in SOLIDARITY
rise spring 2016
Dear Readers, In Solidarity is a creative zine made by and for people of color at Oberlin each semester. We oppose and exist outside of mainstream media past and present, where the narratives of people of color are often erased, appropriated, and essentialized. Art is integral to our liberation. It is a source of healing. It encourages us to consider and construct the futures we are fighting for. We welcome all artists of color to submit work of any medium that can be shared on paper. We hope that each issue serves as a time capsule of our collective triumphs and failures alike. We trace time through the rising and falling of the sun. Maybe we trace our lives as such–through the rising and falling of our heartbeats, our laughter, our collective dreams. Some days the sunlight creeping through morning blinds feels like enough of a miracle. Some nights a full moon hangs in confirmation of our joy. In this issue, 24 contributors reflect on what it means to nurture hope. To breathe life into our communities when they need it most. To rise and to create is to believe in hope. Even if that hope is small and feeble and flickering, it is there. Like the days cycle over, so does our healing, so does our pain. As we are guided by the resistance of those before us, so does our work echo generations after we are gone. We thank our elders, and leave footprints for younger generations to follow, hoping to preserve a truthful picture of what life was like here. What the sun felt like at noon on this day. How we felt the tug of the moon as we prayed. With this issue we invite you to join us trailing breadcrumbs as we investigate our most fragile selves. That we may rise in the morning remembering those who fought for a world they would never reach, holding onto the same hope that some day generations of work will be done.
It seems every year we bear witness to a great polarization. A line is drawn in the sand, straight through a collection of many truths, and we are told to decide what is “right.” This year we have witnessed an immense mobilization of Oberlin students, faculty, trustees, and alumni to condemn Professor Karega, a Black woman professor, after a select few Facebook posts spanning years were sent to an ultra conservative blog. Waves of unprecedented outrage and attacks spread online and throughout campus targeting Professor Karega and her position at Oberlin. Antisemitism has been used as a smokescreen for racist, sexist, classist attacks on Professor Karega’s humanity. All this in a community where Black students’ needs are systematically invalidated, insulted, and ignored. Black and Brown folks are not given the same room for growth, tasked with the invisible labor of making up for systemic inequality. We are not interested in discussing Professor Karega’s statements if that only includes those being circulated on the internet. We stand in support of Professor Karega, in all her brilliance, in all her leadership, in all her growth. In Solidarity seeks to make space for nuance and creative expression when deep-seated ideologies function to perpetuate hegemony. Art is a creative and unique place for dialogue. We demand and praise the liberation of all oppressed people and will continue to create intentional spaces for our art as our movements push forward. With love, Elka Lee-Shapiro ‘18 Olivia Evans ‘18 Anders Villalta ‘16 Gaby Hurtado-Ramos ‘16 Lisa-Qiao MacDonald ‘16
Table of Contents 7:02 am Untitled, AC 4:47 am sankofa is engraved on our wooden combs, or sisterhood, antonio lunn 8:36 am
In making my body my home again, I turn my scars into flowerbeds, Rowan Lee
9:08 am
A Poem for my Sisters, Kai Joy
10:01 am Untitled, Le’Priya White 10:37 am reductionism, Sreyashi Tinni Bhattacharyya 11:15 am
my name is _______., Jasmine Sierra
12:00 am
140° F, Fernando Borges
12:00 am
My Words Slip Out, Elka Lee-Shapiro
12:52 pm
Senior year was not fun., Lisa-Qiao MacDonald
1:34 pm Eraser, Anthony Moaton 2:18 pm
#carefreeblackgirls, Anne Chege
3:03 pm
Language, Alejandra Diaz
3:41 pm
Addiction, Nguyễn Trần Quỳnh // Richard Tran
4:22 pm
Rise, Le’Priya White
5:09 pm
Prosperity Theology, Anthony Moaton
5:43 pm
Guidance, antonio lunn
6:27 pm
requiem, film still from Body Capital, Gaby Hurtado-Ramos
7:12 pm
Fourths, Halves, Sons, Suns, Miles Ginoza
7:58 pm
Identity, Kai Joy
8:40 pm what it’s like to be a 21 year old poor, Black, depressed, broken survivor for those of you that aren’t, AC 9:33 pm
Against Functionality, Asie Mussard-Afcari
10:49 pm
Untitled, Sam Grund
11:25 pm
Wrong Questions Painted White Color, Fernando Borges
1:00 am
pink sky and you forget me, anonymous
2:16 am
Love Letter to Myself, Nat Rodriguez
3:00 am
Exhaustion, Anders Villalta
3:38 am
Untitled, 2015, Anders Villalta
4:17 am
Hanging, Holly Hoang
5:03 am
CHERRY BLOSSOMS, Mengchen Xu (Sue)
5:51 am
shakti (strength), Sreyashi Tinni Bhattacharyya
6:52 am
part 4, Dyaami
untitled AC serenity comes in the morning, slips in between the gaps of bent blinds, wraps me in a warmth the clanky radiator in the corner has never managed to provide and promises to stay. my insides might be in turmoil, my thoughts stained with you but I am always calmed by the sight of icicles: the memory of reaching outside of my sister’s window to gather them (her arms wrapped around my waist as though she could have caught me if I fell) and shoving them into plastic cups, making jagged ice sculptures that terrify my mother upon opening our freezer door. I drag my fingers through the fog my breath leaves on the windowpane and am reminded that there are still memories, moments full of joy and wonder, that you have yet to touch; and my heart is at peace.
7:02 am
sankofa is engraved on our wooden combs, or sisterhood —for jaz antonio lunn we are strong we are growing we do not know now we will know one day. on this plane or another what it means to be free
7:47am
In making my body my home again, I turn my scars into flowerbeds Rowan Lee
8:36 am
A Poem for my Sisters Kai Joy Lungs filled with the dying gasps of leaves. Your holes are burrowed into, your emptiness now housing tissue. Your body is angry, offended by abuse borne abuse, so new flesh wears thorns. carrying each misdeed within your twist and coil headdress and soil hued windows, you dance a spiteful thunder call and demand branch and grass and growth, life for your desert. The room is filled to its brim with you, and you are aware of its uncertainty. You remain aware of your bloodlust, until it will inevitably reclaim you. The clouds run from your mouth.
9:08 am
Le’Priya White Students are using American Sign Language (ASL) because it can show emotions without verbal words. Actions are louder than words. Our Liberation can be expressed nonverbally and can be shown with movement (Sign Language uses a lot of movement with the most dominant hand). Lastly, even when our voices are silenced and we are unheard, we can still fight with actions and movements in our own way and in our own spaces. Thus, as a community, we can rise. Students are wearing the color black for solidarity. Alejandra Diaz: “R” - Reinventing She picked the Allen Memorial Art Museum. She is an art history major (concentration in German Architecture) and not only is art her passion, she uses art history to fight against her father’s expectations and ideal major and to defeat the notion of art history being deemed as useless and the idea of a “starving artist.” Art gives her passion as she strives to be an art historian. “Art is Powerful. It can speak to people in many different ways” - A. Diaz Daniel Huerta: “I” - Independent He picked the Multicultural Resource Center (MRC) because it encourages an open environment. The MRC helps him discuss about his identity and culture, which helps him embrace it even more than before. He feels like both students and staff members are very supportive. “It could be early morning or late at night, there are people there that will support me” - D. Huerta Kristoffer Richardson: “S” - Solidarity He picked Afrikana Heritage House because it is a safe space to embrace his identity. He loves being around his community as it feels like a second home. “At the end of the day, I feel as though I am going through similar circumstances as the people in the House” - K. Richardson
10:01 am
Ifunyana Ezimora: “E” - Empowering* She picked the track field because it is her lifeline. It is a physical runaway and the passion and lifelines that it encompasses gives her emotional strength. She feels good after she runs and feels awful when she skips a day of running. “It is very essential in my life as it makes me feel like I am in the loop with God and nature: the two things that play a central role in my life and well being.” - I. Ezimora
reductionism Sreyashi Tinni Bhattacharyya
10:37 am
my name is ______. Jasmine Sierra 1. i am four years old and Aladdin is on the big screen when i first encounter a not-quite-my-brown woman with my-not-quite-name; princess Jasmine. i decide in spite of the not-quites that i could be Jasmine, too. 2. first day of Kindergarten and teacher asks for name. i remember Jasmine. mama remembers Sarah. i give Sarah into her open palms with closed fist. 3. Sarah is Hebrew for princess and is the name of an elderly woman in the Bible who was married to Abraham. Because of her husband’s devotion to the Lord, and because they ache for child, he blesses her old bones with the ability to conceive.
3.2. i did not want to be a mother.
4. i spend the rest of fitful youth living like a phantom limb; i remove Jasmine from memory the way a hand goes missing from a slick cut of the knife. i do not have to be biblical figure for Sarah to be alright, okay, i guess. 5. college. college will demand a lot of things; self-motivation, thirst for knowledge, the ability to condense academic jargon into consumable parts, and, a name. my name is Sarah, i suppose. ( except, i don’t suppose. ) among new gazes in another club i am curious to try, i am about to introduce myself when i realize that i can be whoever i want. call me Sarai, call me Sierra, call me Something Else ‘call me Jasmine.’
11:15 am
140° F Fernando Borges My mother burned “Fat” into my skin like she fried porkchops: with every meal, until the edges crisped.
My Words Slip Out Elka Lee-Shapiro bubbles rise to the surface the air hot! from the coals in my belly lips pressed tight to keep them in
12:00 pm
Senior year was not fun. Lisa-Qiao MacDonald
I did a lot of homework and a lot of lab work.
I wrote a thesis about opossum stem cells.
I tried to stay present and focused and when it got hard, my friend helped me paint a rock gold.
12:52 pm
Eraser Anthony Moaton How does it feel to ignore someone? I figure that we’ve all done it before, it must feel something like dismissal. At least, when I ignore people that’s what it feels like to me. I’m dismissing the thing that would inevitably cause me nothing but stress. But something about how you do it is different. I see it on your face when you do it. It is an active process of removing a person from your realm of consciousness. Your face is dead-set; you actually look constipated. Is it that straining to forget that I co-exist with you? When you stare out the window as I try to talk to you, do you imagine me falling out of it? No, because that’s not ignoring, that’s fantasizing, and you wouldn’t waste the mental energy on me, right? Your ignoring is a denial that I could be here. Maybe you look out the window because the space out there is where I should be, instead of here with you. I’m note even here for you, and maybe you know that too, so why would you deny my existence? Do you think that if you denied my existence hard enough, I’ll just stop existing? How does that feel? How does it feel to not want someone to exist? I know people who want people dead, but at least their corpse would serve as a reminder that there once was life. It’s like I don’t even deserve that. Does that make you feel better about yourself? Am I that much of an impediment to your humanity that you feel like I shouldn’t have mine?
1:34 pm
2:18 pm
#carefreeblackgirls Anne Chege
Language Alejandra Diaz Imagine a child. She seems to be singing when Spanish flows from her small lips. Poor child, she is clueless! She will be taken to America. She will be stolen from her grandparents’ loving embrace. The child does not understand America. What is America? Is it America the free? Or is it America the strange? All she knows is that America is cold. She is ill prepared for Chicago’s winter weather. The snow and icy winds burn her soft delicate skin. But the child has yet to feel real pain. I was imprisoned by the American Education System. “English!” they screeched, “You must speak English! Speak only English!” School was torture. Every day I was chained down. I went to school to be held down cruelly as they poured English down my throat. I was drowning. I was bleeding. I was drowning in my own blood. English was sharp. English was a million glass shards and it cut my throat every time I was forced to swallow. The school day is over and the child returns to her mother’s embrace. Tears stain the child’s face. She does not understand why she must speak English. Why must she speak only English! But her mother is powerless. How do you explain to a child that this is the price she must pay? How do you tell a child that her pain will eventually bring her happiness? That you believe this pain will help her survive one day? That you believe her pain will give her a better future? (Can one even guarantee that future?) And so, her mother holds her and temporarily soothes the pain. It is all her mother can do. When I entered high school, the message was different but the intention remained unchanged. “Arabic! Chinese!” they screeched, “You must speak Arabic! You must speak Chinese!
3:03 pm
These languages will make money! Do it for your happiness! (Do it for this country! These languages support America’s dreams!)” I had no choice. I was chained to the System. I would not have graduated high school if I hadn’t submitted to them. Of the only two options, I chose Chinese. I had picked the language but the process had barely changed. At least this time I was ready. The child returns home from school. Can she even be called a child anymore? She is older now. But in some ways she is already an adult. All the pain she has felt throughout the last years has forced her to grow faster. Her body is just catching up. The cuts have healed but they have left scars behind. At least now the skin is thicker. The scars have made her skin thicker. When I entered college, I did the unthinkable. I chose to learn another language. My parents were surprised. I was surprised. On the first day of class, I sat down and held my breath. But I didn’t hear the screeching voices nor the rattling of chains. I was not held down. I was not drowned. I was not forced to swallow. The young woman is no longer a child. She holds a small delicate cup with both hands and steadily sips German. It is a bit bitter but she smiles. She doesn’t mind the taste. It gives her a pleasant sensation. It is medicine and it soothes the scarred tissue of her throat. Her mother calls. The young woman answers. She seems to be singing when Spanish flows from her lips.
Addiction Nguyễn Trần Quỳnh // Richard Tran You grab your oversized plastic bottle of vodka and sip on that sweet nectar that’s given you more joy than anyone around you has since you could remember. You sit in your room – alone – waiting for the clock to strike 11 so you can order take-out at lunch special’s pricing. You stumble through three blocks to fetch your heartwarming egg drop soup with extra scallions knowing that it’s only going to scald your mouth the second you lay your eyes upon its golden glory. So you wait. In the meantime, you make yourself a drink.. You grab your vodka and mix one part water to three parts vodka. You finish it. You go back to your room where your orange chicken *extra spicy* is waiting for you next to your more-than-warm, yet not-so scorching soup. You realize you still don’t have a drink to go with your food. You go back to the kitchen. You notice there are only a few shots of your vodka left. You pick one of the thirteen liquor stores you want to walk to, with complete clarity and consciousness that you will not going to the same one you went to earlier today. You find the cheapest thing to satisfy your craving. Today’s bargain got you bourbon. You aren’t picky, but you know dark will do the trick.
3:41 pm
You walk home, brown bag in hand. Your next drink is a mix of the leftover vodka, what you eyeball as three shots of bourbon, and some water for the chase. You finish it. You realize that it’s been 21 years since you started living, 20 years since you stopped crying, 19 years since you began lying, 18 years since you were too young to work, 17 years since you tried speaking up, 16 years since you could dream, 15 since you showered your parents with love, 14 since you grew up, 13 since you freaked out about growing hair down there, 12 since you felt undefeatable, 11 since you were taught the meaning of happiness, 10 since you realized that happiness wasn’t money, 9 since you wanted to be cool, 8 since you started every sentence with I’m sorry, 7 since you could keep friends, 6 since you isolated yourself, 5 since you wanted to be alone, 4 since you started lying to yourself about wanting to be around people, 3 since you saw home, 2 since you realized you have no home, 1 since you were finally okay with being on your own. You realize now that it’s 4pm. Your soup is frozen, sitting on the ledge of your windowsill and the rice inside your styrofoam box has hardened over.
Rise Le’Priya White Our liberation is slipping through our fingers like water We are told that war fixes everything Then why is our home still broken? There are wars in our communities and in our streets The blood, sweat, and tears of our ancestors are erased Erased to make the precious America great again But how is Anti-Black, Anti-Gay, racism, classism, sexism suppose to save us? All Lives Matter is considered “fair” However, they silence our voices and brand “guilty until proven innocent” onto my brown skin But Black is only a superficial, cultural based trend But still I rise in hopes that our justice will begin.
4:22 pm
Prosperity Theology Anthony Moaton Our Father, who art in heaven Give me the cars and the jewelry And status That will allow me to live without you Until I need more Amen Let’s call the church a factory Assembly lines of piety Constantly creating, never satisfactory A supervisor may claim master status Deeming what is and is not worthy But still bends to the will of the followers Who don’t know the power they hold When praying for prosperity The factory worker must always Exude humility The man who ripped the shirt Proclaiming “I am a sinner.” Eventually received a new body in heaven But a shirt will do for now You never pray to be the new leader You pray to be “like the new leader” Envy must be disguised As righteous hatred For those who abuse their blessings Of course the factory worker Would do no such thing Those who “have not” would always Cherish what they gain Even if they don’t understand it
5:09 pm
You must feign understanding Of course God works in Mysterious ways And you need to believe That when you do the right things to please Him He will work in your favor The bonus you’ve been waiting for Or the promotion you deserve, But you never say you deserve to avoid vanity, Has only come because you’ve worked so hard, right? And when you get what you deserve You must pray to stay In a giving spirit After all, if you made it Anyone can And as you enjoy your creature comforts You will help those You may now only see as creatures Cultivating a surplus of devotion in workers Shrouded by desires of sanctity And rooted in a desperation for security You will allow no challenges As that shows ingratitude Or worse, is the revelation Of the envy permeating The pews of exaltation But you won’t need to exalt You are exalted If God is unseen You are the closest approximation If we are made in His image We can try to look like you To try to look as good as you want to feel But if wealth is what you prayed for Why do you still feel so poor?
Guidance —for S.D. antonio lunn A genderqueer child of an Osun priestess takes me in their arms and holds me close. They guide me, steadfast, through a tainted river. They teach me how to live in poison, how to safeguard my energy, how to safeguard my siblings, how to believe in the power of my ancestral Blackness. A genderqueer child of Ezili moves – fluid – through concrete walls that drip with the blood of our ancestors. They wield Black ase as to guard their kin from alabaster, as to guard their kin from crushed spirit, as to guard their kin from heat. They cool my spirit. A genderqueer mother holds my hand through treachery so that I may grow. A genderqueer sibling reveals to me their true energy and I grow. A genderqueer spirit articulates transgression and joy and revolution.
5:43 pm
requiem, film still from Body Capital Gaby Hurtado-Ramos
6:27pm
Fourths, Halves, Sons, Suns Miles Ginoza How can diaspora mean anything to me so entrenched the soil now deep in my soul crawl all over me worms spreading American slime over my face personally seeking sanctum in search of asylum in search of love cannot see very far past the dirt covering my hands it muddles my mind makes me mumble stumble over the cracks on my skin hair splits on my knees from the wet and the dry I am aching to dig my way out the sun very much what I yearn for to reach towards two in fact one red one yellow rising and setting pulling me up and out and letting me down gently in some place called home
7:12 pm
Identity Kai Joy
7:58 pm
what it’s like to be a 21 year old poor, Black, depressed, broken survivor for those of you that aren’t AC It’s hard. It’s no air and weight of the world. It’s I don’t want to go home but I have to. It’s home is everywhere and all the time and there’s no escaping it. It’s no, I’m not happy when my mother calls me. It’s, I don’t want my mother to know that I’m not happy when she calls me. It’s having people touch you, even when you ask them not to. It’s my sexuality being less important than my race, but my sexuality is tied to my trauma and what the fuck do I do now? It’s being stolen from and having people support my abuser. It’s having my trauma not being believable until it happens to a white girl. And sometimes not even then. It’s not wanting to be alive, but knowing that you are the string tying so many people together, and you cannot stomach being responsible for unraveling so many beautiful things. Being a 21 year old poor, Black, depressed, broken survivor is inhabiting stories that have never just belonged to you. It’s trying to make yourself the protagonist instead of just a minor character. It’s learning to do things for and by yourself, even when you’re scared, because sometimes these shared stories are too much.
8:40 pm
Against Functionality Asie Mussard-Afcari As I write this, I am acutely aware of all of the things I should be doing instead. Particularly, my Computer Architecture homework, which looks like this:
What the problem is supposed to mean, I believe, is that I have been given system that takes in some inputs, and I am supposed to figure out which outputs the system is capable of producing. These outputs, the problem tells me, define the system’s functionality.
9:33 pm
This model of functionality, I am finding, follows me everywhere. Given the input of this problem, the output of my brain, my system, tells my professor my functionality on the metric of Computer Architecture, which is not very high. Given the input of my education and home environment and the output of my SAT scores, two essays, and my high school transcript, Oberlin College’s admissions department determined my functionality as a prospective student. Given the sum totals of the inputs and outputs of approximately 19 years, 7 months, and 10 days, my friend Sam has been determined non-functional, by just about any metric you can think of. To call Sam my friend is a lie that language forces me into. Here the traditional eulogy structure would have me elaborate on all of the things he did, for and to me, the ways in which he made my life better and worse and more beautiful and more difficult. But this is not a eulogy, so I hope it is enough to say this- I loved Sam very much, and I did not always like him. I love him still, in spite of his dying. It is Sam’s dying, and the disease that did it, that make him nonfunctional. We don’t, as a species, have an agreed upon metric for a successful life, but we can probably agree that it does not involve dying by suicide. If you believe that a successful life is all about following an evolutionary directive, dying without children is distinctly unsuccessful. If you believe that a successful life is about the acquisition of material goods, suicide is the refusal of future goods, or their potentiality. If you believe that a successful life is about doing as much good and as little harm as possible, as I thought I did, then you are trapped, like me, in an accounting of all of the happiness given and taken away in the course of a human lifetime (19 years, 7 months, and 10 days), with a major subtraction at the end. This is an impossible mathematics, or
at least one that I am not able and increasingly less willing to calculate. Sam’s death, and the dying that proceeded it, make him nonfunctional, but that is a result of some additional inputs to his system, ones that you as a reader are likely unaware of. Sam was White, able-bodied, male, and middle-class. The trajectory of his demographic is one that his dying contravened, so he is labeled non-functional, mentally ill. But there are plenty of demographics for whom dying is perfectly in line with the trajectory which societal power structures create for them, for whom dying is functional. Do some computer science with me and analyze the following systems: Given a system which takes in some number of police officers and some number of Black people and with a high probability returns far fewer Black people than it took in, is the system working functionally when it takes in a 12 year old Black boy named Tamir Rice and never returns him? Given a system which takes in some number of people who need housing and some number of available houses and evaluates the quality of a solution based on how many total points can be acquired by the owners of those houses, is the system working functionally when it returns a solution that leaves houses empty and people sleeping on the street? Given a system which takes in some number of people who need medical care and assigns them resources based on how many points they can trade for said resources, is the system working functionally when people with very few points die for lack of medical care?
Of course, these are all the same system, and the answer is yes. Death, trauma, violence, and lack are all functional, so long as particular types of people are affected. This observation is not in any way new, but it is a good starting point for the thing that I would argue must be done, which is to abandon functionality as an ideal. To abandon functionality as an ideal is to say that I have been unfair to Sam, when he was alive and now, when he is not any more. I have been unfair because I have resented his inability to function in the ways that I feel I have been forced to all of my life, and I have resented his expectations that I would function in the ways that society trained him to believe that I would. I have been unfair because I have compared his suffering to the suffering of so many others, and in my suffering of his absence I have found it lacking, having forgotten that all of these hurts come from the same source, which is the system we are all attempting to function within. I say attempting, because we are all in some way non-functional. Johanna Hedva calls this non-functionality sickness, and has come up with a theory of the role sickness plays in our lives and in revolution: “Sick Woman Theory is a mode of political protest that is internalized, lived, embodied, and no doubt suffering. It is an existence that endures in the face of certain and inevitable obliteration, but also redefines existence itself as something that is primarily and always vulnerable. It insists that a body is defined by its vulnerability, not temporarily affected by it. And so we need to reshape the world around this fact. Sick Woman Theory insists that the body and mind are sensitive and reactive to regimes of
oppression, particularly our current regime of neoliberal, white supremacist, imperial-capitalist, cisheteropatriarchy. It is that our bodies and minds carry the historical trauma of this. That it is the world itself that is making and keeping us sick.” Listen again- Existence is primarily and always vulnerable. We are defined by our vulnerability. We are vulnerable to the system we live in, which is oppressive in all the ways we know it to be, by virtue of the ways that we are vulnerable. We need to reshape the world around this fact. We are all vulnerable, we are all non-functional, and yet often when we feel our vulnerability most, we try to hide it. In some ways, this is understandable- our functionality is tied in so many ways to the resources and care we are given access to. To reveal your vulnerabilities to a boss, for example, could get you fired. But even in our communities, we hide our vulnerability. We understand, on some level, that a world that values us by our functionality is a world that must oppress us. Why should we value ourselves by it? We let go of functionality by showing our vulnerability, by giving it as a gift, as much and as often as we can. We show our vulnerability as a protest on the very extreme of love, non-violent almost to the point of self-mutilation. We accept, admire, and tend to the vulnerabilities of others, and we find the connections between them. We stop trying to do the impossible math of evaluating all of our worths, and we love each other instead. We try to survive together, as long as we can, all of the ways that the world makes us vulnerable, and we forgive each other when we cannot. As Jenny Holzer wrote in her SURVIVAL series, “It is in your self-interest to find a way to be very tender.”
Untitled Sam Grund
10:49 pm
Wrong Questions Painted White Color Fernando Borges I say: We are of coconut trees, Skin tattooed by coffee, Born to stubbornness That burns like rum, and paperthin filters. My People, Blood of the Taino, With hair soaked in night, And hips bumping, Circling, To rhythms blended From conqueror and slave. My people, Are rocked to sleep By drumbeats and coqui squeaks, As they lay in hammocks Made of white sand and lagoon water. My people, Contain smiles that leach starlight From skies thick with our history: Red streaks on dark skin. We fill shacks with laughter Like pops of oil as pork chops fry, simmering sighs into pots of arroz con condules. My people are loud of hair and tiny in island, Mi Familia. When white people ask me “What are you?” I stop and stare And I say, “Yo soy Boriqua.” “I am Puertorican.”
11:25 pm
pink sky and you forget me anonymous
1:00 am
Love Letter to Myself Nat Rodriguez On those days when you wake up and the only thing you can think of Is how much you do not want to be alive Days where your first emotions of the day Consist of gut-wrenching failure and heartbreak When you cannot bring yourself to get out of bed, Cannot muster the will to be a person today And yet the very act of staying in bed Perpetuates the cycle of self-hatred When you run out of things to write On your list of “Reasons to Stay Alive” On the days where it’s sixty degrees and sunny out; The first rays of warmth after a long, brutal winter And everyone you love is outside, Excited, warm, and full of life But the only thing you want Is the comfort of the gray, looming clouds, And the biting, angry wind It’s selfish But sometimes the only way you can feel warmth Is when you are standing in the dead of winter In your thickest winter coat, Knowing that the miserable cold Doesn’t stand a chance today
2:16 am
When the person you thought you were in love with Tells you that they love you too And the hardened concrete that your heart has become Makes no movement to soften, No signs that the life and blood And emotion and spirit are being pumped back into it, No indication of the warm, beating flesh That it may have once been (although, it’s been so long and maybe you were just always this way) On these days, I will tell you that love comes in many forms And this time may not be right, But that does not mean you are incapable of feeling I will tell you not to forget the way you felt every single time You rocked someone else’s baby back to sleep Do not forget the love and spirit inside of you That had you willingly working overnights, Being awakened once an hour… 2am, 3 am, 4 am… You are meant for something And you are already worth something I want you to know that I still love you I don’t think I ever stopped I still love you when your skin aches From the angry slashes you gave yourself, and then immediately regretted I still love you when the shocking, bright red droplets soak onto your Father’s pristine white shirt And make you cry
When you lock yourself in your room And cry yourself to sleep because you thought of your mother for a moment too long I will hold you and remind you That you are worth more than your failures And that your failures are worthy I will pray the rosary for every single time You inflicted pain on your brother, For every single time you ignored him, Berated him, Pushed him, Mocked him, Shut him out, Cursed him out, Every single time you were not the role model You were told you had to be Remember that your grandmothers will always love you And that the love of two generations of women Is too powerful to ever overcome There will always be a new reason to Stay Alive Sometimes these reasons are not enough But you are still alive and and you are enough and I still love you.
EXHAUSTION Anders Villalta You have always had a complicated relationship with exhaustion. At one time it is three AM and your body is shutting down and your brain has shut down and you aren’t at a stopping point yet. At the same time there is a beautiful congruity when your body and mind slow to match the pace of the more important parts of you. Because despite the spurts of energy and optimism and joy somehow there is always another thing resting just below the surface. Somehow there is a peace in the empty surrender of falling asleep with the lights on. Falling asleep with your teeth still not brushed. Falling asleep most days, actually. Exhaustion feels like a more honest you. Giving up feels like the truth. And aren’t you tired of fighting for something every moment–fighting for humanity, fighting for options, fighting for breath? Giving up feels like the closest thing to winning.
3:00 am
Untitled, 2015 Anders Villalta
3:38 am
Hanging Holly Hoang It’s mostly the same quiet hanging over our heads. I don’t talk to them much. They’re gone until the late evening, not coming home until the sky has blended into a scheme of bruised, charcoal blacks and greys, exhausted as if they’d just ran across the Pacific once more. I never know what to say to them. I’d say more if I thought they’d understand; maybe, they’d say more if they thought I’d understand. At least, I finally see more than their shadows, no longer needing to justify their existence with ghosts, no longer needing to justify faceless voices with silence. When you live in this kind of quiet, it becomes impossible to leave what you’ve had to hold for so long, so I don’t. I continue holding silence like it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen, like the fleeting moments of light entering through window curtains and dispersing through a room, sending energy even into the emptiest of spaces, the blush of a picturesque sunrise overtaking the morning sky, knowing that in that moment, it belongs there more than anything, or the feel of someone’s heart against your own, knowing that in that moment, it belongs there more than anything, so I bury myself in the quiet, looking for these moments where instantaneous teleportation of the human soul is possible. They allow me to forget this world and become my own breath, giving me time to listen for the voices I still have trouble recognizing and putting to faces. Up there, I’m my own god, fluent in picturing ghosts, but I promise, there’s nothing more beautiful than the feeling of holding someone’s energy to understand how to hold your own. I think I’m finally beginning to understand how they feel. I know what it’s like to be exhausted; it feels like chasing ghosts across the Pacific.
4:17am
CHERRY BLOSSOMS Mengchen Xu (Sue)
5:03 am
shakti (strength) Sreyashi Tinni Bhattacharyya
5:51 am
part 4 Dyaami Mom, this time, When I come home, I need something from you. While I was away New cuts and bruises and scars have appeared, And I remembered the ones that I carry. So if I overflow at home, If you notice I am leaking, If you can see me shedding layers of myself all over the house, Pray for me and tell me you love me. Maybe we can leave the mop out And when people wonder why the house has a particular shine Why there are puddles in the living room and Why the couch is damp in the corner where I sit And why my bed sheets drip slowly full of memories Just tell them your daughter is healing. Mother / you / hawk: Never failing to find birds as we drive on a close to empty gas tank, Me a faithful co-pilot and your eyes on the sky. Daughter / me/ fish: Ever present ever running away forever wet and blue. You and me Sometimes we are all talons, Impatient and thick with intent. You come after me with them: “don’t ever bring me a girl home” broken English but firm stance, With sharp claws on the cage of my heart, I can’t let you in. “ja, para de llorar. Haz lo que tienes que hacer” work nena, no time to cry. These shards of truth that I want to run from, you keep close. I tell myself, “My scars have made me strong”.
6:52 am
We speak every day now, As if we are trying to make up for the times you let the girls and I eat alone, the times you came home too late to face us, How you tried to start over but we wouldn’t let you. This time hawk-mother, When I come swimming towards you, Keep your grip firm but don’t cut. Let me know you can hold me and you are trying your best not to hurt me. When I overflow, It isn’t your fault. I know you can only see my oceans when I let you, Only when my tidal waves begin reaching up to you. Remember that you gave birth to this. That you are not always responsible. My journey has been long, And these oceans are deep. I will always be fish, Surging upward, Just to be with you. Willing to be held in the skies that reflect me, We rise together; Our own homecoming.
Comunidad en Resistencia Anders Villalta This piece was designed for a publication about a resistance movement in Guatemala called La Puya. “On March 2, 2012 courageous men and women from the communities of San José del Golfo and San Pedro Ayumpuc joined together in opposition to the construction of a gold mine near their homes” (GHRC). This blockade has been continuously occupied for more than four years. The drawing is based on the Guatemalan flag, replacing the rifles and swords with this activist guitarist, seated on a pile of earth in resistance to foreign mining companies. The plants behind them and quetzal perched on their shoulder mimic the flag and symbolize the musician’s deep dedication to community.
Spring 2016