life?!" You have my leather jacket on and the warmth of the jacket encases you, surrounds you, it's almost as if I am holding really tight. I tell you to take a nap because I know you're tired. You scoot over to me and lay your head on my forearm. I spent the entire period just looking at you sleeping on my arm, it felt … nice to have you next to me, holding onto me. That was the day I asked you out and you said yes … two weeks later.

Now, it is pouring sheets of water down on New York. It is like nature knew of the events that’s about to transpire. You were angry, no furious, at me and as usual, I had no idea why.

Was it something I said? Was it something I did? No, it was both. We were on the bus going down the Highway to Hell with Despair as the driver. You didn't even feel like looking at

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me, let alone being on the same bus as me, and I knew. I left the bus, but something inside of me woke up. It told me, screamed at me, demanded me to get you back. I started to run, and run, and run until I realized something strange. I was three stops ahead of the bus. I waited for the bus and you.

You left that bus ‌ and the very same day left me ‌ for two and a half weeks.

Now, I am in a car while you were at home. I have been on my feet or driving around all afternoon looking for a car that didn't exist. While my dad was cursing out the dickhead that put out the fake ad, I turned on my phone and I started talking to you. Lately, we have been falling into the same routine with the same argument with the same result: me saying sorry while also praying you wouldn't leave again. This time you were telling me not to "deal with" the guy that has been bothering us all year. I was not in the best of mindsets and I thought you were protecting him.

So with a heavy heart and my blood boiling, I texted you my most regretful text that I still beat myself up for saying. I said "I am tired of this relationship". This is the last time we broke up. Every day since then, we don't talk anymore. You went out with two other guys: the guy I wanted to "deal with" and then one of my first high school friends. Great job trying to get someone better than me.

And me? Well I try to keep my distance but with everyone al24

ways telling me about you and your ring of boyfriends, it always comes back. All the tears, all the anger, all the regrets...everything. I just have one thing to tell you in the words of the late George Michael: Tonight the music sings so loud. I wish that we could lose this crowd. Maybe its better this way, we hurt each other will there please be the one to say. We could've been so good together, we could've lived this dance forever. Now who's gonna dance with me?

Please stay ‌.

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Eghosa Idahor •

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BETWEEN I fight off the air that tries to seep into my lungs with every passing moment the distance grows farther the roads grow longer the time grows slower I look at you and you glance at me I cross your mind for not even a second You walk away And the space between us increases I step into the light watching the horizon as the sun seeps into my skin with every passing moment my heart beats a little faster my mind gets a little sharper and my bones yearn a little more You look at me and I meet your gaze A single look sends a sandstorm of emotions And so I walk away

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Arbin Moreira •

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ONYX Estranged each day, The absence is still there, A black sheep amongst a flock, Discriminated and tripled upon.

I’m sorry for the stains I left, A black aura disturbing a fragile hell, Rejected in the past, present and future, My destination isn’t clear… I’m not sure if its near, Too ____dark in a cold expression, I slide my obsidian palms for a spark, Only to illuminate my wrongs and happenings.

With one trigger my world set ablaze, For split seconds the shadows fall apart, I realize my heart has been turning me in circles, With my skin just asking for forgiveness…

So please forgive me for going on tangents, For asking you to slip on my spills of enveloped passion, I’m being lost in this darkness, My eyes are still fooling me, I’m not black … I’m onyx … Different from the others …

I may have lost it.

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Mia Montgomery •

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RUN THIS SPACE benicio has traveled through many lives. sometimes he is alone, sometimes he falls in love, maybe in his next life she's benicia. a common factor is that he tries to avoid conflict but ends up in it. he's a sneaky boy and hides in the shadows, he's good at what he does. he's manipulative and uses that to his advantage. he can't talk his way out of anything but he'll try, and he'll fight if he needs to. his appearance varies, in one life he's short, in another he's tall, and in another he's never lived. life #2963 the event is full. the smell of fancy perfume and cuban cigars permeated the air, creating a delicious combination that benicio couldn't get enough of. he plucked a flute of champagne from a waiter and moved to the center of the floor. he was here on a mission. you could call benicio de los santos santana a high roller, always at the biggest parties with the richest men and the sexiest woman. he looked like he belonged but he didn't. the $50 rental suit itched against his back and the $30 scuffed loafers squeezed his toes to death, but you'd never know. his objective is in the alpha empress's bedroom, and he had quite an idea for how to get there. "may i have this dance, madam?" benicio can't dance but he 28

can improvise and his eyes, oh gosh, his eyes. he makes direct eye contact, getting personal without asking any questions. and honestly, every job is the easiest job he's ever had. "sure," the woman said. benicio placed his hand on her lower back. easiest job ever. ____________________________________________________ life #2398 arcturus vidal was named after a star. we called him archie for short, something easy to pronounce but in retrospect stripped him of who he was. i'm sorry that we took that away from you. he was a star, a beautiful bright star, but luna can change a man, and that's exactly what she did. the blood moon rebirthed a bloody boy. at least, that was how i found him; there was a cake on the ground that said happy birthday. it smelled like cinnamon, the scent of his life leaving him. blood spurted from his neck, and his eyes began to turn grey. it was the markings of luna, red for just a day and the grey to wash it away. i couldn't leave him here, it was too dangerous to leave a fledgling unattended. it didn't feel right to abandon a new life. would it be fitting to call him the moon? a satellite of a satellite, while a star is a celestial being, difficult to be quantified, i'm so sorry arcturus. he doesn't sleep. instead, he looks up to the sky and curses the stars that were once his.

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Ivy Jiang •

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T HE L AST DAY As every second passed, my heart quickens.

As every minute passed, my sweat drops.

As every hour passed, my body weakens.

Every muscle, every bone, every vein.

I lie hopelessly on that bed, as I wait for the angel o death to take me over, Waiting patiently on the bed as I hear the clock ticking, The sounds, tick-tock, tick-tock, as the hour hand aproaches 1.

I open the photo book as I slipped through the pages as I recall each memory: Thinking of how happy I looked, Those smiles and the happiness that I once had, Now, as I stare at myself in the mirror, Those dark circles under my eyes, from countless sleepless nights, My pale white skin lacking the melanin they need.

I was broken, both physically and mentally.

As I speak, my voice so hoarse and broken, With every word as it was bleeding from my mouth, Spitting fire out my mouth, Urging me to speak, but can’t, as if I’m mute I am waiting for someone to cut those stitches on my lips.

I see myself now, running in a maze, but I can’t escape this maze called reality.

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I’m trapped.

Trapped in a world filled with hatred, negativity, and pain.

I only have my loneliness as comfort in my dark nights, To comfort me as the darkness only surrounds me.

Death slowly eating me alive, devouring, and savoring each and every ounce of blood in me.

The black mist of death slowly approaches me, Taking control of my body, making me lose control.

Every hour approach, my hand shakes.

Every minute approach, my heart breaks.

Every second approach, my body shivers.

As I slowly close my eyes before the darkness fully engulfs me, I realized that this battle, I have lost.

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Frantzia Merceus •

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T HE CORNER P IECE PT 1 If you can't find the corner puzzle piece by now There is a serious issue It is a damn set of 15 15 friggin pieces Yet you sit there as if though It’s 15x15 No one can be this slow No one should be this naive Is this level of stupidity even possible?

You must be joking I find it humorous Yet very knackering If this is a game …

Come clean Starting to get bored that I cant even be mad anymore WAKE UP! WAKE THE HELL UP! You're not the only person who matters here right now!

What do you think this is a joke?

You just love taking that corner piece, and probably hide it somewhere Before you ask me to help you flippin find it You watch me 32

Searching and searching Trying to find that damn piece Not for me…

But for you Little do i know that you had hid it Like a chicken running around without its head That's how you see me And you love it, damnit You love it!

It turns you on...

It gets your gears turning...

You think wow “they are really taking time out of their day to find a stupid corner piece that i hid… all because i asked them to.”

You just love having all the control Meanwhile i give up everything to find that Stupid No good Friggin corner piece That goes right in the damn corner It's not that hard.

It’s simple…

Why do you treat it like its rocket science?

Why am i the fish and that stupid wooden piece the bait Ultimately to be suffocated, sliced and grilled…

On your stove.

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Arbin Moreira •

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DIVINE Here it comes, The passage of decision, And miscreation's.

Pacing back and forth in my mind, I knew the lightning I saw wouldn’t strike, Not twice in the same position, The strength of my gravity and actions, My struggles defining my oppositions.

Deliver us from evil… in God we believe, Still pacing in my mind, I can’t possibly receive this, The counter arguments to my achievements, Blessings and miracles expressing, Expressing the hysterically critical and cynical, Deceptional thoughts being my downfall, Watch this lightning hit me and be the uprising to my greater efforts and timing, This Divine hysteria is my personal malaria, This disease that consumed me and the thoughts in my mind,

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The kind thoughts I cherished, They just perished.

Still pacing I feel my heart racing, The suicidal angels need to learn patience, With all this hate being the usual state, Religious solutions needs to make haste, Recreational activities only serving purpose is to remind us of disabilities, Painful mirrors revealing the beast in me, Can’t stand the feeling of all this energy, Mind keeps pacing to the point of seizure, Where I discovered my new enemy.

Me, myself and I, To be Divine we must divide, Unite under a different name, Under a different shape, Deprived of being ashamed, To be Divine my mind needs to stop, Stop being black and white, And finally show me my true Divine fate.

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Lenny Leal •

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L IST OF L ENNY : T HE P EOPLE B EHIND W HAT M ADE M E 1. Son of a Mobster, Lenny is surrounded by stories of his father's past and loss. Lenny’s father is a man of mystery but also very blunt and down to earth. He knew of different and inventive ways of making people hurt. But, he didn't do this just because of peer pressure, he did it so his struggling family could see unheard of luxuries and pleasure. Lenny never knew of his older sister until he visited her grave. That is a memory he will forever save.

2. Son of a Saint, Lenny is always in the loving care of someone who is always late. But he loves her, no matter how she looks or acts. Whoever dares speak disrespectful towards his mom will be filled with an ax. A healer of all wounds and always protective of her own, if her babies are sick, she doesn't care how much money she needs borrow. She is a teacher of principle, and respect, and overall love. There is never a day Lenny wouldn't give his Saint a hug.

3. Disciple of Ivan and Adrian, there isn't anything Lenny has done he wouldn't do again. They grew up with Lenny and made him the person he is today. Lenny’s childhood is the only thing he can remember as 36

clear as day. Ivan gave him the strength and faith that he needed for the real world, and Adrian gave Lenny knowledge and insight not only in college but life as a whole. Lenny’s life was changed when he met them, and there isn't a day Lenny wouldn't fight for Adrian or Ivan.

4. Fellow Giant of Kevin, in a Mexican height contest, they win. With Ivan and Adrian, you're also one of the people that helped Lenny find himself. Now Lenny knows what he can thank Tia Jenny. You and Ivan helped Lenny tone and define his artists skills and shaped his worldview. For his family, there is nothing Lenny wouldn't do.

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Adetiloro Ibitoye •

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BETWEEN Between a rock and the spiny place Being crushed between heaven and other place Between life and death ghosts a cohorts Between a bottle and the gun nursing something I knew never did know Between government and helping hand Reusing grease for the pan’s battery Between a revolving door a peasant. and a queen My royal skirt, a pair of dungarees Between a lung and the puncture of the lunge Drowning in someone’s blood or my own never did know which one Between the horrible clap of thunder before the lightning Never knowing when it will be then Between a verb and a noun Making myself something while being nothing Between a bell and a press Trying to be a bigger sound But I know now It's all the same It's all the same

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Mia Montgomery •

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CLUB DRUGS club drugs, judas's son was taken in, pink lips holding more promises than just sin. hands together, on her knees, he wants to breed ecstasy. the booth is small, jesus listening while she confesses her sins to the shell of his ear. judas's son was too near, rug burn scraping the delicate skin illuminated by the lantern. club drugs, he sees her in his brain, right in front where the train tracks abstain from claiming him. he's hot, the watchful eye of the priests and god searing holes in his skin. not hotter than the silk he touches, cocaine, ketamine are in his dreams and they wrap a warm, slender hand around— empty pews. judas's son is hot and heavy. the crucifix he's wielding is wet and sweaty. jesus is still watching, his eyes clear and steady. her skirt is short for a church girl, it's inviting, like she's ready. 'it's the club drugs,' judas's son says as he stares, falling for the devil's rhapsody.

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Frantzia Merceus •

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T HE CORNER P IECE PT 2 I watched you sit there Crisscrossed On the white carpet Feigning confusion There are two pieces left A piece that obviously goes in the middle And the corner piece, that you—I can't seem to find For you ...

My gears start to turn I’m getting turned on I just realized that…

I'm the game And the stupid corner piece is how you control me I'm the one that was this slow I'm the one that was so naive I'm the stupidity I thought was impossible to achieve I need to wake up I NEED TO WAKE THE HELL UP I'm not watching you “struggle” to complete this puzzle I get up to leave and you stop me Confusion and panic grabs the edges of your face And plaster themselves in place You grab me You've lost

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No longer will I be there to find your piece I will never lose sleep over you again Wondering if i could of done more To help you find that corner piece That corner piece Which you hid I won't be that lap to shed tears on When you accidentally lose another piece I won't be your pick me up I'm no longer you cushion Get off me!

Miss me with that pity party Don't even try to invite me Wipe that smug smile off your face Miss me with that manipulation How many others have you deceived?

How many fell for your tricks?

You get off on this But no, not anymore I'm finished I’m no longer your bait I removed the rose color façade Don't speak to me Get the hell up And get that corner piece ...

It’s under your stove.

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Arbin Moreira •

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E XOSKELETON As I speak to you in native tongue, My physicality cannot be undone, blood-bled through the hands that protected me, neck-turn to challenge the death of me.

My outer shell is black and heavy, I watch my blood rinses me, The blood mixing in with my skin, Becoming an underlying symbiotic and original sin, My culture and faith sways between me and the blood, The liquid that was exposed to the outside, Crimson in color and black in culture, The people on the outside see something different, My strange but biological exoskeleton, Protecting me from the ultra violent, Quarantined with my brothers and sisters, I realize it’s too late, We’ve all been biologically contaminated with the love of our ancestors, In my efforts and exaggerations, I felt their pain, The scars I’ve acquired to gain my freedom, Hurt me more than the open wound Driven by suspicion and confusion,

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Each day in modern society my blood drip history, Men and women being whipped and beaten, Scars left on them to ensure credence, We‌. The fallen angels feel for one another, With black wings of steel, Black exoskeletons to survive against my aggressors, I am not an alien but I am an extraterrestrial, I am of this Earth and far more, This exoskeleton will not collapse, These are the words of a black man, Who loses a piece of himself each day, But gains twice as much each time he is woke, I will not let the scars on my exoskeleton to define me ‌ Instead I look inside to what it protects, My definitive and natural spiritual entity.

Look at my eyes to speak what I cant feel, The pain and hate that abuses my black solemn and steel skin, My own personal exoskeleton.

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Voice of the Voiceless •

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B ENJAMIN BANNEKER Enter our doors and you will be introduced to pure chaos. Kids running around, yelling at one another while in full view of so called “authority” figures.

These figures themselves with false pride and integrity, in a school with none left. Pass by the guards’ tower of broken, useless cameras and see unqualified, overpaid service drones who can't see the differences between a freshman and a junior. Like Dante's Inferno, this school has its many layers, and each is more tortuous than the last. The second floor is where we will begin, and where most students will to succeed fails. We abandoned with teachers who are too caring or too overbearing which leaves students left to suffer. Some teachers act like they should be friends with their students, letting them walk all over them like a doormat. Others are pushing their agenda to a mass of students with no care to what they are teaching. On the third floor we see where most ditchers go to “The library”. Kids who don't wanna go to class, but don’t like the jungle of the lunchroom love it here.

There's barely any books! Instead we traded true, unwavering teachers for a fleet of blue-lit, near-sight inducing screens. It is on the fourth floor of this inferno where we meet a strange mixture of devils and angels. Some teachers are the perfect mix of caring but assertive and such is why kids flock to them for advice

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and guidance on how to survive on this pale blue dot of a planet. But then, some devils can make your world burn by seeing students only as the corporate zombies they would like them to be. On the fifth floor, that's where the heart of corruption stems. Geometry teachers who have no clue what they are doing or which shape is which, and an assistant principal who sees it all and does nothing but smile and wave. His name is Skipper. On the sixth and top floor, there are incompetent Spanish teachers who believe that English and Spanish are one and the same. And in the basement, there are nurses who would give a bleeding student an ice pack and a social worker who attacks the anti-social. Yeah, this is the school hundreds of kids believed would propel them forward, instead they wish nothing but to go back. Benjamin Banneker the Academy for Community Development ‌ the only thing developing in this community is hate for its students, and it's all the facilities fault.

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Charlotte Beckford •

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T HIRTEEN B UTTERFLIES I have butterflies inside, beating mercilessly against my rib cage, fluttering around the flowers you have adorned my lungs with. (every time I breathe, rose petals shake and sigh a sound familiar to I love you).

“Oh, you see the way he smiles as well?” I whisper to the monarchs one night.

“You notice the way his eyes have created their own constellations?” I murmur to blue morphos in the early morning.

The Moon and I have conversations often, I tell her about your gorgeous smile, with the color of roses high upon my cheekbones. I muse to her about the way your lips feel against my own. The butterflies are listening, always. and they dance again rhythmic against my chest.

“I am in love,” I tell the sun when I wake. His rays soak my body in glittering glory. I feel the warmth of your touch, still lingering in my bedroom.

With pristine sheets around me, and my room the color of honey, I am reminded of how golden you are.

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Eghosa Idahor •

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R EPAIR I ran into the nearest river and dumped my bleeding soul into the clearest parts of the water, but it wasn’t enough to cleanse me from my sins.

How do you repair something that can’t be broken?

I ask myself as I’m bathing in nature’s washroom.

I look up into the direction of what should be eternal gates And then I look down into the direction I’m headed and I begin to cry.

Neither the water from my eyes nor the water from the river can help me now.

I cannot be saved. I wept because my fate is sealed.

I was given a chance and I threw it away.

And now I’m afraid it’s too late.

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Lenny Leal •

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W ISHES Oh, is it me? Aren’t you the reason why I went crazy?

Aren’t you once my equal, not my enemy? Aren’t you the coward who hid behind seven people to avoid fighting one lone person? Well here's my first issue: I barely even know enough about you to diss you. Do people honestly think that I would screw this feud up and lose to the dude a huge, toothy coochie spat out. I wish your friend count is as low as your subscriber count, so you could have the amount of friends you deserve: none. I wish you could know that you are your parents least favorite son. I wish you could see the freaking writing on the wall. When you see me, walking down the street, you better run because I'm down to brawl. I wish you would drunk drive a car right into the BQE. That is when I'll be screaming "Hooray!" I wish that the day we almost fought, I showed no restraint. This is the only reason why your blood isn’t dried up on the wall like paint. I wish that you knew that I came to win, battle me that's a sin. I won't ever slack up. Punk, you better back up. I wish you could see that if you try to step up to me, you'll get burned.

Just seeing your face and hearing your voice makes my stomach turn. I wish you saw the reality of high school.

Because in this case, I'm the cause of a lot of envy. So

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when my name is not in your lips, your talk does not offend me. That's why you see me walking around like nothing's bothering me, even though half of your people got a fucking problem with me. I wish you could see the differences between the two of us. I'm one of a kind, you're a Xerox of your papa, doing temp work with Malik and odd jobs for Nessa. I'm tight, you're mad baggy, I'm toned, you're so floppy. I wish you could see that I am having none of your bullshit. You are not a gang member, you're a tourist.

But I cannot blame just you for all the mistakes and misfortunes in my life, that why I had her. You made sure it was in the past tense. But I have to thank you for doing something that doesn’t quite make sense. I wish I could thank you for what you did. You made me a hero. Out of dark formed the city's knight, that serves no throne, that saves a love for every ghost, that still haunts me in my bones. I'm the hero with no anthem, out of anger born a phantom, when the dark conquers the light, from the wreckage I will rise. I've become a darker knight, not the kind father would want. The mask I put on is getting harder to dawn, the eyes of a hawk watching like a bird in the sky. And if you mention my name, I've never heard of the guy.

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Arbin Moreira •

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DROWNING Lost pictures and faces underwater, My breath is cold like words spoken at midnight, New days and new faiths console switching slights, On and off my sight blurs at names I can no longer recognize, Lost recognition of what I love and who was patronized, Lies and broken promises breaks teeth in a quiet stance, what is as definite as the liquid changes form like lightning-struck sand, Toys and apologies are no exception to compromise, None are taken seriously and sirens flare at dying light, Closing my eyes, I feel tears. Opening them, pure radiant fear, Fearful of what I’ve done…I’m stuck thinking how it’s just begun, The end of my lies and bonds starting to chain me to the ground, Unbreakable till the end … my shackles break the bones that their words can’t.

Emotional teenager edged and shunned at the edge of my crime scene, Who tied me down so heavily?

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Struggling to stand I realize the weight of my imprisonment and my tears drifting upward, Drowning in my hope I realize I can no longer be so powerful, I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry to make you feel this way, Drop the rope and let the noose combine with all my issues and indignities, Don’t let me drown please … stop the water before it's Before I dip under and I can’t see your face, Before the end and the end of the beginning, What I ask for is another broken promise.

These chains weren’t meant to break under any circumstances but to hold the unstable, The instability inside the holes of my heart, Brain drowning in thought, Heart drowning in blood, Body drowning in emotions, I need you to save me before I lose the battle and get displayed to my peers, As the chained and enslaved individual thrown into water with a noose and heavy pain, To guard the rest from all my pain I decide to stay quiet and let my life pass away, I always told my mom I was afraid to drown … when I can’t see I won’t let my tears bleed

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Mia Montgomery •

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HOLD ON A MINUTE this is my sick day. my brain handles way less than it usually can. it's like a panhandling woman except the pan is my insecurities and money is affection. my thoughts are brined in reflection, the salty wine and dine treated on a sunday now has a negative impact to the way my stomach feels on monday. i told her i loved her sunday. my brain handles way less on monday. the shtick about drinking chamomile tea is that it's sleepytime in disguise. swallowing cup after cup, hoping that the dinner from sunday and the feelings on monday get washed away like the filth that came out of my mouth this passing tuesday. the steak was bloody, just like my beating heart.

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Atira Barber-Ellisa •

•

W HAT I W ISH S OMEONE W OULD’ VE T OLD M E Growing up I wanted nothing more than to be a woman like my mother and older sister. I wanted curves!

And breasts! And to be able to understand what getting my period was like. For so long I just wanted to wear makeup and play with my hair all of the time.

I wish back then, when I was a young girl looking toward the future, someone would’ve taken the time to tell me that there was more to being a woman than being a pretty figure.

I wish someone would've told me that the weight of the world lives on in our hearts. That our strength has no limits, but does need breaks.

That women need rest.

I wish someone would've told me that our silence is quicker associated with compliance than protest.

I wish someone would’ve told me that being a woman meant never being looked at as anything other than a mother, a wife, a provider, anything greater than a woman.

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Anything greater than emotional.

Anything greater than a nanny or a nurse.

Anything greater than a bed warmer.

As anything greater than a tenant of a kitchen because “it’s a woman’s place”.

I wish someone would’ve told me that we spend most of our lives being the teacher when we don't even have someone to teach us.

I wish someone would've told me that periods suck.

They are fully ridiculous.

I wish someone would've told me that when you're a woman, your curves are always being nipped and picked at. That every time we stand in the mirror and reassure ourselves of our beauty, there's another meme out in the world to tear us down. That being a woman isn’t enough.

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Eghosa Idahor & Adetiloro Ibitoye •

•

R UNAWAY B RIDE She looked at the distance Freedom calls but she doesn't listen She is someone’s wife now And tomorrow she will be someone’s mother Always other She will never have another.

She was given a dress Told to go make a nest Soiled her Told her this was god’s test Soften the mouth and the instep Don't misstep He eats skulls when he’s angry

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Every night he will rip apart her ribs Showing her way how Eve is born and why she is his She knew from the minute she said “I do� that any sense Of independence escaped her lips and subsequently Evaporated into the abyss The woman she once was would cease to exist She was His And she His nothing But nothing is still something And so she ran And every time her feet hit the concrete She ran faster.

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Atira Barber-Ellis •

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S ELF- C ARE I want to crave Sundays with you.

But that’s not enough.

I crave the day in between Saturday and Sunday, in that little pocket of the world we made for ourselves.

Where I can lose myself in the sight of you, drink in every drop of your essence until my tongue is thick with sweetness. Lose myself in the lazy gaze of your too-brown eyes dancing across the walls of my room, roaming every thought in my mind. Lose myself in the rise and fall of your chest as you rest from racing through my thoughts, beating down the drums of my heart, the subtle thu-thump ba-bump thu-thump babump skipping beats, constantly changing the melody, this tune better than any smooth playlist or chill vibe.

The reassuring graze of your fingertips across that tiny scar on my hips, the gentle leans, warm, indulgent, captivating, generous, cosmic, comfort, omnipotent, ever blessed, my sweet escape, there are simply not enough words in my mother-tongue.

I am wildly infatuated with you.

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I breathe with you. When this world, this life, spins too fast for me to stay afloat I find my sanity in you. You are my greatest luxury. I want to soak myself in the thought of you, let your voice soothe my temple. You are my idea of self-care, the finest form of TLC.

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Mia Montgomery •

•

ANNIE R U O KAY hi. my name is annie. i'm scared and honestly, i'm afraid i'll lose everything i have. wait, let me be more specific. i'm afraid i'll lose myself. one day i was standing in the produce section of the supermarket, and suddenly i looked at a small onion that reminded me of your head. i promptly started to cry. the little mexican twins that were previously shouting pendejo at each other watched me, i began to wonder, what the hell did you do to me? i used to love looking at the stars. gods of their own, powerhouses of their own destruction. similarly, i also used to love looking at you. conversely, i now panic whenever you're in my line of sight, and now the only star i can look at is the sun. obviously there's a bit of role reversal here, but the

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silver lining is that people can stop me from staring into the sun. but on the flip side of the same coin, nobody can stop me from looking at you. the next time i go to the supermarket, i end up in the produce section again. i nibble on unclean string beans, half hoping i get sick and half wondering if they AT LEAST spray them down with water before tossing them next to the lettuce.

5 minutes later i'm self-projecting onto the unclean string beans, noticing that i'm as broken as the rotten ends of some of these nutritious greens and that the brown scars that run down their bodies are the same scars that run down mine; except i'm not nearly as long. and at this point you're probably wondering hey annie are you alright or damn annie, that some heavy shit right there but full disclosure, totally my opinion if you refuse to eat the string beans with scars and abrasions and rotten ends ... who do you think eats them? the point that i am trying to make here is that my wounds have festered, closed, reopen, healed, and reopened again. sometimes when you lose a piece of 60

yourself, it's gonna be hard to gather yourself up afterward. i'm not as fast as you. i can't just immediately replace people like that. so i think i'll just stay here and be lost. nothing is worth the pain of replacing memories. anyway, thanks for listening. i think i'll roam in the frozen isle next.

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GUMBO Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves

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

Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community and publication would not exist: Allianz GI, Amazon Literary Partnership, Cowan Slavin Foundation, Emmanuel Baptist Church Benevolence Fund, Kalliopeia Foundation, Meringoff Family Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, The New York City Department of Cultural Affairs 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.

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.

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: Timothy Ballenger, Tamiko Beyer, Louise Crawford, Atiba Edwards, Marian Fontana, Kaitlyn Greenidge, Ben Groom, Susan Karwoska, Brooke McCaffrey, Sophie McManus, Alexis Nixon, 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; and our dedicated editors Joey De Jesus, Cecca Ochoa, and Alexandra Watson of Apogee Journal. Without you, this workshop and publication would not have been possible.

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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Apogee is a literary journal specializing in art and literature that engage with issues of identity politics: race, gender, sexuality, class, and hyphenated identities. We currently produce a biannual issue featuring fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and visual art. Our goal is to publish exciting work that interrogates the status quo, providing a platform for unheard voices, including emerging writers of color.

The word apogee denotes the point in an object’s orbit that is farthest from the center. Our mission combines literary aesthetic with political activism. We believe that by elevating underrepresented literary voices we can effect real change: change in readers’ attitudes, change in writers’ positions in literature, and broader change in society.

For more information about Apogee Journal visit www.apogeejournal.org

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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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