WRITERS ROOM | Anthology 7 by Writers Room

2 0 2 0 2 0 2 1

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION Norman Cain 11

FROM QUARANZINE 2020, A NEW RITUAL About Quaranzine 2020, Valerie Fox 17 New Ritual, Kyle Howey 19 Bars, Diners, Restaurants, Reunions, Rina Terry 20 We Must Watch For Our Closing, Melody Wright 24 She Made it Look Easy, Alina Macneal 26 Four Wheels and a Fly Swatter, Alicia DeSimone 29 Growing Pains, Devin Welsh 30 Is it?, Mella LaFrance 31 Observe and Absolve, Kyle Howey 32 An Open Letter, To the Heavens, Cosmo Randazzo 34 Writing Ideas, Kelly McQuain 36 Writing Ideas, Husnaa Hashim 37

AND ASK WHY Stories of Violence, Norman Cain 40 Cause and Effect, Winter Love Her, Moved to Tears, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 49 Reading the World Around Me, Devin Welsh 52 Late Night Reflections of a Weary Mind, Eden Skye Einhorn 56 Waiting, Hunter Robinson 57 Idly By, Kyle Howey 48 Each Port, Things Written Down to Sue Willie Seltzer’s Quilt, Angel Hogan 59 C# Lullaby, Constellation, Cosmo Randazzo 65 Easton, Aaliyah Sesay 66

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BUT WE KEEP GOING Introduction, Devin Welsh 75 Maherin Neha 76 Khalaya Murray 80 Tariq Rhodes 84 Malikah Stephens 88 Saniah Aaron 92 Jalen Paden 96 Justin Myrick 100 Muawiyah Graves 104 Kamry Chambers 108 Britton Dennis 112 Tyjah Stroman 116 Amina Mosley 120 Sharee Alston 124 Tymere Pride 128 Zion Deleon 132 Naseem Solomon-Butler 136 Kaiya Island 140 Olivia Gardner 144 Zairra Grissette 148 Ceaineh Wainpa 152 Leniah Hodges 156 Tyrenee Bacon 160 Janeera Long 164 Mujahed Muhammad 168 Kristen Hayde 172 Ismail Coles 176 Exziya Diggs 180 Dakeri Lanier-Foxworth 184

Lyric Wise 186 Sabriyyah Jackson-Green 192 Jarmal Arthur 196

MIXED & MATCHED Old Soul, Hereditary, Devin Welsh

203

Dashers, Melody Wright 204 The Haiku Shuffle, Mixed & Matched, Nick Vonk, Brenda Bailey, and Aly Meloche

208

The Wedding Song, Chanda Rice

210

63rd Street, Near Lansdowne Avenue, Andrea Walls

211

Sex (and You), Aaron Jeong

213

Once, Long, Long Ago, Kelly Bergh

215

Sound Pets, The Building Being Built, Bobby Decker

217

Union Transfer, Year of the Ox, Cosmo Randazzo

221

Anniversary, George Jenkins 224 To Be Saved, Hopeless Philly Boy, Dejah McIntosh

226

Daddy Issues, Larry Taylor Always Books the Aisle Seat, Dominique Shatkin 230 Sea of Pixels, Anjelikal Rogers

236

No Thoughts, Head Empty, Eden Skye Einhorn

237

Hibernation, Briyanna Hymms 238 Anniversary/Celebration, Free Write, Rosalyn Cliett

242

It’s the Morning, Nick Vonk

249

Chanda Rice, The Day Nick and I Got Vaccinated

251

Nick Vonk, The Day Muffy and I Got Vaccinated 254 Anniversary [9 Snapshots on Expired 35mm], Split Screen, Alex Wasalinko 260 How to Love, You Know What, Janae Kindt 265 Celebration, Devin Welsh 268

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CURATED CHATS #1 Friday in Five Parts 274 #2 Tripartite 280 #3 Looking Forward To 282 #4 Happy Friday 288 Participants —Rachel Wenrick, Devin Welsh, Andrea Walls, Tariq Rhodes, Diana Nicholas, Ciani Richardson, Lauren Lowe, Kimberly Sterin, Mallika Kodavatiganti, Dominique Shatkin, Sarah Lucey, Rosalyn Cliett, Nick Vonk, Jerusalem Tamire, Ayana Allen Handy, Patrice Worthy, Uk Chong, George Jenkins, Yusha Johnson, Rachel Jahr, Norman Cain, Keyssh Datts, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy, Carol Richardson McCullough, Nautica Gulledge, Ali Nd', Alysha Meloche, Brenda Bailey, Taeya Boi-Doku , Amina Mosley, Angel Hogan, Atticus Berry, Chanda Rice, Kyle Howey, Janae Kindt, Aaron Jeong, Emanuel McGill, Alicia DeSimone, Cosmo Randazzo, Essence Gaines

TRIPOD - MOSAICS Street Ballet Poem, Lyric Wise 301 I Stop Dancing, Dominique Shatkin 302 When I Walk Into the Street, Amina Mosley 303 Love Takes on Two Faces, Two Lists: Things You Are, Ciani Richardson 304 Notion of Family, I Am Amina, Amina Mosley 306 Response to Andrea’s Video Montage, Tariq Rhodes 311 January Fifteenth, Prompt #4, Rosalyn Cliett 311 Things I Heard, Tariq Rhodes 313 There Are Great Big Flies in the Sky, They Won’t Stop Telling Me to Burn, Dominique Shatkin 314

I Am Looking Forward to, Ciani Richardson 316 100 Years from Now, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 317 My Geography, Amina Mosley 320 Air/Almost a Tanka, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 321 In the Forties and Fifties, Elizabeth Abrams 323 Fences/Windows, Nick Vonk 326 Dreams vs. Goals, Ciani Richardson 329 The Sounds of the Rural South, Norman Cain 330 Breaking Bread, Jerusalem Tamire 340 Memory of Communal Dining, Ciani Richardson 341 Saavitri, Mallika Kodavatiganti 343 My World, Amina Mosley 350 Porches, Hari Bhatt 352 A New Kind of Home, Rosalyn Cliett 358 Notes for a Shared Space, Carol Richardson McCullough 361 Inspired by Auntie Carol’s, Lyric Wise 363 Response to Carol, Mallika Kodavatiganti 365 Enter, Andrea Walls 366 Sharing Creativity, Amina Mosley 371 Tall Walls, Jerusalem Tamire 372 Where Am I Sitting?, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 374 Hit the Hood of That Car, Jerusalem Tamire 375 My Grandmother’s Rural 1950 South Carolina Laundry Room, Norman Cain 377 OUR GROUP OUR THOUGHTS: What is the Culture We Are Making?, TRIPOD participants 380

CONTRIBUTORS 388

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 398

Rachel Wenrick

INTRODUCTION Writers Room members have always been diligent in our quest to attain excellence in our endeavors; therefore, the COVID-19 Pandemic did not deter us from continuing our vibrant sevenyear program. During an early Saturday summer evening, I spoke with Victoria Peurifoy via phone about a recent TRIPOD meeting. Later that evening she was rushed to the hospital. She had contracted COVID and, as a result, was hospitalized for a month. Two weeks of her confinement were spent on a ventilator. Her will to beat the odds helped her to recover and, shortly after, she phoned me and we continued our TRIPOD discussion. Because of the pandemic, the senior class members of the Paul Robeson High School were not only deprived of a class trip and prom, but were faced with the possibility of not having senior portraits as well. Thanks to the efforts of Devin Welsh, ArtistYear AmeriCorps Fellow at Robeson, and his students and TRIPOD members, Amina Mosley, Tariq Rhodes, Ciani Richardson, and Lyric Wise, photographs of the senior class were taken and featured in the series “But We Keep Going: Robeson ’21 Voices and Portraits.” The portraits and the accompanying writing vividly and heartfully chronicle who helped the seniors get through this year and the hopes they have for the future. In spite of everything, Victoria overcame COVID and went on with her life. Devin, buoyed by support, helped the seniors create everlasting memories, and the membership of Writers Room can honestly say: We kept going. We kept going because we were endowed with the spirit of perseverance and the marvels of Zoom which allowed us to continue walking across the pathway of excellence. 11

Introduction

That walk didn’t take us, as in previous years, throughout Philadelphia with notebooks and Canon cameras in hand to the annual TRIPOD photography exhibition at the Free Library, YouthBuild’s worksites, the Lindy House at the Dornsife Center for our monthly workshops and annual Anthology reading, or to our home, Writers Room’s studio in MacAlister Hall at 33rd and Chestnut Streets. However, the Writers Rooms family metaphorically walked, via Zoom and within our spirits, to the various programs that were offered. On June 6, 2020 we successfully held our sixth annual Anthology reading, with hundreds of people attending the virtual event. We kept busy over the summer with weekly writing prompts and Friday hangouts where we wrote and talked together for hours. Throughout the year, we participated in courses with Valerie Fox, Husnaa Hashim, and Kelly McQuain and in open editorial meetings with Painted Bride Quarterly. There were First Tuesday sessions that enabled us to become involved in vibrant programs and monthly open mic sessions where we shared our work— stories, poems, and songs. Each Friday we assembled in front of our computers for TRIPOD sessions that dealt with housing, community, and gentrification. Those enlightening sessions presented by Writers Room Fellows were highlighted by graphs, charts, maps, music, statistics, videos, and photographs. During the year, I lost two relatives to COVID. It happened so suddenly. The thing was, we were unable to go to the funerals. I wrote a letter that was read at the gravesite. My cousin, Deloris Cusack Smith, was four years older than me and a mentor. Deloris taught us the ropes down south in North Carolina. She told us about what was happening in the community, about the Anthology 7

segregation. She was able to read the stars as if she worked in the planetarium. She could tell you what kind of snake crossed the road just by looking in the dirt and identify unseen birds by their chirping. My brother, Stuart Cain, was about nine years younger than me. He was a scholar athlete. Probably the smallest quarterback in the city, he was a star at Overbrook High School. He sang with the Philadelphia All Boys Choir and was a member of the Omega Psi Phi fraternity. I remember when I was pledging in ’62, there were seven guys on my line and I was the captain. When my brother pledged in ’72, there we seven guys on his line and he was the captain. I’ll never forget my memories, but I know my brother would say, Hey, Norman. C’mon, man. Give no quarter. It’s a military term that means keep attacking the perils in front of you, no matter how hard they get. While the perils of the pandemic have, undoubtedly, left us in a state of despair, the Writers Room community has enabled its members to continue to create and to cope with the anxieties wrought by this year. We look forward to moving into our new dwelling, Ross Commons. We patiently await the return of staff member Kirsten Kaschock, a Pew Fellowship recipient who has taken time off to work on a novel. And we joyfully present our seventh Anthology. —Norman Cain

Introduction

FROM

QUARANZINE A NEW RITUAL

Alicia DeSimone

Valerie Fox

ABOUT QUARANZINE 2020, A NEW RITUAL Valerie Fox

Last spring, as COVID-19 spread, Writers Room moved online to feature our “Home Spaces” writing workshops led by Kelly McQuain and Husnaa Hashim. We vividly recall Hashim starting one session by acknowledging the beginnings of the actions in response to the murder of George Floyd. Presented here are some of the works started in those workshops, most of which were then included in the zine. A New Ritual was created and edited by Dominique Shatkin, Kyle Howey, Alex Wasalenko, and Alicia DeSimone. Design was by Kelly Bergh, with help from the entire team.

Quaranzine

COLD WATER Alicia DeSimone

NEW RITUAL Kyle Howey

We are given – taught –   Robes and dry tongues To practice faith. Upholstery. The art of fitting New skin To old furnished Bodies, always Re-becoming. All things Preordain, save Not to circumvent.   Save the very earth   We trust. Not the throat Of history, with truths to Quench. Not the conceivable Patterns of a new fabric. Not without impression. Among the new ritualists Are compassions with the earth. The let all be all Of this new ritual Is the work of ours below.

Quaranzine

BARS, DINERS, RESTAURANTS, REUNIONS Rina Terry

Haggard, low-life worn-down brown, draws the blub, blub, blub of Harleys at The Triton, Brownies, Central— sun bouncing off chrome, affiliation tattoos, property patches on their long-haired, boobed out women. I rode on my daddy’s clean Indian in the 50s when no one thought it   too dangerous to mount a six-year-old and take off down the highway. Not too many cars on the road. Years later at my brother’s shop set back from the highway, sawed-off shot gun under the counter, jerking-off Santa year-round Christmas decoration, I videoed tattoos, asked questions, heard the stories. At the pig roast, when the JD saturated   even the music, I knew to go home. When I called 1-800-Law-4HOGS the last digit didn’t matter. At Olga’s Diner, the Pagans’ lawyer and I sat for the interview. He was intrigued by the seminary student researching bikers. Coffee cups refilled, we were   interrupted by a Philadelphia Eagle, long stride, wide smile, introduction short,   Anthology 7

they adjourned to the men’s room   for business I knew better than record. I watched the waitress at the counter, remembered the juke box at Harry’s, me sitting at the counter listening to The Righteous Brothers drown out the, “Oh shit,” from the back room— a scratch, 8-ball sunk too soon maybe? The Roy Orbison lookalike, gradient-tint glasses, leather jacket, English Leather, his own stick in a leather case and   the “Hey, P.C., we’ve been waiting for you,” as he walked in the pool room. I remembered my little brother before his leather and chrome life, rolling on the floor when our mother spat, “I don’t want you in that place wasting money on that nickelodeon.” I can see every waitress uniform I had to buy each time the boss got a new mistress and covered us up as much as she could but the dishwasher showed baby bump, mistress and uniform changed again. Restaurants came and went in that building, bars got bought out, painted, menus used words like cuisine.  Diners are retro trendy now.    At my 50-year high school reunion someone snorted when they put Reverend in front of my name, called me up for the invocation.

Quaranzine

JUNK DRAWER Alicia DeSimone

WE MUST WATCH FOR OUR CLOSING Melody Wright

I. We must watch for our closing, as it hungrily watches for us. It is perched and waiting to pounce. It tosses down toxins, wilding steering wheels. We must pay close attention to our vitality, check for breath pulse – stand up and walk around, just to make sure. We will prick our fingers to see what comes out. Living is all day work. There are no records for us that may long stand unchanged, but the dead are never removed from our long, wrinkled tablets. As it is written: For your sake, we face death all day long. We are considered as sheep to be slaughtered. [Amen] II. How many will we pray for? In less modesty, the numbers become overwhelming, tiring. Sore flesh on digits, impressed with numbers. We keep count. Scratch in another. More have come since yesterday, since minutes ago. III I [8:36]

Anthology 7

Melody Wright

Quaranzine

SHE MADE IT LOOK EASY Alina Macneal

She made it look easy. Easy to get up at dawn, in the car at six thirty, at work before I’d even gotten up for school. Before I’d even gotten up for school, she was in the elevator, riding up to the 9th floor in the far back corner. In the far back corner, where the research labs were, their windows facing light wells and air slots. Light wells and air slots, where the hospital buildings connected through labyrinths of hallways. Labyrinths of hallways that I walked during summer vacation, when I was fifteen and sixteen, coming to meet her for lunch.

26 Alicia DeSimone

Anthology 7

Sixteen, coming to meet her for lunch, down passageways lined by refrigerators and centrifuges and incubators, and old discarded fume hoods, like somewhere in a dream. In a dream, years later, I push open a heavy metal door and see her, on a tall stool, in her white lab coat, pipetting from one rack of test tubes to another. In her white lab coat, pipetting from one rack of test tubes to another, she removes the end of the pipette from her mouth, turns toward me, and smiles. “Did you get lost again?” Again, I open the door in my dream. Again, she turns toward me and smiles. “No.” I say, “I just woke up, like, an hour ago.” Again, she laughs.

Quaranzine

HOMEBODY Alicia DeSimone

FOUR WHEELS AND A FLY SWATTER Alicia DeSimone

the other day i was driving and the clouds parted so i could see the sky. the sky was blue, like candy, sugar-blue. it was surprising, vibrant, grounding. i was sucked into myself. i felt like i’d just woken up, snapped out of it. the haze. i feel so hazy all the time — being my very own fly on my very on wall. when i’m alone i speak out loud so i can hear myself. i take big breaths, i say dumb words. i am reminded that i contribute to the world, i add some noise, some hot air. when i’m alone i wave my arms around. i spread my legs. i take up space because i want to take up more space. i operate in the world, i move through it. i want to get in the way and scream and make a scene. i want to swat at myself, fly on my wall. splat. awake. behind the wheel, sugar-blue sky. there is a sigh. i miss feeling like wet clay, spinning. shaped by even the slightest things that touch me. 29

Quaranzine

GROWING PAINS Devin Welsh

After “The Train Speaks” from Eve Ewing’s book, 1919 “They look / for a lash that isn’t there, even them that never felt it.” It was in the way he moved: rigid, waiting, but ready to Leap at a moment’s notice. In a word, Fear. “Even now, I dream of them,” Days spent climbing trees And scratching stories into dirt. Tree sap-palms that molded worlds. “They are safe within but can see without.” Eyes peeled at the windowsill, Neighborhood kids playing at my basketball hoop. We could have been friends. “They feel it before they know the words,” We treaded around it carefully and clumsily, Stomped all over it before we knew what we had, And have been putting it back together slowly every day since. “I can never take you home. You have none.” It isn’t a place, it’s a feeling. Someone can take that feeling from you, But it can be born again.

Anthology 7

IS IT? Mella LaFrance

if this is the apocalypse let them eat cake. if this is the apocalypse then i should really eat that cake. if this is the apocalypse i would have eaten that cake. if this is the apocalypse i should try for just once in my life to survive.

Alicia DeSimone

Quaranzine

OBSERVE AND ABSOLVE Kyle Howey

Observe, the neighbor trees. Reach up and grasp the balcony edge, Peering, or gasping, I wonder   If they see me. Observe, were we better suited For something like this. So many dead, so many at risk, So many worse off families than mine. Observe, cars still passing by, Workers with no choice, unlike me. I wish they could stay home,   But some things have to be. Observe, here I am peering or gasping At the edge of this current home. And I wonder whether I’m the one who’s doing fine. Absolve, this shame because   I cannot do more, While there is always a World more to be done. Absolve, I don’t know when Or whether being quiet helps. To be sad, loud, or upset Is more a confession. Anthology 7

Absolve, maybe the trees know, And already tell me What needs to be done, but I don’t listen well enough. Absolve, I don’t want this guilt Rendering me worthless In sight of these kin, Tall brothers and sisters. Absolve, with withering between Structures like being pressed Into the skin of history. The dent returns to what it was. Absolve, the world is dying, And in dying, then I’m sure they insist I be less sorry with myself. Absolve, for the sake of others, No longer simply windowed   Witness, weary for them, Hanging on for dear life.

Alicia DeSimone

Quaranzine

AN OPEN LETTER, TO THE HEAVENS Cosmo Randazzo

Unfortunately, we both sleep as if the world is ending tomorrow, although the matter of urgency remains subjective; your breathing becomes viscous within minutes, because, if the world were on its last leg, this is the final night of temporary sleep you would get, the last pillowy descent and the last bright awakening. The ultimacy lulls you, a glass of warm milk laced with cyanide. Meanwhile, I stay awake, neck craned forward, daunted and rushed, hip bone pressed to your side as a point of contact, typing away at a memoir that is utterly perishable at the mercy of Armageddon. By dawn: a written account of one human life (mine), and the purest version of you— just sleeping which rivals paper and pen for accuracy, flammability, and delicacy. The world isn’t ending, of course, but we’ll both wake up with the same polar attitudes: you will lazily roll over my back, belly down, and release half your body weight onto my lungs out of golden affection, under which I will squirm like a wounded bird, ignorant to its own broken wing, unacquainted with gentle, writhing with fear that the most terrible thing—the reaping of flight—could happen again, only by your hand. Instead, I’m lifted by a thousand rounded balloons at 7:00 in the morning, all filled by your weightless breaths throughout the night’s slumber. Your well-restedness, as it were, puts padded springs under my lower back, a pillow behind the nape of my neck, and sends me into an earthbound dream before work.

Anthology 7

Maybe the world does end tomorrow, our bodies with it, but it’s certain that no apocalypse could cinch the waist of a well-fed love to any slim and tidy end, beautiful or otherwise. The beholder requires eyes—human eyes. If I ever decided to admit I liked blue, as a color alone (in being overly met with the mood), it would solely be the hue of your irises. In acknowledging that the sky and the sea, perhaps, are the only earthly reservoirs for that particular shade, I’ve made a fool of the catastrophe by which the universe naively promises humanity’s demise. You will always exist somewhere, against chaos itself. Even as you sleep, eyes shut, ivory shoulders sunken and textured with goosebumps, you protect this blue to end all blues. How jealous those bulbous, ashen clouds will be, crowded and gaping over us—how envious the poisoned green seas as they spread our buildings like jam over the earth with tidal forces, drowning everything, becoming darker. All you’ll have to do is wake up tomorrow, and I will run this linguistic thread between your eyes and the blue heavens forevermore. In this way I’m sure the world won’t end. Even then, I remember, Neptune exists, somewhere far enough to feel like home. “Good morning,” you whisper. I’m sure of it.

Quaranzine

WRITING IDEAS Kelly McQuain

Your Mythic Second Home What is your mythic second home? What home do you long to go back to now and then? Do you find a second home at the beach? In the mountains? Somewhere else? Perhaps your second home is a community center or a religious institution. List six images that you think of when you imagine that second home. Write a poem or short essay about that place. Try to employ each of the senses. Creatures That Share Our Homes Do you share your home with an animal? Perhaps write about your home from the point of view of your pet. Has a pest ever invaded your home? How did you get rid of it? Write about the struggle between animal and human.

Anthology 7

WRITING IDEAS Husnaa Hashim

Read #38, from Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier. Brainstorm a list of what the empire has stolen from you, and what the empire owes you, still. Think of a memory or historical event of relevance to your own lineage that does not really require words. Attempt to reach with words what cannot be touched. Describe your lineage to someone who does not know what history is.

Alicia DeSimone

Quaranzine

L E A

LIKE AND ASK WHY EBBS AND

STORIES OF VIOLENCE

Natasha Hajo

STORIES OF VIOLENCE Norman Cain

ESCAPING A LYNCHING Maggie Cusack, my great-aunt on my mother’s side, was either the second or third wife of Robinson, who was born at the turn of the century and whose exploits remain legendary in family lore. Seemingly he was a drinker, dancer, trash talker, flashy dresser and a senseless equalopportunity womanizer. Why senseless? He had an affair with the daughter of a white man, his employer. One day the employer found a note in the wood box—in the kitchen. The note was written by Robinson; it instructed his lover to meet him in a specific location at a certain time. Needless to say, the employer was alarmed. The word went out to the white community. The perpetrator of the taboo—miscegenation— had to be lynched. Robinson was on the run. But he was saved, thanks to the efforts of my maternal and paternal grandfathers, both masons, who themselves risked their lives by rowing him, in the dark of night, across the Pee Dee River into North Carolina where he was safe. Robinson is said to have revisited South Carolina years later—dressed in drag—to attend his wife's and my great-aunt’s funerals.

Anthology 7

SHOOT-OUT AT A LYNCHING Daryl Graham, a reserved, generous man, was a dear friend of my family. He was a stevedore who had worked in California, Brooklyn and Philadelphia. He rarely went back to the place of his birth, South Carolina; however, his legacy remained there. He did not take any disrespectfulness from anyone, especially not racists. My mother told me that when the police would attempt to arrest him for drinking, he would instruct them that he would come to the jail at his convenience. The police would accept his statement because they knew that if they insisted upon arresting him, their lives would be in jeopardy. I was told by Daryl once that the Klan had a young Black kid in the woods and was preparing to lynch him, but Daryl and his companions arrived in time to prevent the murder. They fired at the Klan, who ran. One Klan member was hit. There was no repercussion from the Klan.

And Ask Why

GREAT-UNCLE HERBERT SHOOTS THE SHERIFF My paternal Great-Uncle Herbert was approached by the sheriff of Pamlico, South Carolina, Ray Shoot, one Saturday night at his residence in the country. Herbert was prone to commit domestic violence against his family during his multiple drunken splurges. The sheriff had come to arrest Herbert. Herbert told the sheriff not to come into his house, but the sheriff did not heed Herbert’s warning. Immediately upon arriving into the house, the sheriff was shot by Herbert. The sheriff lived. Herbert spent a year in the state prison in Columbia, South Carolina, before supposedly dying.

Anthology 7

SECOND COUSIN BUSTER FIGHT AND FLIGHT AFTER ALTERCATION WITH A WHITE BOY Uncle Buster, my father’s best friend and first cousin, after choking a white boy, was rushed out of South Carolina. He came to Philadelphia. At the time he was seventeen. He never went south again. There was a boy, Mickey, who was my age that choked a white boy; however, he miraculously escaped violence.

And Ask Why

THE MURDER There was a Black man named Connie who killed a white boy and girl. The couple had been parked in a secluded area one night. They were attacked by Connie. The girl was raped. The couple was murdered. The episode caused racial tension in the area for a while. Virtually all of the young Afro-American males in the community were interviewed. Eventually the culprit was identified. He eventually received the electric chair.

Anthology 7

THE RETURN OF THE ESCAPEE There is the story of a Black man who was smacked by his white boss. The employee cut his boss across the legs. He escaped. He resided in a northern city for a while. The authorities intercepted a letter that he had written to his girlfriend; they were, thereby, able to apprehend him. He was returned to South Carolina where he spent time on the chain gang.

And Ask Why

NIGHT OF THE SNIPER When I became a Juvenile Probation officer, I was assigned to the area of West Philadelphia where I was reared. Juvenile Probation officers were assigned a large caseload; sometimes, we would have approximately 300 clients to write monthly reports on and over 30 intensive intake interviews. Oftentimes, we would attempt to make mass contacts of those under our charge. I would often conduct my mass interviews on the 4th floor of a building in a project complex where I would sometimes find several of my clients shooting heroin. One night when I was on the way to my car after having conducted the evening’s interviews, I spoke to two policemen who were in their van several feet away from my car. Before I could open the door to my car, shots rang out from the top floor of the project building. A police officer was hit. Within minutes, the street was closed and became filled with a stream of snipers, two busloads of officers, several police dogs, helicopters, detectives, the infamous police commissioner at the time, Frank Rizzo. Because the street was blocked for 90 minutes, I was unable to leave the vicinity. The shooters were never found. I suspect that they may have been one or several of my clients, who could have shot me. I had been fair to those in my caseload. Maybe there is honor among the delinquent.

Anthology 7

CAUSE AND EFFECT Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

cause and effect cause and reject cause and collapse cause and debt cause and denial cause and debacle cause and why cause and shame cause and blame cause and the effects will make people change change their hearts change their desires cause a new normal cause and effect cause and be blessed cause and entanglement cause and defame cause and vote cause and hope cause and unemployment cause and economy cause and death is cause and collateral damage. We know who doesn’t care.

And Ask Why

MOVED TO TEARS Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Moved to tears, was my response. “So great to hear your voice.” “You scared us girl.” “I love you.” “Please take care of yourself.” “Oh my God. Thank God you’re home.” “If you need someone to walk with you…I got you.” I called my family and friends after being released from the hospital... “Girl, everybody was praying for you” “I tried to call you and I didn’t know what happened. I was so scared for you.” “I’m thankful that you are 6ft above ground.” Some people cried out loud and praised God on the spot that I was doing better. I was moved to tears, as people expressed their heartfelt feelings about me as a person, their loved one, their friend, their neighbor, their ride or die go to person, God had healed me. There was a praise in the atmosphere, but I was moved to tears.

Anthology 7

WINTER, LOVE HER Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Winter scenes with her snow covered Christmas trees and icicle underpasses, frozen rivers, snow capped mountain leave us awestruck. She reflects beautiful canvases created by the best artist in the world. Though beautiful, the weight of the snow on that Christmas tree can make it topple over. The icicles attached to the underpass can come crashing down to the street or onto your car. Roadways can turn into skating rinks that are not designed for motor vehicle wheels. and snow cap mountains can get shaken up and cause avalanches. Why does winter’s beauty have to cause so many problem? Why can’t she just be where she is and let us be where we are, without the snow being so high that you can’t go out of your front door. We just want to enjoy the scenery but not be a part of it. Love winter where she is.

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

READING THE WORLD AROUND ME

Photo: Devin Welsh Image: Hank Willis Thomas, We Are On Our Way, 1970/2008

READING THE WORLD AROUND ME Devin Welsh

For me, to be educated has nothing to do with my income; to be educated isn’t about my hard or soft skills. To be educated is to look at the world around you and understand your place in it; to look critically at how that differs from the experiences of others in this world with me and ask why; to be educated is to develop a literacy, one concerned with more than simply the facility of reading and writing. This literacy has been about learning the different ways that I’m able to work with other motivated individuals to effect change we see is necessary, to work together to create the just world we want to live in. That is the Work—capital W. That is what I went to school for, and in structuring my education around that principle, even without being fully cognizant of every individual move I was making, I knew what I wanted to move towards. The time spent working in the Drexel Writing Center and at Writers Room have been as much about learning about the world that we live in and what we can do to realize those changes in our communities as it has been about doing the self-work necessary to make that Work a reality for me. It has continued as I’ve continued to learn and grow over the last four years. This kind of work isn’t a one and done deal. It’s something that has to be revisited and reevaluated with every change and development and, contrary to how it sounds, it’s work that cannot be done alone. Almost none of this reflection has been self-generated and has been pushed along and facilitated by my those in my community, in many cases by strong, Black women that I’ve been able to learn from: from Keyssh to Anthology 7

my reading of the other. And how can I not think about the postcolonial boundaries that are invisible to some yet palpable to me as I cross over from Drexel’s campus to Penn’s while reading Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea and wearing a hoodie that leaves Public Safety asking does he belong here? How can I not think of Keyssh’s hand rising out of the crowd to address an audience of community members and academics when I read Virginia Woolf’s lecture to a crowd of young women about the power in being confident in one’s ideas in “How Should One Read a Book?” How can I walk through the National Museum of African American History and Culture in the capital of this nation without thinking about Frederick Douglass’s Narrative or his “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July,” or Carmen Kynard’s Vernacular Insurrections that traces the literacy of Black people and the legacy of resistance that has given me a path to a college degree? Reading these works of literature and essays in my classes, from deep-dives into the work of Shakespeare and Woolf, to surveys of African American and Global Anglophone Literature, I’ve developed the vocabulary and a deeper context to the experiences I’ve had as an undergraduate student outside of the classroom. Collected in this project are those experiences that best tell the story of my development as a person and as a citizen immersed in the world of academia and surrounded by a community who has accepted me.

And Ask Why

LATE NIGHT REFLECTIONS FROM A WEARY MIND Eden Skye Einhorn

There’s nothing Except me At 1 am 2 cans of soda deep into work For the 3 fittings I have this week 5 garments being made at the same time Taffeta, cotton, charmeuse, tulle, silk crepe de chine, satin, organza, muslin swatches and pieces scattered around my room 13 hours I’ve been working nonstop 21 years old and I can’t help but wonder about my future Will it still be like this when I’m 34? Will I be pulling all-nighters before fittings and fashion shows? Will I be pouring my heart and soul into my own designs or will I just be a spare set of hands for someone else? Will I be happy when I’m 55? Will my dreams have come true? Or will it have been all for nothing? Will I be successful? Will I have reached my goals? 89 years from now I’ll be gone. I’ll be deep in the dirt, buried in a grave. Will people remember? Will my name still be relevant? Will my clothes still be worn? My name relevant in our culture? Will people know who I was? I’m dragged out of my thoughts at 144 bpm, courtesy of Nickleback. Right now the future doesn’t matter. All that’s important is the fabric and the thread in front of me. I can design my future however I please.

Anthology 7

WAITING Hunter Robinson

No Yes Maybe One word So simple Three days pass Holding my breath I check my phone again Why haven’t you responded? Did I say something to push you away? My fingers tremble waiting for your reply and yet you don’t seem to care Thirty-four more minutes go by to be exact and yes I’m counting because I want to jump through the screen and know how you feel Finally, my phone buzzes and my eyes widen because maybe I wasn’t ready for the answer after all, but I pick it up anyway, grazing over the words under your name, and then I smile

And Ask Why

IDLY BY Kyle Howey

In my neighborhood of… learning and unlearning, the mind wanders where I cannot. The elder leaning fencework barriers a lot. Earth is underfed. The ghosts of groceries cling to steel diamond mesh, eventually freed, embarking on the wind. Over Sundays, gray shapes make for gray malaise. Autumn for the sidewalk strays. I am only one of them. Dog walkers domesticate by going out at night. One of them is a parent. The belfry sounds. Morning bellows. Commuters idle by, persisting. Porch smokers take in the early light. Do they know they are content?

Anthology 7

EACH PORT Angel Hogan

Let’s begin again, at the end. From the window, watching you twirl into existence. The pup chasing the bees chasing the shadows, trees. Urgent blooming spun back like glass crunch sealed, ice packed the wind curling into the corners. Pipes grind to a halt dry leaves tumbling all at once the dark day, the blue morning dusk comes quickly, Ginkgo now bare. A stunned rose bloomed right here in late October, we are saying goodbye. Now the luxuriant rolling valley, willow bowing into the creek the long stretch of promise algae on the pond, milkweed wishes, sticky pickers and blazing the sun. 59

And Ask Why

Anthology 7

PUSH Anjelikal Rogers

THINGS WRITTEN DOWN TO SUE WILLIE SELTZER’S QUILT Angel Hogan

It flows through. Red, blue, a visible prayer a living wish. Music you can touch with fingers. A song to wrap around you. It flows. A flag to God, unstoppable. Nothing begins or ends. A map, a guide for all directions. It says: You are. You are here.

And Ask Why

C# LULLABY Cosmo Randazzo

When the day comes, I Will have anticipated Which part of this body Will ache the most; one last human limb, Wet skin and golden blood, Will cry and Wish to be Washed anew With peroxide, and torn, sinew and White bone, from the Waterlogged chest of a Wayward cyborg— Who has outlived every Woman and Worm from Which his buzzing veins and World of logic came to be; a Wraith under plates and a Womb that just, forgot; Who has kept a pocket between Worn boards, hot Wires, and a stillWarm screen, fuzzy and Withering, Where he keeps a note, still Wet, still slick, from the only Woman Who saw a child, and Anthology 7

Who answered While she could. Wizened to the elbow, he Writes a code on the Wrist, sends the Whole limb to God, and Waits, and Waits, and Waits. Words on the screen: “What have I won, mom?” “When will I win?” Weeks pass, Worlds awry. Wild and tinny, all but Whole, he continued: a Wonder of the modern age, Whose tower cries to the heavens, Wholly. He lifts his iron chin, and Weeps for someone long gone: With ones, zero, one, one, one, “When will you be home?” With zero, zero, zero, one.

And Ask Why

Cosmos Randazzo

GREENER PINES, CONSTELLATION Cosmo Randazzo

I will not write a depression poem, Nor carve a hospital bed from Greener pines, whose young roots, Predate the sickness; Whose height speaks to The sun herself and protects the Little birds from gravity. I will not write a depression poem, Nor file down a constellation Such that it fits the scope Of some other, or The index of another. I am someone’s child, and Someone is my brother. I will not write a depression poem, I will not fix myself to suffer.

And Ask Why

Aaliyah Sesay

EASTON

EASTON Aaliyah Sesay

When we moved to Easton, my brother Abdul was excited to start the seventh grade at a new school. This was a chance for him to reinvent himself, to become the cool guy and have the cool friends. The brother I lived to impress and defend was scared of the kids at this new school not liking him. And it’s hard to imagine that he was so eager to leave his friends. They were always at the house or him at theirs. He explained his need to be liked by the kids at a new school where he would then be seen as the new kid. All that anxious energy amplified when he realized he was new in other senses of the word. He was among the few Black kids in the school, and oftentimes found himself the only one in a classroom. The middle and high school he attended was offensively white. With white kids who would shout, “White Power” on the bus ride home. White kids who scratched confederate flags on lunch room tables. White kids who felt emboldened to say “nigger” to his face, a word they learned on TV, their first introduction to Black people before he sat in their class. It was a vast difference from the school he had previously attended, where all his friends were of color except the one white kid who was from the Ukraine. He had been transplanted into a place where the illusion of racial harmony had been dashed. But he took it all on the chin. When confronted with those racial moments, Abdul engaged in conversations. He spoke to those kids with disturbing calm; like many of us who often find ourselves in spaces where we are outnumbered, he would not let them see his rage, his hurt, his frustration, his disgust. They would not win. Anthology 7

So when they make jokes, we laugh to drown out their taunts, to obfuscate frustrated tears with those of laughter. Laughter masks a crumbling much easier than a smile. When they said “nigga” or “nigger,” Abdul stayed in the moment, asking why they felt it was okay to use it. But above all the ways in which he dealt with his peers, he silently and unwittingly promised himself he would never give them a reason to use it on him. Abdul recounted an interaction with a white kid on the bus: the kid asked him, “How did your parents afford to buy the house you live in? Selling drugs?” An odd question, Abdul responded, “No. Not all Black people mess with crack.” He remembers many moments like this, explaining and deconstructing their misconceptions of Black people. That responsibility they threw on him to be the voice, translator, commentator on all things Black he says he gratefully took because he knew someone had to do it. Which is understandable, but he’s not friends with these kids today. He wasn’t really friends with them at the time either. He had found the group of Black kids that moved into the development and they became his circle. And throughout all these years, Abdul managed to maintain contact with his buddies back in Ewing. Like ebbs and flows, these boys, now men, have remained friends. Our school district, Wilson Area, is fairly small. There are three regional elementary schools that students attend based on where they live, Williams Township, Wilson, and Avona. Once they start middle school, all those students are shoved into the 69

And Ask Why

middle and high school. Because it is such a densely populated location, students living in the Wilson area are split into Wilson and Avona. This area of town is typically denoted as the more urban. When I started middle school, I was often asked where in Wilson I lived and if I went to Wilson or Avona, because other students hadn’t seen me before and I was Black. Blacks apparently, are only native to urban areas. Just a microcosm of racial profiling I would experience at a young age. Williams Township, on the other hand, was much more rural. Students from those areas were either well-off with big houses and lots of land or of lower-income but still had lots of land. The students and families here tended to be white, except for us and a handful of other Black and Asian families. Our family lived in one of the two developments in Williams Township, which mirrored the suburbs with a more rural spin on it. This made riding the bus hell. Sometimes students would forget that Black kids sat on the same bus as them, in the seat in front of them. I remember kids making jokes about where I should sit on the bus, which made me wonder too. The front because so many had fought for my right to do that or the back because that was the new front, where all the cool kids sat? Our access to ‘coolness’ and popularity was denied because we were Black. Automatically relegated to the front or back or wherever they say because who wants to be friends with the Black kid. Sometimes, kids would make it a game to stick as many pencils in my hair as they could and see how long it took me to notice. Extra points if it managed to stay throughout all the bumpy roads.

Anthology 7

I’ve fought against anger because I know how it makes me look: Angry Black Girl, burnt and bitter. How I wish I could be sweet and light and inoffensive to the senses, but I’m not. I’ve lived with a lot of pent up rage. Rage toward the white kids at school. Who made me change the way I talk to hide, to survive. Who stuck pencils in my hair. Who said my hair reminded them of a dog named “Frou Frou” but when it was straightened I looked like “them,” like a person. Who told me I was a different kind of Black. It took me over ten years for me to understand how my teachers were apathetic toward me, no matter how much I tried to make myself stand out. I would take refuge in my room because I wasn’t sure if the other kids liked me, not sure why I couldn’t just fit in. So many prayers spent on making a friend, just one to make me feel less lonely. Daily prayers, nightly prayers. Prayers so silent they don’t even reach the mind, birthed in our hearts and dead in our tears.

And Ask Why

B u t W e K e e p G oing

Prompt 1: What are you hopeful for? Who or what has helped you cope in this last year? Prompt 2: What have you learned about yourself in the past year? How have you grown as a person from freshman year to senior year? Prompt 3: What is something about your senior year that you want others to know?

Photographers: Dejah McIntosh, Devin Welsh, and Danielle Morris

R obe s on ’ 2 1 V oic e s a nd P or t r a i t s In these pages, members of Paul Robeson High School’s Class of 2021 tell us who has helped them through this year, what they hope the future holds, and what they’ve learned living through the pandemic. The idea for this work came out of a TRIPOD session when Amina, Lyric, and Tariq shared with the group what it was like to be a senior during this COVID year. These graduates have endured—without being lifted by moments with friends in the hall or after school, without being able to look toward milestones like prom or senior trip. And yet, after all that’s been taken from them, they have come through the other side triumphant. It felt unreal to share a physical, if distant, space with these people I had worked with online for months, and even more so to see them smile and hear them laugh in spite of everything. What keeps coming back to me are the moments of recognition we had after only seeing each other’s faces on Zoom. During those three days in February, photographer Danielle Morris helped me create a studio atmosphere in Room 100 so every student who walked in had their moment in the spotlight and felt a little bit of the celebration they so deserve. Dejah McIntosh ’19 came back to the school to assist with the shoot. She was brilliant behind the camera and in bringing the seniors’ personalities forward, making them feel fly as can be. Danielle and Dejah, the Robeson students, staff, and faculty, Lori Waselchuk from Philadelphia Photo Arts Center, ArtistYear and AmeriCorps, and the whole Writers Room team made this project a possibility. I am immensely grateful to each of them. —Devin Welsh 75

Robeson Portraits

M a he r in Ne h a I am hoping to start off my freshman year of college with a fresh and motivated spirit. I hope that the things that I have learned in the past 4 years would be a huge advantage towards my future journey that I am going to start soon. My Senior year of high has been pretty rough so far. Before starting my senior year I have lost grandma which was a huge loss for me and my family. On top of that covid was there and the whole college application process has been pretty hard for all of us. One thing that kept me going is I would say myself. If I wasn’t willing to push myself through all the circumstances and challenges I don’t think it would have been possible for me to cope up with this whole situation. Besides that of course my family, friends, our teachers, principal have been pretty helpful and motivating. I will always be thankful to them for everything they have done for me.

Anthology 7

My senior year hasn’t been like the story I heard from other high school alumni. I always dreamt of going on to senior trip with all my friends, going to prom, and just having a normal, fun, and a bit stressful senior year. Yes, the stress part was still there but the fun and a normal senior year part have been completely missing from my senior year. I have not expected our senior year to be like this but yeah as my mom always says it is what it is but just try to make the best out of it. I will just say one thing not everything will go according to your plans. Life is a mixture of both bitter and sweet. So it is normal for our story to be also a mixture of bitter and sweetness. I will just say no matter what you face in your life just don’t let it affect and take over your life in such a way that you miss out on the other good things that are happening in your life. Always remember it is okay to take some time off for yourself and fall back but make sure to get back much stronger than you were. Because this year has taught me one important thing that we all are much stronger than we think we are.

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

Devin Welsh

Robeson Portraits

K h a l aya Mur r ay

Anthology 7

Despite this year not going as expected, I still found a way to make the most of it and find as much joy and knowledge as possible from learning at home. Even though things may be hard at times, one thing this pandemic has taught me is to never take things for granted and enjoy every day you have with others to your fullest extent, as it can be taken away in a flash.

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

Robeson Portraits

Ta r iq R hode s

Anthology 7

I learned that you can’t give up on what you’ve worked hard for. No matter how hard things get or how challenging it is you always have to push through and never let your head fall. Keep grinding and work hard for who you grinding for. I want people to know that my senior year was difficult and not normal but I still finished and that I still pushed through without giving up. Straight A’s over virtual school.

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

Robeson Portraits

M a l ik a h S t e p he ns

Anthology 7

Oddly enough my friends have helped me cope with the challenges of this year a lot. Just knowing that I’m not feeling this feeling by myself and knowing that they’re there for me to talk to is very comforting. I am hopeful that the class of 2021 can look back and just remember to appreciate the good times that we all had together. I am also hopeful for the future and what that may bring for not only me but everyone. I learned that I am really not good with change, but I’ve also known that I’m really adaptable and once I really start to get into a pattern I do great. I have grown in ways where I am more aware of what’s going on around me, about the struggles that’s going on in Philly and all around the world. I’ve learned to put myself in other people‘s positions and by doing that it’s gained me more perspective on life. I want others to know that it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy knowing that we were missing out on so much like a senior trip, prom, and just being in the same building that we were just ninth graders in! I also want people to know that this experience has made me stronger and more prepared for the unknown.

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

Robeson Portraits

S a ni a h A a r on

Anthology 7

I am hopeful for the future. My grandma (in spirit) and her legacy have helped me to cope this year. What I’ve learned about myself in this past year is that I can overcome any and everything. How I’ve grown as a person from freshman year to senior year is through my mindset. Something I want people to know is that a person can change their future by merely changing their attitude.

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

Robeson Portraits

Jalen Pa de n

Anthology 7

I’m hopeful for 2021 to be a better year. I had a lot of time to spend with my family. Hopefully this year we can do more things together. I learned that I’m different than most people, I don’t care about fitting in, I don’t need to appeal to others. I don’t care about what people think I’m focusing on myself. I’m a different person now, I’m more calm and patient. My mind is clear, I don’t like dealing with negative energy and I don’t have the time for it.

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

Robeson Portraits

Ju s t in M y r ic k

Anthology 7

100

I am hopeful for my family and friends. Not a lot of people have family or friends that support them the way mine do and I’m just thankful to have them in my corner to get through all the difficult times.

101

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

102

103

Robeson Portraits

Mu aw i ya h Gr av e s

Anthology 7

104

My mom has really helped me cope with everything this past year. With the pandemic going on, students not being able to go back to school, not being able to play basketball, it was a lot. She helped me survive. This past year I learned that I am stronger than I think, that I should listen more than talk, and most importantly I try to find the positive in any situation. I have grown a lot as a person from my freshman year to senior year: I am more consistent with things, I am more responsible as a person and I am more invested in my future than I was in 9th grade. My senior year was taking place on my computer in my home. It wasn’t fun or easy but I had to finish strong. I can’t really say much else my senior year wasn’t what I’d hoped it’d be.

105

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

106

107

Robeson Portraits

K a mr y C h a mbe r s

Anthology 7

108

My weaknesses helped me get where I am today. I have grown a lot. I learned to let things flow and don’t over think the process. The struggle is real lol, I just wanted my senior year to be the best year.

109

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

110

111

Robeson Portraits

Br i t t on De nnis

Anthology 7

112

In the past year the main thing I learned about myself is that I can do anything I put my mind to as long as I work for it. Nothing comes easy in life, whenever it seems to get hard always remind yourself who you are doing it for. Now that I am a senior I matured a whole lot more and I took things more serious and had gotten a good outcome.

113

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

114

115

Robeson Portraits

T yj a h S t r om a n

Anthology 7

116

What I have learned about myself this past year is that I’m really a strong young lady and can’t nothing break me down because I’m going to keep on going even when I don’t have any help. I struggled through basically 10-12th grade but I know I always had A’s n B’s; nothing never stop me from getting my education. Yes, I've grown as a person from 9th to 12th. 9th grade was a warmup for me just to get me ready for the upper classes.

117

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

118

119

Robeson Portraits

A min a Mo sl e y

Anthology 7

120

I am hopeful that despite the pandemic the class of 2021 will be able to be successful and accomplish all our dreams. Something I’ve learned about myself this year is I should take more risk. Life is short and nothing last forever and I should do things that make me happy. Freshman year I was less outspoken and now I’ve gained the confidence to speak up. I want people to know that senior year is rough and it’s a challenge to not know what our future exactly looks like. But seniors are working hard to graduate.

121

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

122

123

Robeson Portraits

Sh a r e e A l s t on

Anthology 7

124

I hope that all good comes out of everything I have been through since the virus first hit. What helped me cope was my boyfriend Jacob Deshazo, he kept me sane and calm. Also music– listening and singing. In the past year I have learned that I tend to be my own enemy. I tend to stand in my own way and I realize that I accept that and I’m changing that day by day. Starting freshman year I was a broken little girl that didn’t know what was to come. I needed a lot of work and back then I was not aware of that so I was always depressed and putting myself in situations that weren’t good for me. Today, I’m not saying I’m perfect but I’m in a space where I feel good. I’m aware, I’m confident, I’m motivated and ready to take on the world. Although there still are many bad days, I now know how to pick myself back up and keep going. I want others to stop thinking we had it easy because we were home on the computer. This is not how our senior year was supposed to go at all. No senior trip, no prom, and we might not even have a normal graduation. Those are once in a lifetime things that we will never get to experience. Some of us was forced to go out and get jobs all the while trying to maintain “perfect” grades in school. We are mentally and physically drained everyday but we keep going. Some of us lost loved ones to COVID or even gun violence. We went through so much so we earned that diploma.

125

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

126

127

Robeson Portraits

T y me r e P r ide

Anthology 7

128

This year has made me find myself and lose myself at the same time. But the main goal was to keep my chin up and keep smiling. Never let anyone nor anything dull your shine. Stay positive and know that better days are ahead.

129

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

130

131

Robeson Portraits

Z ion De l e on

Anthology 7

132

I’ve learned that I truly work best alone all the time but I’m good at working with others when I really try to. I’ve grown as a person but there are places where I really do want to improve in such as my happiness and such but I really do love my improvement from freshman year to senior year.

133

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

134

135

Robeson Portraits

N a se e m S ol omon - B u t l e r

Anthology 7

136

I’m hopeful for me graduating high school and me keeping my mind on what keeps me going. I’ve learned that I am a humble person and that helped me mature from my freshman year. My senior year was weird but I maintain to enjoy my last year at Paul Robeson high school.

137

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

138

139

Robeson Portraits

K a i ya Isl a nd

Anthology 7

140

I learned that distancing myself from others help me focus and improve more. I have grown so much as a person. I learned that friends are a plus to your life. School would be so much easier if you paid attention. I definitely don’t do the same things anymore and I’m so much more aware of everything. I have no problem speaking my mind. I’ve been working so hard to stay focused and to make honor roll every single marking period. I feel like staying at home and doing work made a big impact on me and helps me succeed more.

141

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

142

143

Robeson Portraits

Ol i v i a G a r ne r

Anthology 7

144

I’ve learned I’m the only one standing in my way of greatness, and can accomplish more once I stop overthinking. I have grown as a person from freshman year to senior year by having more fun and being more active in school.

145

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

146

147

Robeson Portraits

Z a ir r a Gr is se t t e

Anthology 7

148

My teachers and my friends and with my school work and trying to graduate. Yes I’ve learned that I can stay to myself. It’s hard being a senior.

149

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

150

151

Robeson Portraits

C e a ine h Wa inpa

With all that’s going on in the world, the word hope means a lot to me. So some things that I’m hopeful for are to 1. stay safe, my family and I to keep safe and healthy through this coronavirus period. 2. I’m also hopeful for practicing self- forgiveness, especially in a year like this, trying to survive through a pandemic and navigating through all its perks, etc.

Anthology 7

152

Some things that I have learned about myself in the past year is that I’ve learned that finding my church home and getting involved has made a very huge impact on my life, also I’ve learned that eye contact and an amazing smile, make up another person day, lastly during this pandemic and staying inside I’ve learned that opening up is so much harder than it ever appears to be, but 9/10 it is always worthy. There are lots of this I want to share with others so that they can be aware but for now, I will advise my fellow teens. My advice? WOOW feels old now. But I’m eighteen. I’m about to leave high school. In my junior year of high school, I started college right away, taking classes here and there. I’m going to continue college after high school. But my dear advice to my fellow teens: HAVE FUN; don’t know how else to put it. I feel like this is something that I didn’t take seriously as time went by. If I could get a do-over, I probably would have had more fun with my friends. So that’s my advice. Also don’t stay in your room every weekend watching Netflix or playing video games. Do something with friends, siblings, cousins, or whoever else would be down for a good time. Have fun. Make memories. When you’re older, you want to have fun stories under your belt to be able to share with future coworkers, friends, or anyone that you’re just trying to bond with and build a relationship. Lastly, GRADES AREN’T EVERYTHING. Especially being in high school, I tried my very best to be a straight-A student with an above 4.0 GPA— and now as time passes on, I am telling you that grades aren’t everything. You can make that grade and all but don’t let it be your all-time focus.

153

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

154

155

Robeson Portraits

L e ni a h Hod ge s

Anthology 7

156

“Life is short, the world is wide — I wanna make some memories.” — Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again

157

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

158

159

Robeson Portraits

T y r e ne e B a c on

Anthology 7

160

I’m hopeful that by the end of the school year I will be a full blown business woman, taking classes to become certified. Someone who help me cope throughout this school year was my big sister. One thing I learned about myself is that if I need to get something done it will get done. I don’t depend on no one; I’ve become more independent. I struggled this whole senior year but I never broke cause I know god has a bigger plan for me. He wouldn’t have put me through so much if he knew I couldn’t handle it.

161

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

162

163

Robeson Portraits

J a ne e r a L ong

Anthology 7

164

I am hopeful for all the blessings god brought me in 2020. Last year was a blessing in disguise. I’m hopeful for all the genuine family and friends that’s in my life. They motivate me to go harder and want more for myself. What I have learned about myself in the past year is everything that were brought to tear me down it only built me up to become a stronger and better person. Stay focused and prayed up. God will handle the rest!

165

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

166

167

Robeson Portraits

Mu j a he e d Muh a mm a d

Anthology 7

168

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past one but the main thing I learned is that nobody knows how hard something gets. If I really want it, imma get it. From freshman year to senior year I feel as though I became more understanding and I became a lil more mature.

169

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

170

171

Robeson Portraits

K r is t in H ay de

Anthology 7

172

As a freshman I wasn’t so much thinking about school I was thinking about having fun and doing everything I wanted to do. I should have been focusing on school and worrying about grades. While I am a senior now I’ve been worrying about grades, college, and etc. because it’s important for me to know what I need to do for the future. It changed me mentally.

173

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

174

175

Robeson Portraits

Ism a il C ol e s

Anthology 7

176

I am hopeful for all of my teachers that helped me get to where I am right now and getting a better understanding helped my cope right this year. What I learned about myself in this past year is that I was too shy to ask for help freshman year when I needed help. And I wasn’t doing that good in the first quarter because of that and now that I ask for help when I need it I have a better understanding with the work my teachers give me and I have good grades. Now I feel like I grown as a person because I can do my work and get it done on time and I am doing better in my senior year. What I want others to know about my senior year is that I work hard and I get all my work done and if I need help I ask for it. And that I have got better at understanding and that means a lot to me because my first year I was stuck and I didn’t know what to do.

177

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

178

179

Robeson Portraits

E x z i ya Dig g s

Anthology 7

180

Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it. So follow your dreams and don’t give up no matter what.

181

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

182

183

Robeson Portraits

Dakeri L a nie r F o x w or t h

Anthology 7

184

I am hopeful for eventually being settled down where I want to be in life. I haven’t had to do much coping.

185

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

186

187

Robeson Portraits

Ly r ic W ise

Anthology 7

188

I am hopeful for all of the accomplishments I will manifest. The support from the staff at Robe has kept me going. I am hopeful for all of the good things to come from all of the hard work. I have been coping by keeping positive thoughts in my brain. I’ve learned that I was built for tough circumstances and that your environment is not what produces you, you produce in your environment. Understanding this has allowed me to visualize all of the good things I can manifest for myself. I have learned that being proactive at this time has meant having perseverance. Looking back on my senior year as a butterfly embracing my caterpillar and her cocoon. I remind myself we were never meant to stay the same and to embrace this moment of change because just when I thought it was over ... It had only just begun. There will be gold at the end of the rainbow. But it has to rain first.

189

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

190

191

Robeson Portraits

S a br i y ya h J a c k s on - Gr e e n

Anthology 7

192

Something about my senior year I want others to know: don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.

193

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

194

195

Robeson Portraits

Jarmal a r t hur

Anthology 7

196

Something that helped me cope was knowing that my whole senior year was cut short. But then again, I am beyond thankful to be a part of a school that gave me a full experience. And I wasn’t left empty handed. This staff taught me everything I needed to know. Thank you for everything. Forever. I learned to do you and be you until it’s your time to lay it all down. Once you’re gone everyone is going to regret, for real, taking you too kindly. So I learned to not let it get to that. Ever. It was rough but we got through it. I’m just happy to see all of my friends that turned into family have such character development.

197

Robeson Portraits

Anthology 7

198

199

Robeson Portraits

MIXED & MATCHED

Anjelikal Rogers

OLD SOUL Devin Welsh

Jackhammers tap dancing on concrete sidewalks and buzz saws Squealing out high notes would be lovely– If it weren’t 6:30 in the morning. The steady percussion of a hammer cracking down on nail heads Makes me chew on my nail beds, Because I’d really rather just be asleep. I looked out my window to see the characters keeping me up As I thought about plotting my revenge. But then, what I saw Was the wrinkled, elderly face of the home they were defacing. It smiled a wise smile at me through the window. It said to me, “They can change my face, they can take my stone, But they ain’t got nothin’ on this old soul.”

203

Mixed & Matched

HEREDITARY Devin Welsh

“Remember that you, too, have a body. Are a body.” I’m no doctor, but I imagine that 22 is too young for knee pain. At age 12 I was told it was hereditary. What is this great weight that we Davises carry– not upon our shoulders but at our center? What is it that we run from until our patellar tendons become belt leather? Or are we just in a rush to return to the earth, our knees begging us to slow, and plant a root someplace.

Anthology 7

204

DASHERS Melody Wright

Black dashers with sounds of crowns on concrete Are carving crafts. I see them slip the shapes complete In their back-pockets as a deed that’s done, And start their sniggering swinging, one by one. Black legs leap lines here where the lanky Reaper feeds, And there, his new guest, trembling, moaning bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see drip from his eye, Fluttering in flight, close to the wheels, still whipping by.

205

Mixed & Matched

THE HAIKU SHUFFLE Nick Vonk, Brenda Bailey, and Aly Meloche

Nick:

materialize vision will yield to practice step back and it’s done

Brenda:

falling off each day she returned to ride again she did not fall today

Aly:

hold up your structure staying up is simpler than getting back up is

Anthology 7

208

MIXED AND MATCHED Nick Vonk, Brenda Bailey, and Aly Meloche

falling off each day staying up is simpler than step back and it’s done

hold up your structure vision will yield to practice she did not fall today

materialize she returned to ride again getting back up is…

209

Mixed & Matched

THE WEDDING SONG Chanda Rice

Why does the Wedding Song turn into The Funeral Procession Song? Dum, dum, dee dum….. Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum!

Anthology 7

210

63RD STREET, NEAR LANSDOWNE AVE Andrea Walls

Imagine, how much I used to love teddy bears, how furry things, like trees were for hugging but this teddy bear is as dingy as tomorrow His mother’s tomorrow an endless banter with grief dolls strung up on trees A love offering and a refusal to forget, still we keep the venders of furry animals up to their eyes in dollar bills dead things grow up and down these philly trees furry bears made by other forgotten children in factories that also kill (daylight) is the only thing keeps the trees alive wearing our violence like furry fungi strapped to a sycamore’s chest

Response to Melody Wright’s prompt about things we walk by every day. 211

Mixed & Matched

Bobby Decker

SEX (AND YOU) Aaron Jeong

I knew it was trouble at the start. or should I say you were trouble? When you looked at me, it was not a gaze that made me infinite, it was a prison. You saw me as an oasis in your desert of apathy; I was pleasure and lust, your middleman to dopamine and endorphins, your teacher to what orgasm really means. I was sweaty and messy; I was t-shirts as rags when the tissues ran out. I was a thrill ride and mood setter. But I am so much more. I am love. I am your creation myths. I am fully booked rooms and nights alone. I am worshipped and hated, but you, you could barely even perceive me.

213

Mixed & Matched

Briyanna Hymms

ONCE, LONG, LONG AGO Kelly Bergh

For a surreal interlude, Everyone seemed to understand what was about to happen The man in front of me had a salt-and-pepper beard and a baseball cap, college-age, cheeks spotted with acne— divinely empowered to deliver An eternal, cosmic struggle between good and evil Rather than defy him, Nearly everybody Looked at him uncertainly He flashed an “O.K.” hand sign, expressed jubilant surprise that they were still in charge, The architects of this apocalypse Renouncing an entire world view “It’s not a conspiracy when it’s documented and recorded.”

All language in this poem is taken from “The Storm “by Luke Mogelson, published in The New Yorker, January 25, 2021.

215

Mixed & Matched

Janae

SOUND PETS Bobby Decker

God still put talk in my sleep I know John B wouldn’t believe me I’m waiting for a while the day I away Caroline, today ‘let’s don’t go— not here’ just wasn’t an answer there’s times these sounds that pet no nice head only shoulder

Based on titles from the album Pet Sounds.

217

Mixed & Matched

THE BUILDING BEING BUILT Bobby Decker

one individual stands on a sidewalk. on the other side of the sidewalk is a building being built. y’know, if I was really tall I could pick th-RRRRR like it was nothin’. what did you say? those cranes— I could use it as a backscratcher. oh, yeah, I guess so. clouds pass over the sun following and its reflection off the newly placed glass blasting into eyes. DROFFFSPSSSH goddamnit, benny! fuckin’-RRRRR I can’t hear you. I said, ‘fuckin’ benny,’ Anthology 7

218

fuckin’ you too— people hurry by the individual standing watching what most never have the time to do. red lights for others with green yello-RRRRR-nother’s turn. the building keeps being built.

219

Mixed & Matched

Dominique Shatkin

UNION TRANSFER Cosmo Randazzo

Somewhere, in Philadelphia, lives an unread emotion. As a writer, you either find it, or imagine it so hard that you nearly burst a blood vessel, in which case a narrative is born. It’s a birth unsightly; it is marker on mahogany, and the sweat that passes a singer’s ear as they recite lyrics, stacked neatly on tempos we count by way of our own heart beats, but never out loud. In this case, what are we enumerating, when we arrive? Does time stutter in the wake of our own personal interval? When they first amalgamated the theory to suffering, to exclusion, to complete futility, they avoided the way a human body can endure electric pains beyond the stacked sense of an abacus spine, beyond a threat to one-hundred and seventy-three other glass bones, and beyond the plain tally of a woven scar. Emotion, non-quantum and everywhere at once, is the first thing to leave us as we retire from non-existence, spitting and crying for life, and the last thing to leave, too, when from the greatest womb we ultimately retire. Zero, and infinity. The marker runs out, someday, never. Who’s counting? God—whatever this is to you—is a writer, whose biography for us fluctuates between an ode and an obituary, without changing tone, without skipping a beat. Mathematicians, I am afraid, have no place in the Holy Land, much less under our ribs, or between beams of stage lighting. Here, we are all the unread emotions of a universe with no music, no bathroom stall.

221

Mixed & Matched

YEAR OF THE OX Cosmo Randazzo

One year ago, I wrote, “One year ago, I was so far deep into depression that I couldn’t see my own feet, two yards below my eyes and wandering. Now, I am whole. Confident, laughing, waiting for an epidemic.” A year before that, “It’s a containment I can’t quite touch and a quarantine in the making, but I should sleep while I can still breathe.” A year before that, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” The anniversary of me and mine, Satirical in its tequila and leap-year roots, Romantical beyond that, Respect at its heavenly core.

Anthology 7

222

Before that: The virulent date of a shelter-in-place, A displacement of joy that had only Just reached my knees, Goosebumps on hold; Paused escape from depressive episodes, once Unkindly rewound and replayed For TV dinner dinner-times, Bookless sons and sick checkers. Before that: Year of the Year of the Ox, The edge of a billowing spring, All back muscles tense and torn From the Rat’s blistering grip. Before that: Looking at the centered sun, To the tune of Strawberry Fields, From the surface of a planet whose Last revolution was bereaved of a Grandfather, his music, his submarine; We are captainless and healing. Before that: January first, then second, Then something.

223

Mixed & Matched

ANNIVERSARY George Jenkins

Celebrate?? Celebrate everything!!! If we have learned anything. It is the importance of Life otherwise known as time ticking from day to night For if you are thinking of Time You are in some way living. For if time is thinking of you Your life is no longer ticking. So celebrate life as your big hand and little hand continue to move so celebrate life as your digital numbers continue to change so smooth celebrate every up celebrate every down no matter what type of clock these times do come around

Anthology 7

224

covid-19 killed a lot of clocks in 2020 so let’s remember 2018 a time it was really sunny so celebrate the good celebrate the sad and let’s remember the still clocks for time they no longer have.

225

Mixed & Matched

TO BE SAVED Dejah McIntosh

save me save me from this sad displeasing scenario that women were made to listen to demands from men. save me from doing what doesn’t activate me. but gives these dudes the waterworks just save me. the person not the body that reacts to every touch. I mean touches that make me feel like my skin is burning. save me save me from losing hope that my burning flesh can be healed save me from the take off your clothes for me, Do it cause I know you want it. But do you know? save me from turning to ash could you save me save me from this reality of never being the one getting what I want instead of giving what they want save me from the I want you and the I love you just save me from the fake I do and I wanna wife you. I wouldn’t fake it just to get one thing from you. I guess I have to save myself and do more than say I don’t want to

Anthology 7

226

HOPELESS PHILLY BOY Dejah McIntosh

I wish you knew. Knew that you could survive without the feeling to run and hide. Philly boy. Stuck with your footprints imprinted in the concrete. I didn’t think when you marked your name on that concrete as a kid you made a deal with the streets. I hope you know I’m here. Here to sprinkle my love and protection. Wishfully thinking that it’s enough to shield you. Shield you from the fate you sadly have already accepted, that those concrete streets have your name written on. Destined to have a bullet in that chest I want to save. Oh Philly boy, I miss those days. Days where I did see hope in your eyes the younger us that still believed we could fly. I see those days have passed you by. Oh Philly boy. You’re praying for the day that gun hits your flesh so you can finally rest. Philly boy just know, know that I love you.

227

Mixed & Matched

Mallika Kodavatiganti

DON LOUIS: DADDY ISSUES Dominique Shatkin

IT IS MY FAULT THAT I WAS A SCIENCE EXPERIMENT AND THAT A CHILD CREATED IN MY BODY A RESULT OF NATURE, WAS DUE TO MY NATURE AS A PROMISCUOUS WOMAN I AM SORRY THAT I CANNOT MEET YOUR STANDARDS OF A WOMAN BORN IN THE NEIGHTEENFUCKING2Os OF A WOMAN LIKE YOUR MOTHER WHO MADE YOU STAY IN THE BACKSEAT OF THE CAR WHILE SHE WENT TO PICK UP GROCERIES IN NEIGHBORHOODS THAT SHE DID NOT DEEM FIT FOR YOUR EYES

Anthology 7

230

WHO ARE YOU TO DETERMINE WHAT IS RIGHT OR WRONG FOR MY CONSUMPTION? IT’S YOUR SIDE OF THE FAMILY, ISN’T IT? WHO USED REHAB TO AVOID THE TEMPTATION OF GLUTTONY WHOSE WEALTH ALLOWED US TO SKI THE CLEANEST CUT MOUNTAINS WITH ROLLED UP HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS

I WILL CARRY ON MY MAIDEN NAME AS I KNOW THAT I CANNOT VOW TO MY LOVER TIL DEATH DO US PART WHEN MY MOTHER IS YOUR FIFTH WIFE AND FIDELITY DOES NOT RUN IN OUR BLOOD

231

Mixed & Matched

LARRY TAYLOR ALWAYS BOOKS THE AISLE SEAT Dominique Shatkin

I LIKE MY PUBES GROWN LONG I LIKE TO FEEL PASSION LIKE LARRY TAYLOR CANNED HEAT I MET HIM ON A PLANE BACK FROM AUSTRALIA THE SAME MONTH I BOUGHT NAKED PICTURES OF MY EX-GIRLFRIENDS: ROMANCE IN THE 7OS BY MARK HELFRICH BOTH MADE ME WANT TO FEEL LOVE LIKE ECSTASY AND DISCO RUSHING THROUGH MY VEINS I TOLD YOU ABOUT BOTH SO YOU ADDED GOING UP THE COUNTRY TO THE PLAYLIST YOU MADE FOR ME AND TOLD ME THAT THE HAIR PEEKING OUT OF MY ZEBRA PRINT PANTIES MADE ME MORE OF A WOMAN

Anthology 7

232

I ALWAYS MEET YOU “WHERE THE WATER TASTES LIKE WINE SO WE CAN JUMP IN THE WATER STAY DRUNK ALL THE TIME” MY PUBES ARE STILL GROWN LONG AND I STILL TALK TO LARRY ON THE INSTAGRAM ACCOUNT HE MADE TO TRY TO GET MY MUM TO COME TO HIS SHOW @OLAYNUT MAN, I KNOW YOU SURE CAN’T STAY BUT I STILL FIND MYSELF WANDERING TO THE LAKE IN THE MIDWEST WHERE WE FOUGHT AND WE LOVED TRYING TO FIND THE IN BETWEEN OF ECSTASY AND DISCO DISCO ISN’T DEAD, I AM NOT DEAD

233

Mixed & Matched

SEA OF PIXELS Anjelikal Rogers

As my eyes begin to cross I put on green tinted glasses, decrease my screen’s brightness, and activate dark mode. I’ve forgotten what I’m doing hypnotized by the black bezels sandwiched in between two monitors my mind begins to wonder How long have I been awake for? How much have I gotten done? How long have I been sitting here? With cramped legs and sore wrists Troubleshooting, animating, working I wonder what to do next. With a program open on my right and the web browser on my left I pause for a moment embraced by the dimmed light of the computer screens I find comfort in the warmth of this pc tower, and the soothing hum of its fans so I decide to remain here, wading my way through this endless sea of pixels.

Anthology 7

236

NO THOUGHTS HEAD EMPTY Eden Skye Einhorn

No thoughts, head empty As I lay here Staring up at the ceiling Dreaming of different worlds No thoughts As I lay here And think of what has been And what could be Head empty No thoughts As I create countless scenarios in my head Whole different worlds With fascinating characters (i wish i could join them) Head Empty No thoughts As my eyelids get heavy I embrace the darkness that comes And soon I’ll be able to travel to these other worlds Live out these wild fantasies and unrealistic scenarios I shut my eyes Head empty

237

Mixed & Matched

HIBERNATION Briyanna Hymms

This cave full of crags and crevices With that single bead from the brook Thawing, drip drip drop As slow as the snail goes Enunciating each little plop One of my eyes cracks open I asked to be remade And undid all the buttons Of my long winter coat Shedding layers Of decaying leaves Years piled on years Of lying dormant, unseen All this time as if I were dead It turns out I’d been sleeping Hoping that time would forget me If I closed my eyes for a moment And pretended it all away But the thaw’s come again With its drip drip dripping And I can’t hide any more I peel myself out Finding I am lighter, almost floating Anthology 7

238

Dreamlike wakefulness Awake around you Why was I asleep for so long I can’t say I don’t miss it, the comforting Weight and the gravity I was sleeping in it for years after all Though I hope you understand When I say I’ll pick it up on my way out But I’ll leave it off with you

239

Mixed & Matched

Mallika Kodavatiganti

ANNIVERSARY/CELEBRATION! Rosalyn Cliett

03/2021 We talked about the anniversary of COVID-19, one year in. What if anything during the time, could you celebrate? An anniversary is a celebration of a milestone you have overcome, it’s a celebration of an accomplishment you have achieved during that time or season... I’m going to start at the beginning, in the beginning of the pandemic, when our city shut down, and we went into quarantine (house arrest), which was shocking and unheard of in our city. It was like our lives that we spent so much time, and so many years fixing, and messing up, was suddenly snatched out of our hands without warning, and people were dying, dropping like flies. It was a scary time, and I didn’t want to be bombarded by the news, or social media, with everybody’s opinions, formed by fear, misinformation, and ignorance. Instead I went to the most Reliable Source I know...GOD. After years of developing in a relationship with the Creator, who has never failed me, I wanted the knowledge, wisdom and the understanding that only comes from GOD. So I begin talking to him, and the things He shared with me and showed me, blessed me with peace from all the fears. You’ve heard of it, “That peace that surpasses all understanding.” You see this thing had no respect of person; it didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, titled or not, nor did it care about your nationality or your color. It placed everybody on an even field. And some Anthology 7

242

thought it was the beginning of the end. Others were looking for someone to blame, was it God or was it the devil??? God didn’t do it but he allowed it to happen, because he sees the bigger picture. God is intentional. You see the world we live in has gotten so out of control, with everybody being so busy, busy doing nothing. All I could see was God’s mercy, in times past (history). When things had gotten so out of control they were destroyed (the great flood, Sodom & Gomorrah, etc.). This pandemic was giving us a do-over, it was then you got to know you, who you really are, and not who you thought or claimed to be. It allowed you to see your strengths and weaknesses. It allowed you to see your dependencies. And as long as you and the world stayed so busy and preoccupied you knew none of this, so the pandemic slowed things down.... Giving us time to reflect and giving us a much-needed rest. I for one celebrated the peace and quiet that was on the earth from the noise pollution, people, cars, airplanes, even looking outside blessed me. It was like the world had been washed from all the filth and the pollution and noise we had gotten used to. And the times I went out, I followed the protocol they set up to wear a mask, disposable gloves, to wash our hands often, and to wipe down any surfaces that I would come in contact with. 243

Mixed & Matched

I celebrate and appreciate those who thought about me and offered me their services, willingly out of the kindness of their heart with Love, genuine. One such couple, would contact me to tell me they were going to the produce store, and to make a list of the things I wanted or needed. At first I was a little reluctant, because when you are used to doing everything yourself, because there is never anyone to help you, except for one cousin when she could. And when you are particular about your fruits and vegetables, and I love fruits and vegetables. I realized I was about to miss my blessing, so I made my list. And without fail they always delivered, and her husband is amazing, picking out the produce. What was supposed to be green and crisp was, and what was supposed to be sweet and firm was. Do you know how hard it is to pick out a really good watermelon, or any other melon to perfection? And to top it, after getting the produce, and delivering it, they wouldn’t let me pay for it. A Real Blessing. They are a family with a couple of young children, who are also facing this pandemic. Who made me a priority. And I celebrate them and appreciate them for all they did, and for all they do…Thank You and I Love you. THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! I can still celebrate life, although it’s been a bit difficult and more challenging. I’m so grateful I didn’t get the coronavirus. But I can Really Celebrate for those I knew personally who did. Family members, friends and strangers alike, who not only got it, but they all survived, no matter how hard the fight, they made it back...HALLELUJAH! CELEBRATE!

Anthology 7

244

When people would call to check up on me, they would find me in good spirit, and they would tell me something they heard on the news that was unnerving to them. I would listen to them and I would share with them my survival kit, which consists of not chasing news reports or social media, which is always filled with fear, misinformation, and opinions, because people are finite creatures. So anything I see or hear, I would pray, I weigh it by GOD... Being truly infinite, GOD knows no restrictions of space, ability, or power. He is everywhere. There are no edges or limits to his presence, nor are there pockets where He is absent. I’m so grateful for the courage to follow after JESUS, His Son, even with all the naysayers, the religious mess and my own mess. I would like to tell you that I cross all my t’s and dot all my i ‘s but I don’t. Which is why I can Celebrate the time spent in prayer and spending time with GOD, who corrects all my wrongs on a daily basis and who is making me a new creature in Christ. I have more knowledge, wisdom, and understanding of people, this world, and its truth. HALLELUJAH! CELEBRATE! I can still celebrate life, although it can get a bit diffcult and more challenging. I can still celebrate, I am so grateful… In GOD I live a celebrated Life ... P.S. Don’t go back to busy, because it is robbing you of life.

245

Mixed & Matched

David Brooks

FREE WRITE Rosalyn Cliett

I looked at a picture of three steel rods leaning against each other standing over a fire that was surrounded by rocks and debris. These are some of the things it made me think of. A campfire, a place to make toasted marshmallows, or make smores. A place to sit around telling scary stories or singing songs. Staring into the flames I thought of these beautiful homes with a fireplace, family sitting on a comfortable sofa, eating popcorn and drinking sodas, watching a movie. Both the fireplace and the campfire is a place to keep warm from the cool of the outdoors. While I was still looking at the flames, it put me in mind of the burning bush in the mountains that drew the attention of Moses to seek after it, even though the people thought it to be forbidden, fearful of GOD. Still looking in the flames, I could see the contrast of the flames, something I call “The Beauty and The Beast Syndrome,” something that is so beautiful and thus potentially dangerous. In this case the characteristic combination of behavior. And last but not least, the three steel rods supporting each other, standing over the fire, surrounded by rock and debris represents the GODHEAD, The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and how they support each other. And the eternal flame that lights the world, even being surrounded by rocks and debris, there is light… And no matter how dark it gets in our life, there’s a burning flame within each of us. 247

Mixed & Matched

Cosmo Randazzo

IT’S THE MORNING Nick Vonk

It’s the morning. A morning. Any morning. My alarm— snoozed, 9 minutes. My alarm—I wake up. Right, it’s the morning. I roll out of bed and plant my feet on the rays of light spilling into my room, edgewise through the blinds. I could roll back into bed or I could get up and make some food.   I nudge Allison. “Do you want rice and eggs?” She foggy-nods. I kiss the back of her head, get up, and open the door. The honey light heats the hallway; visions of eggs dance in my head. BANG BANG—a groan from Chase’s room. “G’morn-ing! You want rice and eggs?” “No.” “Alright—” “Wait. Yes.” “Alright.” Paper towel—sock, squeeze, spread across the counter, cutting board on top and press to lock in place. I take out the knife and check for burrs. I have it. A honing rod is like a comb while a whetstone is like a pair of scissors—you should comb your hair every morning, but eventually you’ll need a haircut. Anyways, this knife is sharp, but y’all are probably shaking your heads—IT’S IMPORTANT TO HAVE A SHARP KNIFE! The stovetop clicks to fiery life.

249

Mixed & Matched

Rachel Wenrick

THE DAY NICK AND I GOT VACCINATED Chanda Rice

It was 2 days after Ms. Chunky’s funeral, and I was more scared than ever. I had told Victor that they would have to drag me in there screaming, “Try’na stick shit in my arm, I Don’t know What THAT is! I remembered how Angie, her daughter, told me how she died. She had died for four minutes before with the birth of child but this time, it was for real. I just kept shaking my head. “Not Chunk!” Angie said that she had a hard time breathing. I thought of this as the phone rang. It was Nick, my classmate! We chopped it up as we usually do, then he asked me, “What are you doing tomorrow? Allison and I are going down to the Convention Center tomorrow to get our shots, wanna go?” How could I say no? So I said, “OK!” ?!#*@! I pondered and PRAYED over this all night long. By morning, I was ready grudgingly so I caught the bus downtown. By the time I got down there, I was directed to, “Walk ALL the WAY AROUND the block,” instead of them letting me walk straight down the street?! (~#@%*^)! BUT I HAD BROUGHT MY CHAIR! I called Nick to ask what time were they coming, he said, “Oh, we’re just getting up and I have class and won’t be down there until about one!” I said, Ha! to myself, and let him know that I was already in line! Ha!

251

Mixed & Matched

I picked up my chair as I moved down the line and stayed quiet. I spoke when I was spoken to. I stood until “They” told me where to go. One of them told me to “Move Up.” (@#%*^#*)! I waited until the other soldier directed me over and then he directed me to the chair. I went where I was directed to. This soldier had jokes. I explained to him that I was SCARED! I said, “If you don’t let me see it coming or let me turn my head so that I don’t see it coming, we’re cool. Let me cover my eyes because I’m scared of needles.” He said, “How about I close my eyes while I give you the needle?” I said, “If you stick me in my eye or my head, I’ma Beat Cho’Ass!” He laughed and so did the guy on the other end of the table. I huffed and puffed and got myself together and turned my head. I thought I felt his hand coming near my arm and I started hollering! He said, “I ain’t even touch you yet!” I looked around in embarrassment and saw this girl looking at me. I yelled out, “It Ain’t Funny!” Then everybody started laughing. I was ashamed. He stuck me, I yelled again and ran. They made me wait in the other area to register for my next appointment, but it was to make sure that people didn’t fall out. It was 10:00am. Damn I got out of there fast, now what am I supposed to do? Nick won’t be ready until one!? I know, let’s go shopping! So I caught the bus back home and got in my car and drove up the Boulevard to go to Jomar. Nick called while shopping, so I drove downtown and called Nick to have him meet me on 11th and Arch. At first I didn’t recognize him all covered up, but he saw me. He came over to my car and then I knew it was him and we laughed. He told me that Allison (his girl) and a friend were waiting inside. I Anthology 7

252

told him that I would have to get parking at the garage across the street. We rode around in circles trying to find a parking space. And when we did, we got out TRIPPIN’! Nick and I are like Paint and Water to each other! We walked over to the elevator and I had to go back to put the alarm on as we cackled like little kids. We walked down the street to go into the farmer’s market and I heard this man playing his sax, so I danced in the door while Nick laughed. At first we walked around to find them but then Nick said, “Let’s get our food, then find them!” We walked around, got lost, then found our favorite place to get sandwiches. “A Reuben pastrami and Dr. Brown’s soda!” I got 2 for later! We Found Allison and their friend; maybe he was shocked to see that I was Black but he wasn’t too friendly. I paid him no mind. He got to see us Share the Love and I know he felt it!! We all went up to my car and left the garage and off we went! As we rode around, we talked of our ending destinations. Their friend lived closer to me and he didn’t want to wait to ride back with me, he wanted to get out at 40th St. “OK!” We rode on in my Party Cab! By the time I got them to their door, oh Nick and Allison were feeling my music! They were pumpin’, pushin’ and grinding!!! I gave them two honks and brought my butt home. Ok, Chunk. I Got the Shot! I thanked the LORD that HE kept me all day.

253

Mixed & Matched

THE DAY MUFFY AND I GOT VACCINATED NICK VONK

At around the one-year mark in the pandemic, in late February and early March, there were a lot of difficult conversations being had about vaccinations—who should get them, who shouldn’t, and what kind of people were skipping the line. The Philly Fighting Covid story had just surfaced a few weeks prior. I didn’t know it at the time, but my roommate had gotten his first shot two weeks before me—he didn’t tell anyone because he was afraid of the backlash even though he was eligible because of a heart condition. A couple nights before I got the first shot, I saw the Instagram stories of some friends saying that the Philadelphia Convention Center was accepting walk-ins. That’s when the serious, personal conversations began: all of a sudden, it wasn’t theoretical anymore. I called around looking for information and advice. Allison and I were at my parents’ house in Upstate New York—we had to make the decision whether or not to take the three hour drive down, so I called a friend who had gotten the shot the day before; she told me that the lines were short, that doses were being wasted. I called another friend, who had gotten the shot earlier that day, and they talked me through the process from getting in line to walking out the door. I talked to my parents, I talked to Allison, and I decided to go. Allison told me that she’d stay behind; it was happening too fast, and we were both too nervous. We’d all been waiting so long for this moment that I guess we didn’t consider what it’d be like when it got here; the light at the end of the tunnel suddenly Anthology 7

254

felt a lot closer, within reach. We decided to stop rushing, to drive tomorrow instead, and that’s when I gave Muffy a call. “Hey, baby!” she answered like I had just knocked on her front door unexpectedly, like she was ready to set an extra place at the dinner table. One thing that gets me about Muffy is how she always shows up with a smile first. If the conversation gets serious after that, if there’s pain to talk through, then we’ll get to it, but she’s always one to make an entrance, and she knows how powerful a warm greeting can be. We chatted, which helped me calm down; my decision wasn’t backed by confidence, didn’t feel real until I asked her, “What are you doing tomorrow? Allison and I are going to the Convention Center tomorrow to get our first vaccine shots. Do you wanna come with us?” “OK!” There was no going back now. By the time Allison and I woke up on March 18th, Muffy had already gotten in line. She called to ask where we were—maybe I could have been clearer about the timing… my fault! I had to go to a Zoom class at 11:00am, and we were planning to rush out from there. I have absolutely no recollection of that class, but I don’t think it was much more 255

Mixed & Matched

productive for me than if I had been slipped into a straitjacket, bolted down in the center of an empty room with a loud clock in front of me, and told to keep counting until it hit 12:20pm. I got let out early, and we bolted. It was raining. I remember that it was raining because I remember looking up at the rain and thinking, I should remember that it’s raining on this day. Everything felt important. Muffy told us how to find the entrance—the line was short. At the first checkpoint, they asked us questions in a way that made it seem like they weren’t even interested in hearing the answers. There was a table set up before one of the pods: a set of four stations manned by FEMA personnel, mostly empty. The man checking us in was from California, and he couldn’t have been much older than myself and Allison. He asked the same questions that they asked at the first checkpoint, and he typed in our answers, then he pointed us to a table. The man there put the first stickers on our cards, alcohol swabbed us— We got our first shots of the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine. While we waited the 15 minutes to check for an allergic reaction, I asked a man passing by who looked like he worked at the clinic if there was anything else we had to do or if we were okay to leave. He said, “Did you turn green?” “No.” “Did you grow an extra thumb?” “Nope.” Anthology 7

256

He turned to Allison. “Did he cry a little when the shot went in?” “Yes,” she laughed. “No! But I did pee a little…” I said as he walked away. We got stickers on the way out, and I called Muffy to tell her that we were done. She said she was on her way; we planned to get lunch at Reading Terminal Market. Another friend of mine came with us. We lost him at check-in and didn’t see him again until after we got outside. My friend and I look pretty similar—tall, straight, white men. We had heard about the walk-in clinic from the same friends, so we decided that we’d all go together. He and Allison went into the market together to grab food while I waited for Muffy outside. By the time we parked, they had already eaten, so we went in for our own. Muffy had been telling me about a dessert called pig ears: filo dough with cinnamon and sugar, her favorite. They didn’t have any today, but we moved on to the deli and got some pastrami Reubens and Dr. Brown’s black cherry sodas. She’d never had that kind of soda before, and I was happy to show her something that I’d enjoyed for years, but of course, if you know Muffy, I wasn’t going to walk away without learning something myself. I’m used to just ordering, waiting quietly as far as I can from the counter but still within hearing distance, and leaving without checking what’s in the bag. Not this time. Muffy asked them to keep the fat cap on the pastrami for extra flavor, and the two of us stayed right up at the front, chatting with the cooks while they made the food. A big part of the price of a restaurant meal is the atmosphere. That day, like usual, Muffy was the atmosphere.

257

Mixed & Matched

When we got our food, we thanked the guys at the counter again and went to go find my friend and Allison. Muffy gave them both a great, big Muffy hug. Allison was ready for the love, but I don’t think he was expecting such a warm greeting, or maybe he just wasn’t expecting Muffy. I remember being nervous about the moment before it happened, thinking, as we passed hip to hip through the crowd of faces, that he wouldn’t know our context, that we’d have to define our friendship for it to make sense to him. A few weeks prior, on Valentine’s Day, Muffy helped me pick out roses and chocolate-covered strawberries for Allison. Muffy charmed the cashier ringing us up, of course, and as we bumped elbows in laughter, she described us as classmates. My friend and I know each other from film classes, but Muffy and I go to a different school. I was worried, too, that my friend’s potential confusion would reflect back on me through Muffy’s eyes, that it’d be a reminder of how different we look on the surface. When she gave him a big hug, she brought me back to the reality that we both show up for one another, regardless of anyone else. I wanted him to hear her voice the way I heard it. We took our food to Muffy’s car and piled in. As her music started playing, I looked in the rearview. I don’t think it helped put him at ease, but we got into it, dancing in our seats, and we all loosened up. My friend asked to get let out first. No shade, but that’s when the car really started bumping for the three of us—we had our own little club in that bright red Jeep, and of course, who brought the atmosphere? Muffy dropped us off in front of my apartment, and we said our goodbyes; she honked another goodbye as she drove away—always a warm goodbye. I dug into my pastrami Reuben with the fat cap and the Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda.

Anthology 7

258

ANNIVERSARY [9 SNAPSHOTS ON EXPIRED 35MM] Alex Wasalinko

Anthology 7

I fell out the window while reaching for money catchers, to crush their wispy spindles into a wish

How do I find the tools to mark a new year when time itself has stopped several times over hell has frozen only to melt, each time filling our air with carbon gas trapped in permafrost

From my window I watch the boys pile into their polished Benz with ski goggles and snow boots, decoration or protection, a designer getaway car (I think I’ll sit and wait this one out)

I keep an empty chair by the door leave the guestbook open with a pen nearby – my passive record for any partygoers who received the invitation while I tuck away in my bedroom

260

He tells me about shooting groundhogs held in the backhoe’s cradle with BB bullets (a one-time-on-the-farm occurrence) I criticize the fountain’s skeleton its designer rolls in his centennial grave

The bottom of the bag of freeze dried mangos smells like gasoline. Reminds me of gas station bathrooms in Central PA, the car with the AC blown out, the boy who sewed pockets into the inside of his zip up hoodies

You ask me my age and my body my mind betray me I am at a loss, no amount of finger counting can give us the answer

The wind did not carry me the way it carries bursts of pollen geysering from the perennials and trees shaken awake by the earth’s hand.

261

Mixed & Matched

SPLIT SCREEN Alex Wasalinko

I’ve spent so much time without another body in the room and I am forgetting NORMALACY NOR | MAL | A | CY Split apart at each vowel, I inhabit the space between syllables I look up from within those gaps and canyons – from the distorted vantage point where everything feels quote fineunquote What if I smashed the words together said it so fast so tight there was nospace, no light, no breath

breaking through

just a dark mass of spitting S’s screaming E diagraphs.

Anthology 7

262

What if it all cracked because we threw it full force onto concrete from our rooftops. from our third-story walk ups. because it too grew too tired under the pressure of always being on on on as the only way we can not be the only body in the room. too tired of feigning. too tired of being the floating talking head. delivering yet another tired monologue.

263

Mixed & Matched

Rachel Wenrick

HOW TO LOVE Janae Kindt

Pearl up your spirit and steep it in the heat. Dare to share the flavor—bold, tried, but full. Let them know that your love is truer for it. Hold the seed of your heart in your hands as the wind cries for it and let it go.

265

Mixed & Matched

Dejah McIntosh

YOU KNOW WHAT Janae Kindt

You know what, yeah—I celebrate, but I anger, too. And I celebrate that. I celebrate it in all its righteousness. I anger because any joy I feel, express, the existence that I is be’s resistance. I let it run its course because while I anger, I do joy. I can never, nor shall I ever, simply be one thing in concentration. I celebrate that I cried like shit and I broke down, I celebrate that when I was on the floor with the life mission of just getting up I smiled at my cat across the floor, I celebrate that I loved when she touched her nose to mine and reminded me I live. And I celebrate how when I sit up, I stand back into a world where I’m out here doin it, so it must be somethin right.

267

Mixed & Matched

CELEBRATION Devin Welsh

At the corner of Powelton and 34th, I pull my headphones out of my head, and the sound of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” probably continues to play in my pocket until I realize. I trot up the steps and pull open the door to Sabrina’s Cafe, instinctively using my sleeve, and I wave to the host seating people as I walk past with my eyes set on the stairs past them. The stairs creak, and maybe I start to hear music playing up the stairs, or maybe now is when I realize Marvin Gaye is still serenading my pocket. Either way I feel a warmth regardless of the season, and I begin to skip steps and smile like an idiot as I climb further up the steps. I don’t know if I’ll be wearing a mask or if I’ll cry when I first enter the space, making my mask unbearably adhesive, but I know when I enter the studio I will levitate over the threshold, maybe into a hug from the nearest Writers Room writer. I’ll settle for an elbow bump. We will be together, some of us sitting by the window, or on the floor, or some swanky seating selected by Lauren, Wenrick, or Patrice. Maybe they argued about it, or maybe they were unanimous in their decision. But, regardless of paint, or seating, or snacks, it will feel like home. It will feel like coming home. I will be home. But most importantly, I’ll be there with my family. There will be a collective sense of this feeling I’m sure, even among people I’ve never met in person. I will be surprised at how tall Nick still is. My heart will skip beats every time I hear the elevator door ding. (I imagine it will ding, and even if it Anthology 7

268

doesn’t, it will in my mind.) I will check my phone periodically to see if the students from Robeson are on their way. Maybe this is when I realize Marvin is still singing. Or maybe I entered the space with them, after being in the classroom with them all morning. Maybe they will feel like this place is a home to them too. I imagine that they have cameras around their necks and that they’re getting interesting angles of French-toast-eaters and coffee-drinkers. I won’t stop them, or if I do I will hope to see the photos they took before I had made a half-hearted joke about getting them to lower the cameras. In that moment, I’ll be transported to photowalks with Mark, Kaliyah, and Dahmere, and I’ll flash back to times in the MacAlister studio laughing while thinking about writing, and writing while thinking about laughing as we took the photos we’re writing about. I don’t know whether Tariq will connect with Mr. Norman like Mark did, or if he’ll gravitate more to Victoria, remembering her from the inaugural Open Mic and we’ll laugh about Black Berry Love. Maybe Lyric and Brenda will fill the room with laughter and wisdom, and Carol will strike a chord with Ciani and Amina. Yes, it will be a confluence of present happiness and happy memories. We will be together. We will be home.

269

Mixed & Matched

Rachel Wenrick

CURATED CURATED CHATS CHATS

CHAT #1 FRIDAY IN FIVE PARTS

1 Rachel: love the cross of time / space in taeya’s location Norman: So I can get back into the streets. Yusha! Amina imagining pink skies for us all From Ayana to Everyone: Speechless! Andrea: Let’s hear it for the nerds. Patrice: Carol, light em up! Peace, George

2 Eating + paying attention It’s okay to show up and just listen Great stories came up (nick drake) Bye, thanks for being here

Anthology 7

274

3 Andrea Back Call Delay Everyone Fav Ginger Handy Iconic Just Keep Lyric Message No Okay Perfect Quick Rough Stuck Tripod Us

275

Curated Chats

4 Rachel, Dee, Everyone, Devin, Nick, Tariq, Andrea, Ciani, Lauren, Taeya, Kim, Ros, Mallika, Sarah, Dominique, Jerusalem, Ayana Patrice, Bernie (Sanders), Lyric, Amina, Uk, David (Bowie), Yusha, George, Norman, Victoria, Carol, Keyssh

Anthology 7

276

5 Important to uplift the work You all give me hope Thanks for holding space !!!!!! The tea Just realized I’m 12 mins late

A. says, Word. That’s real. # complicated. Heart Question Heart Question Question Question FIRE. Yes it’s scary. I appreciate that, hugs.

277

Curated Chats

Curated Chat Collage #2 Valerie Fox, 2021

CHAT#2 TRIPARTITE

1 Tripartite Yes, trinities, sacred female symbol, Delta source of change. I have never cared so much about triangles before. ΔΔΔ Could we repeat?

Anthology 7

280

2 Out of Plane Attend Better Bio Carol Call Calling Diana Don’t Day Doing Email Everyone

281

Curated Chats

CHAT #3 #3 CHAT LOOKING FORWARD FORWARD TO TO LOOKING

I need to grab something to eat. WR trip to Grand Cayman let’s go. Habibi means love in Arabic: habibi (grandmother says). Carol mentions, what a joy to grow up with Maya Angelou. Maya will not be cornered. Language is pliable. Okay, connected now.

Anthology 7

282

George Jenkins Forward relationships and communications I’m looking forward to having the opportunity to look forward with forward-looking people. I’m looking forward to putting all these things in forward motion, all the ideas I have been working on to move my life in that direction. Tired of sitting watching the time move forward without my feet doing the same thing. So I promise to my forward-thinking self to always look forward.

283

Curated Chats

Sorry guys have to leave early. Bye!! Brenda says, there is nothing new under the sun. Can I comment on this? Yes pls! Thank you, byeee, Take Care—

Anthology 7

284

(participants: Ciani, Devin, Dominique, Jerusalem, Valerie, Mallika, Nick, Sarah, Rosalyn, Brenda, Mosley, Lauren, Patrice, Rachel, Alysha, Dee, Ayana, Carol, George, AW, Keyssh)

285

Curated Chats

Curated Chat Collage #2 Valerie Fox, 2021

CHAT #4 HAPPY FRIDAY

From Keyssh: The process is dope. Ayana: “Taking my individual to the collective” From Alysha: Can someone let Kim in?

Anthology 7

288

Dominique: Chaos Nick: Too short Dominique: Oops

289

Curated Chats

From Alysha: There’s also collaborative autoethnography From Andrea: Y’all are so here and beautiful.

Anthology 7

290

From Lauren: we are totally plants. Janae: Photosynthesis swaggy. Cosmo: THAT RHYMED

291

Curated Chats

Mallika: omg I also wrote about knee pain. Cosmo: I think that Mallika is next Nick: Letter to knees is what we need.

Anthology 7

292

(participants: Nautica, Kim, Dominique, George, Alysha, Ali, Carol, Lauren, Angel, Nick, Devin, Atticus, Muffy, Kyle, Janae, Patrice, Rachel, Mallika, Keyssh, Norman, Aaron, Emanuel, Sarah, Alicia, Cosmo, Essence)

293

Curated Chats

Curated Chat Collage #2, Detail Valerie Fox, 2021

Anthology 7

296

TRIPOD

297

Tripod

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

TRIPOD WORKSHOP Andrea Walls

Dominique Shatkin

STREET BALLET POEM Lyric Wise

Each day for me is another drive. All with different locations All with different destinations. Philadelphia streets drive.me.crazy So many bumps in the road & the drivers are so aggressive! But that’s because we all have somewhere to be. When a new day starts and my journey has begun, I am always the driver. And sometimes I don’t choose good passengers to ride along but it is up to me If I want to break, reverse, or keep it neutral. And because success is inconvenient, I just drive.

301

Tripod

I STOP DANCING Dominique Shatkin

I Disco ball hung high Reflects your smile in fragments You enter with bliss II I’m your dancing queen We’re floating to Sister Sledge My creme de la creme, please take me home III Dilated pupils Kiss me with your velvet tongue Waves of ecstacy IV Around and around Know I’m such a fool for you I keep on spinning V I watch it shatter Disco ball hits the ground hard I don’t mind being cut VII I stop dancing

Anthology 7

302

WHEN I WALK INTO THE STREET Amina Mosley

when i walk into the street i open a door to a new world. when i walk the street i carry a smile and radiate positive energy. i can talk to the people i see and they only know what they see. they see my dark brown eyes. my short lashes and thick eyebrows. my small but full lips. but they don’t know my story. i like that they don’t know my story. i get to be me without people having any insight on me.

303

Tripod

LOVE TAKES ON TWO FACES Ciani Richardson

Love takes on two faces The one that gives And the one that takes Love itself is a compromise The pursuit of it is a choice... A choice for those with hopeful eyes For people willing to Sacrifice freedom For someone to lean on Willing to abandon originality Only when love gives less Than it takes When the scale breaks The balance of the heart Loses faith Does love hide behind its darker face And the compromise of love breaks

Anthology 7

304

TWO LISTS: THINGS YOU ARE Ciani Richardson

1. I have been told I am too smart for my own good I have been told I know too much I have to been told be quiet and stay quiet I have been told to keep what I feel inside I have been told I am a great listener by the people in my life I have been told to socialize and I have been told to out cast myself I have been told to not follow others I have been told to work hard for what I want 2. I am a Black woman I am an artist I am an Aries I am independent I am introverted I am laid back But I have strong opinions I am loud and energetic when I want to be I am self-aware I am open-minded I am supportive and I have supportive friends I am hardworking and I am determined to get where I want to be I am sensitive I am content with where I am in life I am a high school student I have so many responsibilities I am living within my thoughts I am the guide to my life 305

Tripod

NOTION OF FAMILY Amina Mosley

The meaning of family to Amina is all about loyalty and genuine love. If we don’t share the same blood or genes does that mean you/someone can’t be my sister, or brother? Because you didn’t birth me does that mean you can’t be my mother? I believe you make your own family. You grow to love people, I mean really love, once you learn your own meaning of love. Your true meaning of love. The bonds you build and the boundaries you create. You should be able to make your own family. Your family should be whomever you want it to be. They should love you back. They should accept you for you and accept everything that comes with you, they should make you laugh and smile. It’s kind of funny because sometimes when I think of my family, I see flaws, the arguing, the arguing, the unloyalty. I don’t want to think of the bad moments when I think of family. When you hear family you should think of togetherness. That’s what I believe in making your own family, keeping the people who make you happy, being distant from the ones who deserve my distance, adopting my friends, making them my sisters.

Anthology 7

306

I AM AMINA Amina Mosley

I am Amina I am 17 I am a Virgo I am obsessed with pink I am 5’3” I am darkskin I have acne scars I have a cat I have a 3.0 GPA I have way too much perfume I have anxiety I have an obsessive amount of lip gloss I have 7 siblings I have the idea that I have to fix everything and everything has to be perfect

307

Tripod

Malilika Kodavatiganti

Tariq Rhodes

RESPONSE TO ANDREA’S VIDEO MONTAGE Tariq Rhodes

Time is money I ain’t wasting time life is short so make it shine we need to blossom and open up instead of shattering each other us Black folks need to rise together

311

Tripod

JANUARY FIFTEENTH, PROMPT #4 Rosalyn Cliett

Don’t let a boy kiss you. It will cause the rhythm of your heartbeat to race, and you might end up pregnant. I am no longer in Egypt, I’ve been freed, set free,and the children are doing some kind of freedom dance. But I better get home before the sun goes down. I am grateful, I am Blessed no matter what things look like or feel, it doesn’t define me, I was told, you have the patience of Job, as I watch the wind blowing through the window, causing the curtain to dance in a graceful way. On my way to the store, I heard Nana yell, “Make sure you bring me back all my change.” I'm a good listener, because Nana reminds me of a beautiful movement of a deadly thing. I am constantly critiquing myself, what I eat, what I do and how I act. I’m wiser, I have more knowledge and wisdom now than ever, to know you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. My mother used to say, “Everybody is not you, Roz.” I didn’t like it, because I didn’t understand it. I am Strong,because I’ve been Weak. I no longer linger in the middle, I can feel Egypt leaving my Soul. It's like the movement and growth of the blooming white dandelions, like black crystals exploding across the screen, and the keeping of time as a male dancing with such aerodynamics soars through the airas agraceful body of movement.

Anthology 7

312

THINGS I HEARD Tariq Rhodes

I am not one of your little friends You better know your work as much as you know them lyrics When we go into this store don’t touch nothing don’t look at nothing don’t ask for nothing You got McDonald’s money You smell like outside Lay me down to sleep I pray the lord my soul to keep if I shall die before I wake I pray the lord my soul to take Never give up on your dreams Stay humble Love yourself before you love anyone Else

313

Tripod

THERE ARE GREAT BIG FLIES IN THE SKY, THEY WON’T STOP TELLING ME TO BURN Dominique Shatkin

Alarm starts playing 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton at 11am. Keep hitting snooze until your phone gives up. Siri thinks you’re a sluggish little bitch. Wake up to Jess calling at 4:30. Reach over and pop an Adderall before you press answer. She asks how you are. You say you can’t feel anything. You’re exhausted. You tell her about the panic attack you had last night. She asks you to recall what was going through your head at the time. You don’t remember. Use your last brain cells, Dominique. Think. There are bugs everywhere. Hundreds of them. Where the fuck did they come from? You want them gone, but you have to turn around as your mom starts swatting them. Stop caring so much. Do they even have a conscience? Do they see visions? Mom leaves. Pick up the vacuum. Vacuum dies. The bugs are still alive. You are somewhere in between. You can’t breathe. Your eyes start shaking. Your body is trying to kill itself. Undress. Sit on the floor naked. Smoke a cigarette. Breathe. There you go. Grab your favorite purple sweatpants and the baggy t-shirt with “Hardrock Amsterdam” on it. Where’s the shirt? No seriously. Where the fuck is it? It always sits in the same spot, unwashed for weeks reeking of BO. Anthology 7

314

Rip apart every inch of your room. Of every room in the house. Mom tells you to stop going through the kitchen cabinet, it wouldn’t be there. It’s gone. You lost it. The same way you lost him. Remember he called you and said “tell me how stupid I am” when he lost the keychain you gave him? Well now it’s your turn. Tell him you lost the shirt he gave you. What does this mean? He lost the keychain and I lost the shirt. What does it mean? Get a hold of yourself, you’re spiraling. It’s a shirt. Stop applying meaning to objects that are too light to carry so much weight. Stop lying to yourself. You only wear it because you’re desperate enough to cling to something that has touched his skin. He touched you, but that was a while ago and skin sheds. The shirt is gone. He is gone. There are bugs everywhere. You try to tidy up around the seemingly endless sea of black specs, but face it. You are not in control. This is not in your hands, nothing is. Slap your skin thinking you feel them crawling all over you. Caress your stinging flesh to pretend that you are capable of loving yourself the way he once did. This body does not feel safe. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to remember how this feels. Suppress, suppress, suppress. Do what you do best. You tell her that you think you blacked out from the stress. Maybe you should end the session for today. Talk to you Friday, Jess.

315

Tripod

I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO Ciani Richardson

I’m looking forward to the me that broke through the shackles made from my mind. Social Anxiety?   Gone. Trust Issues? Gone. Emotional Unavailability?   Gone. Intimacy Problems? Gone. Decrease in my self-esteem? Gone. I’m looking forward to the me I’ve always had the fear of being. The me that doesn’t care about people's views about me and not letting anything hold me back from what I want to get. Living with myself comfortably and being proud of the things I achieve.   I’m looking forward to being freed.

Anthology 7

316

100 YEARS FROM NOW Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

It's 2052, and I wonder, can I have an extra 10 years just to see what I can accomplish... there are always possibilities. I recall being young and fancy-free. I'd love to be 45 years old again, when I still had it going on and I was having a taste or two. Anyway, I hope I have positively impacted all the young people with whom I have had interaction. Their thoughts always resonated with me. My partner in rhyme and I have even written several books together. However, now both of our hands are frail and tired. For that matter, we're tired. I've written 50 books, some poetry some memoirs, medical narratives, academic essays, and children's books. But I wonder if it was all for naught. It is 2052, I cannot believe it is here already and I have turned 100 years old; with more of my life behind me, but with a mind that does not want to give up talking, thinking, writing, or sharing with my grandchildren. Is it wrong of me to be so reflective?

317

Tripod

TRIPOD WORKSHOP Carol Richardson McCullough, Ayana Allen-Handy, Kim Sterin, Alysha Meloche

MY GEOGRAPHY Amina Mosley

I was born in West Philadelphia, 42nd and Pennsgrove. This was the first of my many many homes. Actually, every place wasn’t home. I wasn’t always stable. Once I got evicted from 42nd street. I had to be about 9? I remember having my first party there for my birthday. Since me and my mom's birthdays are a day apart we shared the party. I loved that house. I had friends, my family came over all the time. It was really HOME. I lived in almost every part of Philly since then. West Philly, North Philly, South, and Southwest. I got familiar with a lot of places. Whenever I’m in a car I can say “Oh, I went to school there,” or, “I use to always go to that corner store.” I hated not being stable but I love being so familiar with my city.

Anthology 7

320

AIR/ALMOST A TANKA Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

I found this place with a ventilation system that is wonderful. You can open the windows or you can use the air conditioner that is provided.

Victoria Huggins Peurifory

Devin Welsh

IN THE FORTIES AND FIFTIES Elizabeth Abrams

In 1940s and 1950s my community in North Central Philly did not differ much from the communities of West Philly’s Mantua or Kingsessing in Southwest Philly. Targeted areas by local media as the Badlands. It was designed by the political powers that sections of Philadelphia would evolve from community to neighborhood to its final destination of Ghetto or the “Hood.” My people of the aforementioned communities were destined to be the tools, labor, and subjects of all types of prolific programs, for us, the unemployed, welfare recipients and social service subjects for all types of government so-called empowerment, and renewal programs—financed by the powers. A child of the 1940s and 1950s could enjoy the joys of a twoparent home—a street in North Philly and an address North 19th Street, who personally knew and who were also neighbors to Black nurses and doctors, Black dentists, Black pharmacists, Black funeral directors, Black butchers, Black teachers, Black insurance companies, Black banks, Black vocational schools, Black realtors, Black architects, Black plumbers, carpenters, Black seamstresses, and tailors, and dry cleaners—we all lived together and utilized and supported their businesses and they could ply their trade with great success. And as I, a child at the age of five, knew most of these grand people by name, all adults wore titles: Mr., Miss, Mrs.,—Aunt, Uncle, Grandmom, Grandpop. Never! called an adult by the first name. Not even a bum on the street—and there were not many of those. 323

Tripod

In the late 1960s the cause for civil rights reigned supreme, Black Power, dashikis, afros—evolved into hair straightening and bleaching cream, drugs, unemployment, poor schools. Factories and other companies disappeared and transferred and dried up, massive street arrest of black youths, recreation centers lost funding. Upward higher income professionals from my community relocated to the elusive housing areas, where at one time—were excluded. Cheltenham, Chestnut Hill, Far Northeast. The move continued, but those uneducated were “left behind” to suffer and muddle through inferior slum housing, inferior education, single parent homes, welfare system kicked into high gear—for the fathers, jobless ended up incarcerated, drug addicted or disappeared. The Check and Food stamps became husband and father in most homes. Many of my friends ended up in the system one way or the other, inner city schools continued to deteriorate. Parents no longer could help their school age children with school assignments. Catholic schools took flight and (at one time free) became private schools with high tuition fees. St. Elizabeth, Most Precious Blood/Our Lady of Mercy, Blessed Sacrament. And so today, the powers of Philadelphia finally completed the Idea of Philadelphia as the “City of Brotherly Love” for all people, but not for my people. My people are inheritors of gun violence. In the hood, guns provided by the powers of the city, drugs its availability and excesses legal or illegal provided by the powers—poor health enabled by consuming fast foods, or death foods, sold only in Black sections of the city. Purchase guns, easy, but not easy access to scholarships or to quality schools. Anthology 7

324

I had no idea, and could not foresee what my community would become as I played jax, jumped double-dutch, believed in the tooth fairy, traveled to North Carolina, summer school vacations, rode on a ferry from New Port News to Norfolk, VA before Chesapeake Bay Bridge was built, caught butterflies and grasshoppers, Sunday school on Sundays, patent leather shoes on Easter, Easter Parade; Thanksgiving Parade; PTC trolley #21 / travelling through Fairmount Park to visit an amusement park, and then Marvin Gaye’s classic, “What’s Going On.” And looking back—I see the plan. Gentrification for the so-called Gentry but not my people. Underserved, unwanted, are marched to the hinterlands, the counties, the facilities, the shelters, the jails. And the powers, the Med’s & Ed’s can reclaim their city—Temple to U of P. In the Book of Revelation Chapter 3: Verse 11 - The All Powerful says to His people, “Look I’m coming soon, hold tightly to the little strength you have—so that no one will take away your crown.”

325

Tripod

FENCES/WINDOWS Nick Vonk

In New York City, play-decks are on roofs, fenced in. When I was younger, I played while looking down at the street. The fence never felt like a cage. I know it was only meant to keep the children from falling and the soccer balls from landing in foreign terraces, but really, the walls of my bubble were made visible. The fences, expanding up and overhead, were meant to keep the inside in and the outside out. Parents will pay a lot of money for that. A metal bubble doesn’t pop, but it does have a door. We had our 8th grade graduation in a church. Our 12th grade graduation was in a cathedral. The air we breathed couldn’t hurt us. Parents will pay a lot of money for that. The first time I felt the thickness of a window was during history class, called Social Studies. Windows are built into classrooms by accident; they are not meant to be understood. In New York City, name-brand schools make name-brand students, and “student” counts as a personality, and “student” can be ranked, and “student” is the window to a name-brand high school is the window to a name-brand college is the plan to become… something. The brand-new keycards that opened our lockers slid like air hockey pucks across the brand-new desks. I was told to pay attention. The vice-principal, who also happened to be the teacher of the social studies class, the one who played Roots on the SMART Board for us to learn from, was five months pregnant when she met with my parents for the regularly scheduled conference. They told me she cried when she was talking to them about how good of a student I was, that I always asked the right questions and paid attention. Maybe it was just the hormones from the pregnancy, but shit, maybe I was that good, Anthology 7

326

too. Maybe I ranked well—the best? When she told me to pay attention, to stop sliding the key card across the desk or she’d take it, I thought about my paper reflection. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a resume. When I looked out the window, I thought about the people below. They weren’t in school; did they know what time it was? She told me to pay attention. Forget the window. Windows are built into classrooms by accident.

Nick Vonk

Devin Welsh

DREAMS VS. GOALS Ciani Richardson

As a child, I was a dreamer At school, at home, before bed Every hour of the day I spent dreaming Dreaming and Imagining of My many future jobs Running on Neptune Eventually not being afraid to express myself Going to Japan Growing up being reticent Having myself being my only source of an outlet I stayed within my owns thoughts What else could I do at that age? But now that I have a small bit of wisdom At my current age of 17 years old I’ve stopped dreaming Instead of creating dreams, I create goals Realistic ones I was so naive and simple I believed I could do everything and now I know that’s not always true Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pessimistic But I try to stay grounded in reality Especially in the young years of my life where I’m still learning I believe that everyone should have a balanced mix of both I have a lot of respect for dreamers And I also have a lot of respect for people who set goals 329

Tripod

THE SOUNDS OF THE RURAL SOUTH Norman Cain

The sounds of the rural south constantly resonate within the corridors of my memories. I hear the distinct crowing of the rooster at dawn’s dawning, snorting mules, baying goats, barking dogs, chirping birds and the melodic mooing of cows in the pasture. I hear the flapping and fluttering of birds in formation, fowl flying quickly to their next destination and robins stationary in trees, sweetly singing in harmony with summer breeze invoked leaves.   I hear the meows of the fuzzy grey ancient perpetual always famished cat, snakes swiftly slithering through the thick underbrush behind the barn, the high octave squealing of swine fighting for vittles. Sometimes the overhead roar of an of an ancient plane emits cloud bombs of poison that descend upon their tobacco fields— instantaneously destroying worms and mingling with the grinding of old automobiles. Maneuvered by a moonshine youth across red clay road— sending its glistening splinters into the scorching atmosphere. Sometimes I would hurl non-syllabic utterances into the ear of the sky and revel in ecstasy when its boomeranging echo returned to me, and sometimes there would be the sound of buzzing horseflies, rattling crickets, croaking frogs and God spoken devastation. Anthology 7

330

(Booming thunder and slashing lighting.) On Saturdays I would hear the happy sounds of weary souls, trampling upon the highway towards town, on worn squeaking bikes, and the rattling of wooden wagon wheels crunching the road and being mobilized by snorting mules whose whisking tails brush horseflies from their sweat-moistened backs and the sudden screeching and halting of frail automobiles stopping to render rides. Once in town, shuffling feet anointed with bad liquor straight from the still keep beat with BB King blaring from five cent piccolos, children slurping ice cream, maidens popping gum, and young Turks gurgling soda pop, and maybe the vibrations of a full moon will sing sweetly in harmony with an occasional croaking frog on bass and crickets hoisting rhythm. Sunday is church of white clad, strong saved mourners, benched God-fearing women speaking in tongues, shrieking in ecstasy, shuffle stomping holy dancing without ever crossing their feet. Strong patient men in black who sneak naps between hymns of the captors but who when awakened by the moans and groans of common meter ride the congregations clapping like the sun rides the moon’s path. The sounds of the rural south constantly resonates within the corridors of my memories.

331

Tripod

Dominique Shatkin

TRIPOD WORKSHOP George Jenkins with his YouthBuild Students

George Jenkins

TRIPOD WORKSHOP Uk Jung

Uk Jung

BREAKING BREAD Jerusalem Tamire

My earliest memory of home is of me and my cousins stuffing warm cups of tea with freshly baked bread. We’d eat it like custard. Sugar filled smiles.   Ababa taught me a lesson one Easter morning. “Holidays are different, food takes longer to cook, family longer to gather. Go and bring two mirindas and a basket of bread. You and I will have a feast of our own.” Family gathered in prayer before dinner. Mom baking bread in a foreign country, her methods—a compromise to tradition—but tradition all the same. Celebration, grief, gathering, guests made their way carrying bread, large and covered in handsewn knit covers. Coffee brewing, laughter and the midday news served with homemade bread, Ethiopian bread. Tomorrow I will bake, tomorrow we will gather, tomorrow we will continue tradition. Tomorrow we will bake bread.

Anthology 7

340

MEMORY OF COMMUNAL DINING Ciani Richardson

Before my grandma passed, I would go to her home for the weekend. My grandma would make home cooked meals that would taste delicious so I would always look forward to eating dinner with her. Her company would bring me joy and the food was always great.   During my sophomore year of high school, before the first lockdown, my friends and I would go to the café near our school. Going there would be the highlight of my day and would make the stress of school fade away. The café served traditional Latin American food, so I was more excited to eat there then from the cafeteria. Being there with my friends would make time go fast and my mom would call to make sure I got home before sunset. I wish I could go back and relive those times again.

341

Tripod

Mallika Kodavatiganti

SAAVITRI Mallika Kodavatiganti

The dancer should sing the song by the throat, express the meaning of the song through hand gestures, show the state of feelings in the song by eyes, and express the rhythm with his or her feet. —Abhinaya Darpana, a defining book on the techniques of Bharathanatyam Bha: From Bhava, for emotion Ra: From Raaga, for music Ta: From Tala, for rhythm Natyam: For dance In essence, Bharatanatyam is a dance form full of grace, richness, variety of movement, mime, and music. “Yato hasta stato drishtihi...” ”Where the hand is, the eyes follow” I had always loved dancing—I grew up learning Bharatanatyam, a South Indian style of dance. I hated having all eyes on me, but when I was on stage dancing, that was the one time I felt okay with being seen. I was still nervous with plenty of butterflies fluttering around my stomach, threatening to fly out, but once the music started it was just me. Granted, I couldn’t see the audience anyways because of the blinding lights, but that helped me be less self-conscious of what my body was doing. My mind, in its numbed state of fear, trusted my limbs and let my muscles take over. They remembered even better than my mind. When I was thirteen, I had a three-hour long solo show, and I can’t tell you a single thing I thought during that time. When I close my eyes and think back to that day, August 20, 2011, I just see black. I can’t remember anything about that performance, besides a few details that stick 343

Tripod

out. My dad, making a joke about chocolate-covered apples while he welcomed guests. My mother, looking like an elegant peacock in her dark green sari. Sniffling at some point, my nosering dropping in the process. Sips of Gatorade, but only through a thin straw so I don’t mess up my lipstick. Besides these few moments, it was my body that was in charge that day, carrying me through my hour-long Varnam and seven other dances: Pushpanjali, a prayer to remove obstacles. I forgot to stretch, but it’s too late now. Jathiswaram, a tapestry of rhythms. Breathe. Padam, a prayer to Goddess Saraswathi. My favorite dance. Varnam, the story of Lord Karthikeya. When will this be over? Padam, another one, this time depicting Lord Shiva. Core tight, don’t lose your balance. Bajan, a gopika’s praise of Lord Krishna. I’m wearing my mom’s wedding lehenga. Thillana, rhythms and poses, also for Lord Krishna. You’re almost done. Smile! Mangalam, thanking Goddess Lakshmi. You did it. I was only 13 years old then. I didn’t realize how much dance did for me until I took a modern dance class in college. I often Anthology 7

344

found modern dance to be far too abstract, and honestly way too out there for me. I had seen modern dances at multiple shows and I always left confused, wondering what I had just watched, what it meant, why it mattered. Even though I respected the artistry and athleticism of the dancers, I felt unsettled by not being able to understand their movements and what they meant. So, I enrolled in the next modern dance class I could. On my first day in the studio, Lindsay, our teacher, had us sit in a circle and breathe together. We stretched together. We moved around the room in any way we wanted, feeling silly, but beginning to feel free. But I remember that it took me a long time to let myself go. I was nervous and rigid, and I didn’t like moving without control. The music was weird and twangy. As I watched the people around me, I saw that a few people, like me, were too frozen and nervous to move. But a few brave dancers simply didn’t care what they looked like. With their eyes half closed, they let their limbs and momentum carry them across the studio, getting close to others, but never bumping into them. They looked like they were enjoying themselves and having fun. It reminded me of watching videos of amoeba in my biology classes, freely moving around however and whenever they wanted. Over the next few weeks, I worked on mimicking these looser motions, telling my body that it was okay if my arms weren’t straight or if my posture wasn’t perfect. I became more aware of myself and of the people around me, and collectively, I felt all of us learning to let our bodies do what they wanted without being restricted by our thoughts. We learned to work with our bodies and what we’re capable of. Not all of us were long and lithe, built like gazelles, but each of us had a special way of moving that was uniquely us. We learned to love and appreciate ourselves and each other and we created a community of 345

Tripod

support within the studio. There was no such thing as a bad dancer in that room. All we needed to do was listen to our bodies, move without overthinking, recognize that we deserve the space we take up. “Yato drishti stato manaha”...”Where the eyes go, the mind follows” When I started third grade, my family had just moved to India. My parents knew my siblings and I were struggling to adjust to a life so different from Long Island, and they were trying their best to make us happy. Every weekend, they took us to the American store to buy the things that reminded us of home. This meant Oreo cookies, Barilla pasta, and Heinz ketchup. There was one day where my mom brought a surprise snack for me: chocolate Nesquik. I was thrilled to see the large brown bunny on the yellow plastic box. My mom went to change out of her work clothes, and I immediately headed to a kitchen and armed myself with a spoon, ready to feast on the addicting chocolate powder. I searched all the cupboards, frustrated that our maid put it away without telling me where it was hidden. I found it on the highest shelf. Determined, I grabbed a stool, climbed onto the counter, and eagerly pulled the Nesquik closed to me, safe in my eight-yearold arms. Or so I thought. I lost balance for a moment, and the yellow box fell in slow motion towards the white tiled kitchen floor. I saw the lid fly off as it crashed into the ground, allowing a mountain of chocolate powder to form. I started panicking. I knew how hard my mom worked for this treat that I loved so much, and I knew it would break her heart to see any of it go to waste. Though I prayed that the loud crash was inaudible, my mom came running into the kitchen, worried I had hurt myself. Anthology 7

346

She saw me trying to scoop the powder back into the container and act like nothing went wrong, but I saw both anger and sadness on her face. “I can’t believe you already ruined it,” she said. I can’t believe I already ruined it. “Yato manaha stato bhava”...”Where the mind is, there is the feeling” I took an African dance class my sophomore year in college. I didn’t know this when I signed up, but it meant unprecedented body pain and bruises. I was nervous about the intensity, and I struggled to keep up. By the end of our 80-minute sessions, I couldn’t breathe. My lungs simply refused— it was too hard. By the end of the term, my knees were gone. They were on strike, protesting the jumping and stomping and lunging. Even with my body in mutiny, this class was my heaven. In this tiny studio, I found a community of people I didn’t realized I could love so strongly in the moment. Most of the time, we couldn’t breathe, but when we really couldn’t breathe, we would look at each other in the mirror and shout in encouragement. Somehow we found the energy and oxygen to laugh so we could keep each other’s’ spirits up. I’ll smile and push through it, but you have to stick with me too, we would challenge each other. I was reminded of Indian dances I grew up learning. The movement wasn’t just about moving, it was about sharing our stories, our people, our gods, their mistakes, and their adventures. Sister Antoinette taught us about Lamban, a traditional dance from Mali. We learned about the Griot, whose responsibility was to learn the oral history of the tribe and pass these stories down. They were musicians and storytellers, the ones who kept their ancestors alive as well as their gods. 347

Tripod

In order to understand an art, I believe you must first understand its culture. “Chest down, knees up.” Sister Antoinette told us that this was the foundation for the dances we were learning. It meant paying homage to our ancestors because they paved the way for us. I realize how little I know about my parents and my grandparents, their experiences growing up in India. Combined, their lives span a greater part of the 20th century, a time filled with wars, declarations of independence, technological changes, and immense globalization. I always wonder what their experiences were with all this change, what they thought and how they felt. It may be too late to learn some of these stories from my grandparents, but I’m hoping that one day my siblings will have the kids that I don’t want, and these children will be able to hear my parents’ adventures. “Yato bhava stato rasaha”...”Where there is feeling, there is flavour” We don’t cuddle and dance together, and I can’t think of the last time I leaned on my siblings. We love each other, but it’s usually embodied in food. Whenever someone comes home, we make their favorite dishes or get takeout from their favorite restaurant. For my first pandemic birthday, my family went all-out with cooking savory, Indo-Chinese dishes for me. A few weeks ago, just for fun, my dad made my mom a mini-buffet of vegan Mexican foods, which she reminisced about for days after. I had a temper tantrum last week because I had a paper due and I was cutting it close, and my mom made me samosas and chai because she knew I hadn’t eaten. We may not say “I love you” to each other, but remembering who prefers ketchup or mustard is all that we need. Anthology 7

348

Food is how my family shows that we love and care about one another. I wake up early every morning to make my mom tea, with two spoons of sugar and half a lime, and my dad coffee, with one spoon of sugar and a splash of milk. They both work long, stressful days, especially now with the masks and risk of exposure. The least I can do is help them start their day. For my brother, it’s making him coffee before he can even ask, or baking him cookies if he’s had a bad day. My sister, well she’s definitely more of a picky one, but that also makes caring for her more special. It usually involves fried chicken, or seafood, or sometimes Starbucks. She’s all over the place, but figuring out her mood is part of the joy. For my family, caring is a physical act, but one with significant, personal meaning that brings a little light to their day. A culture of care starts with empathy, with thinking about what someone else would want, what makes them feel loved and appreciated... what you could do to make their day just a little bit better, like remembering if they like ketchup or honey mustard.

Mallika Kodavatiganti

MY WORLD Amina Mosley

I drift inside The walls are blush pink When I look down I see the universe I can see stars asteroids zoom past An astronaut waves at me I wave back When I look up the sun is touching my skin My skin glows I look up to see the clouds They’re pink Rose pink Lemonade pink Strawberry pink Peach pink They’re moving in the sky I get distracted by a bird’s song A blue jay Having a conversation with a Monarch They’re laughing together I laugh with them

Anthology 7

350

When I move my legs they only drift Leaving me to a beautiful bed I close my eyes I sink into it I feel the moon on my skin I open my eyes The bed is gone now I am floating It was so quiet, I only can hear my breath My heart beating My thoughts My thoughts saying, “let’s stay here forever” I was swimming only me I smiled to myself My thoughts saying, “let’s stay here forever” I reply “Okay, let’s stay here forever.”

351

Tripod

PORCHES Hari Bhatt

It used to be just the stairs. Bleeding rust, coughing sand, chipping stone. Flanked by soft wood up to my neck on one side, hugged by the yellow house on the other. I’d lean over the ledge on my tippy toes, even when I grew as tall as I could be. Balancing on the first step, digging my elbows into the notches in the white trim, careful to avoid the jutted, rusty nails. I watched my neighbor’s houses grow old, I craned for a sliver of the beach. I waved at the passerby, and whistled at the cats as they ran from the shadows. It was a solo activity. Room only for one body, Two elbows, ten toes. Thoughts in one mind, Echoed against themselves. No disagreements, no insecurities. Just one torso, propped up as long as could be.

Anthology 7

352

And now it’s much bigger. Hidden by a tree Or a bush, I truly can’t remember. Four chairs, one broken. A table, a drawer, an empty measuring cup. Nothing matches, everything belongs. I sit in a chair, sipping tea or a beer. There’s space for another or another, or another. It’s hidden, not visible. I can see my neighbors entering and leaving across the street. One’s a squirrel. Look left at a wall, three recycling bins to our one. There’s always a water gun sitting in one bin. To the right are unstrangers. We wave, we joke about the weather, reminisce about who came before. Yet I still sit alone. Hidden and visible. Elbows crusted with wood, smelling of beer, sand stained stone. Room for more, always. But content alone and not alone. Neighbors & cats & wind & wood.

353

Tripod

A NEW KIND OF HOUSE Rosalyn Cliett

Imagine a home surrounded by such beautiful ambience both inside and out. On the outside there are trees fully bloomed in greenery, and in the fall surrounds the building with such beautiful colors. There’s flowers and grass with benches throughout, where you could sit outside and read or write, socialize with friends and neighbors or lovers watching the steady stream of a peaceful river. And on the inside there are potted plants and flowers. And ceilings with beautiful crystal, abstract lighting throughout the entire downstairs where there is a variety of rooms, rooms for Artistic Expressions of many kinds, dancing, singing, artwork, writing, music, and a room dedicated to the art of drama, be it play rehearsals or spoken word, with soundproof glass where needed. Rooms that could be used by any tenant That has scheduled an appointment, day and time. Every Saturday morning around 9am to 11:30 a.m. is a mandatory scheduled meeting for all of those who live, and work there... It’s a Prayer Breakfast where we come together in Unity. We have a Speaker for 30 minutes, then Prayer followed by an extremely large breakfast & Fellowship.

Anthology 7

356

The building itself runs on both solar power and normal utility power. They used solar, powered by the sun to help save on utility bills. The second and third levels, where each person’s domicile is, are very open and very spacious and with a touch of a switch or a spoken word, it became very private. Another added addition to help save on utility bills is light control. In the bathroom and bedroom, as you enter the room lights come on, as you exit the room lights go out. No more fussing at the kids. And on the rooftop there are four huge rooms for social gatherings for all kinds of events. The lower part of the building is massive. A fully equipped and fully stocked kitchen is broken off in sections where we can cook, cater, and teach cooking classes. It also has two service elevators that go straight from the kitchen to the roof. The beauty of it all is when things are over and done with, we can return downstairs to our personal domiciles....SWEET!!!

357

Tripod

Nick Vonk

THE STRINGS CONNECT Nick Vonk

The string connects everyone, regardless. They reach through screens, through ethernet, through the ether, through Tao, God, and the universe. The limits of human creativity are the boundaries of the concepts of good and evil—they don’t exist beyond us. All the good and evil exists between a room’s two trees, and they (every “they” there is) are connected. Cooking and laughing, chasing, competitions, and screens, taller than, archway, transparent, foil, conversation, learning, opinions, utopia, and dystopia are all on the strings between two trees in a room. Discussions walk the strings like a tightrope between souls. The act of sharing weaves the fibers.

Anthology 7

360

NOTES FOR A SHARED SPACE Carol Richardson McCullough

Front yard – trees and flowers... Backyard –   Wind chime catches the   breeze and fills it with sound. The back house wall is mosaic and beautiful—like Isaiah Zagar’s place on South Street or at the Painted Bride. There’s a shallow waterfilled pond, perhaps filled with large, smooth stones like at the Barnes, although these could be dangeous, so maybe not...but YES to the mosaics. Also, there are smooth wooden structures in alcoves to rest upon—like at this Architecture in Wood place in Old City. Tan and smooth and lovely. Backyard = peaceful respite from the bustle and noise of traffic out on the street I want to enter into a beautiful space and be surrounded by softness and PEACE.

361

Tripod

Devin Welsh

INSPIRED BY AUNTIE CAROL’S Lyric Wise

In my front yard I might hear the children swearing while bike and car tires screech loud enough to blow eardrums. In my back yard I might hear heavy footsteps ending the life of numerous insects, tearing apart the limbs of twigs and allowing their sneakers to play bumper cars with tin cans. What are they running for? Where are those cars going? Is there anyone asking these questions? is one that floats upon my mind as I lay in my Section 8 house listen to my mom rant about high rent. Broken sidewalks match our broken soles. So who’s to say we're not home? Or is it that we’re not home completely? Is it because home is where the heart is? Or is it because our unconscious mind longs for all of the desirables. In my front yard I see boys play curb ball. But we all know mommas come out curiously searching like baby turtles after they hatch. Unaware of what the world has waiting for them, only aware of the HARSHNESS it bestows.

363

Tripod

Mallika Kodavatiganti

RESPONSE TO CAROL Mallika Kodavatiganti

This backyard is a combination of all the peace, beauty, and nature in Philadelphia, and everyone should have a backyard like it. I imagine everyone’s backyard to be connected to one another, a giant park really. Everyone can work on the mosaic together, they can show their stories, their personalities. The chipped mirrors and broken tiles will come together and be beautiful, because they are beautiful. Everyone has to work together to keep the mosaic wall going, to fix the fallen pieces, and to help others create their own stories. The water filled pond is an oasis, a place for the kids to play with other, a place for the adults to relax, and a place for everyone to be together. But sometimes people just need to be with their own mind, and these smooth wooden alcoves sound lovely. They can be interspersed throughout the trees, and everyone who wants one has their own secret spot to share with someone else or just be themselves. People should have their own backyard space but I want it to lead out into a big park for everyone to use, transition from private to public, from individual to community. It’s a place for cookouts, birthday parties, weddings, any and all opportunities to spend time with each other. There’s also room for a community garden, where your neighborhoods can get fresh food, or a little extra if they need more to get by. It’s still in the city, and you can still have the hustle and bustle of life. But you can still have the peace, quiet, and softness of nature. You can recharge here. It’s like a mini-vacation during the day.

365

Tripod

ENTER* Andrea Walls

through the escape hatch. Reverse engineer Every moment, out there, That hurt, erased, maligned, doubted, or belittled you. Submerge through the portal of ancestors, Reclaim the meaning of your name. Adjust the pressure in your brain and in your blood— Set yourself to peace... & walk into the lavender and salt water horizon pool, Become weightless and clean. Take as long as it takes Until you rise on the dry air of destiny, Moving gently through the threshold Of juniper, sage, and cedar smoke... To dance Into rooms who welcome you with appropriate noise and wonder. Let the aunties who cook, feed you from the communal hearth... Let the aunties who refuse to wear shoes Tend to your education...

Anthology 7

366

Let the aunties who are broken rumble, clamor, and be heard... Know that our aunties are not concerned with backward notions about gender. As we reconcile ourselves through ample solitude, Let us retire to dream pockets That sustain us Move by ones and twos and threes, As the spirit calls, To slumber. Let us be held and upheld through the night.

* Inspired by Uk Jung Prompt: Home without constraint

367

Tripod

SHARED STRUCTURES\\

TRIPOD WORKSHOP D.S. Nicholas

EVOLVED SHARING

Mallika Kodavatiganti

SHARING CREATIVITY Amina Mosley

I know there are endless ways to share creativity. I love sharing my creativity in two ways those being physically and verbally. Physically I create art and put it all over my room. Not just art but everything that is important to me. The drawing me and my little sister did. The drawings I did while I was in a dark place. The Christmas lights I put up to remind me of my childhood and that it isn’t gone yet. And all the notes beautiful people wrote me on a spiral retreat. The certificate I got when I got straight As. The 100 pictures on my wall to remind me of my aesthetic. Verbally by sharing my ideas. Like how I want to make a space for people who’ve experienced abuse. Or how I don’t understand how we can’t just make more money to get out of debt. And the poem I wrote when I was crying, or the poem I wrote when I was happy.

371

Tripod

TALL WALLS Jerusalem Tamire

Tall walls High ceilings How do you feel? Sun hitting your skin Tinted orange Hair dancing   By the open window Tell me, Would you know? when the walls seem to shorten If these quarters tighten   Would I know,   If each feeling resonated like   A gentle tap of a drum   Harmonious   Tell me,   Would we be at home?

Anthology 7

372

Dominique Shatkin

WHERE AM I SITTING? Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

I am sitting at my laptop, which is usually in front of the monitor of my desktop. I had to move it to illuminate the excess light coming from the window which was behind me. I unplugged the laptop and placed it on a basket to the right of me. To my left now, is probably an abomination to my office—I will call it my desk.

My desk is to the left of the almighty HP printer. Currently, in the front of the laptop is a set of black and white blocked out cabinets that house books, photos, plants, baskets, wire shelving and a commemorative plate from my church that says Joy, a favorite greeting card someone sent me while I was sick, and a silk Japanese orchid. To my right is my creation desk where my jewelry making juices like to play. The office is my sanctuary; or at least, it used to be. However, my family is making it theirs too. My grandson calls it his quiet space, my daughter calls it her special telephone conversations space, my granddaughter calls it her game-playing space. Regardless of its dysfunctional appearance, everyone seems to love it as they love me. I am happy.

Anthology 7

374

HIT THE HOOD OF THAT CAR Jerusalem Tamire

Hit the hood of that car That’s old metal Generations tough Time lasts Grandma and her pots That’s old metal Tell me   What you think of strength Time past Dad’s first car   A family transported Relationships 25 years long Resilient   Like old metal

375

Tripod

Mallika Kodavatiganti

MY GRANDMOTHER’S RURAL SOUTH CAROLINA LAUNDRY ROOM, 1950 Norman Cain

My grandmother’s laundry room was not located in a finished, attractive basement. It had no shelves containing detergents, bleaches and fabric softeners that hovered above a modern washer or dryer.   And when the clothes were being washed, you would not hear a humming associated with a washing machine Likewise, there was no humming coming from the dryer and there was no choice about the drying cycle. No hot. No warm. No delicate.   My grandmother’s laundry room was located in the back of the family house—in between a well, smoke house, chicken coop and cotton field. Instead of a washing machine, there was a big black cast iron pot filled with hot water—drawn from the well— which was mounted upon burning chopped wood. There was no detergent in the water, but rather home-made brown lye soap. The clothes were stirred with a sturdy ax handle. There was no modern dryer but there was a natural dryer: the sun. It beamed down upon the clothes that hung absolutely dirt free from clotheslines. My grandmother did not have a modern laundry room, but her wash was always 100% clean.

377

Tripod

TRIPOD WORKSHOP D.S. Nicholas

OUR GROUP THOUGHTS: WHAT IS THE CULTURE WE ARE MAKING? TRIPOD participants

TRIPOD has given me an additional voice to create. When I look at a photographic subject, immediately, I want to write about it, or write a story. Learning from the students is a joy for me. I get their ideas and concepts and we also share thoughts and ideas. In TRIPOD it is a two land highway. We get to change lanes that may also affect our ultimate objective...and it’s okay. TRIPOD is a community of different cultures, financial status, ethnic backgrounds, and generations which allows for a well rounded group of folks. I love it. Who wouldn’t love the camaraderie? TRIPOD has allowed me to hold and operate a $2,000 camera to take fabulous photos. I am ready for the big time. —Anonymous Sometimes my words are few and far between my voice often cut by anxiety or fear but please don’t mistake silence for apathy i am here, i am listening with gratitude and with love it seems like fate that i would end up here i found community in the time of isolation and people who make me hopeful to someday go out in the world again —Sarah Lucey I appreciate that we don’t pretend in any sense. A “good student” pretends that they only exist in the confines of the classroom—another brick in the wall. Our rule-breaking individuality (Andrea) brings about our togetherness. —Nick Vonk Anthology 7

380

I see Amina imagining pink skies for us all to feel the glow. Norman mourning his cousin and his country through a screen, still showing up. Reminding us, “This space is the revolution.” I see Victoria reaching Lyric: “You were born for this.” Andrea says, ”This space is sacred. It transcends.” I see us seeing us. Showing up. Slowing down. Being here for it. All of it. I hear us saying, wait, we got you. We love you. Love you, family. Fingertips to lips to the air. I see Devin, once nervous just to enter the room, now learning how to run it. “That’s my teacher,” Amina drops in the chat. “I’ll share,” Ciani says. Tariq: “I’m here eating and paying attention.” —Rachel Wenrick I appreciate everyone’s willingness to be present, to listen, and to be together. I have never felt like my opinion doesn’t matter, and we all value one another and our experiences. We all deserve to share our stories and be listened to, and WR continues to genuinely support each other in this time of distancing and isolation. I have never felt more close to people than I have now with WR. —Anonymous

381

Tripod

OUR GROUP THOUGHTS: WHAT IS THE CULTURE WE ARE MAKING? TRIPOD participants

I have always believed in trinities. The way water can be solid, liquid, or vapor. The way we can be one thing and many things at once or shift through forms to survive the condition we find ourselves in. To freeze or flow or evaporate in time and space. To be welcomed into a universe that sees and understands that we must occupy moments in eternal flux, because, easy or hard, rough or smooth, it is our nature to be transformed. This is how I feel about TRIPOD. The way it stands in triple symmetry, blessing the overlapping trinities of our intertwining natures. What else is a TRIPOD, but a thing designed to support a visionary element? The way we are all cameras and visionaries and though we can tell certain stories as freestanding elements, sometimes we need something to stand on. Sometimes we need to lean on something other than ourselves to bring the world into sharper focus. Especially in these strange times, when I get weary and want to lay myself down, Friday comes, the sacred TRIPOD eases open, giving us more legs to stand on. —Andrea Walls

Anthology 7

382

I find writing to be very liberating. It allows me to learn, think, and share. It allows me to minister truth, something I call “Food For Thought,” and TRIPOD/Writers Room makes that all possible. It’s a place to grow and learn about others and their culture, their race, struggles, and their victories. A place to learn the truth about each other, not the fabricated stories that have been shoved down our throats, causing fear and division among us. A place to meet new and exciting people, who become friends, people who become family. It’s a place that generates Love, Understanding, and Deliverance, which promotes strong healthy people because it clears up all the isms and schisms we have had about each other. TRIPOD/Writers Room with all its diversities has opened up the world to us in an exciting, sometime shocking way. We get a chance to come together as we experience the ups and downs of the world we live in and have an open forum— a place, meeting, or medium where ideals and views on a particular issue can be exchanged. We comfort one another. It’s a place where we can pull strength from each other. —Rosalyn Cliett

383

Tripod

OUR GROUP THOUGHTS: WHAT IS THE CULTURE WE ARE MAKING? TRIPOD participants

I am appreciative that gratitude and gratefulness is a posture of our collective. Sharing space while co-constructing both the process and products of our project through so many elements of writing, storytelling, architecture, design, and research is truly remarkable. —Ayana Allen-Handy I am appreciative of an understanding glance, the space to feel upset, and a space to not feel judged. Our time is a quiet respite, a point of reflection, where I am reminded there is more to life than just what is in front of me. —Patrice Worthy Writers Room shows me that I am not alone, that I hold potential and that there is no condition or high-strung contingency to take part. —Anonymous

Anthology 7

384

I appreciate the community and feeling connected in this time where there seems to be so much division and distancing. I appreciate the ability to be exposed to and be part of such a talented group through this form of creative and genuine expression—a form I have long underappreciated myself. —Uk Jung I thought about my gratitude towards youth and upcoming designers. There is such a spirit of revolution in the air and that we are trying to break the barriers of what is considered the normal. I am thankful for being in a time where we actually might have a chance to change things for the greater good—on so many scales from architecture and urban planning to how we frame our minds about each other. —Rachel Jahr

385

Tripod

OUR GROUP THOUGHTS: WHAT IS THE CULTURE WE ARE MAKING? TRIPOD Participants

Dee says, “Negativity sells,” and she’s right. But why? In my classes now, we study how stories are made. What makes a reader read? Often, we hear, there must be tension, where’s the drama in this, more conflict—a conflict is what drives the story forward. And I wonder: why? I think about the last year of Writers Room, gathering every Friday, still gravitating towards each other, and all the years before this one. When I think of Writers Room, I think of all this love, all this light. And I want to tell you about the way Mallika always has a step on Nick, and how I’ll never think about tea + cheese the same way ever again. Or how Amina, mere weeks after meeting for the first time, was willing to share an image of her windows, where the light comes through. You should know: Dominique, driving between states, calls Norman and Victoria during her long drives. They’ve never met in person but their voices close the distance between them. And in my mind, I always hear Norman say, “This space is the revolution.” I see us looking at each other, striving for contact even when our eyes can’t meet. Across screens, cities, time—calling out, “You go next.” “I think you want to go next.” “I’ll go if you go.” It’s what we’re always saying together: Come on, be here now. Can’t the story be grounded in love and light? —Lauren Lowe Anthology 7

386

What I appreciate most about this space and the work we do here is the fact that I feel comfortable showing up as my whole moody, complicated self. I often struggle with the need to project the energy of some happy warrior, or worry that if I enter a space with a cloud over my head everyone will notice and cast me out. The thing is, at WR, whether folks notice my cloud or not, I am never judged or feel the need to put on a front. I am able to enter the space as I am and exist fully in whatever capacity I can manage. That culture, that environment lifts me up, pulls me out of my head and out of the rain. It allows me to contribute in community and in ways I can’t begin to imagine when I am isolated or self-isolating. When I say “contribute in community” I mean I am inspired by the thoughtfulness and compassion of everyone here. I am inspired to conspire and co-create worlds that don’t exist yet. Worlds I cannot imagine when isolated or selfisolating—not just because of a lack of imagination, but because of a lack of hope. When in this space together, not only am I able to cultivate hope, but I am surrounded by so many creative, compassionate, and impassioned people that I would feel foolish doubting that we can change the world for the better. —Devin Welsh

387

Tripod

CONTRIBUTORS Liz Abrams is a longtime member of Writers Room and a TRIPOD Writerin-Residence (2020-21). Ayana Allen-Handy is a native Philadelphian and former elementary school teacher and high school counselor, Dr. Allen-Handy’s 19-year career has been dedicated to advancing justice in all of its forms, particularly education, racial, and social justice. She received a PhD in Education Curriculum & Instruction, specializing in Urban Education from Texas A&M University, a MEd from the University of St. Thomas in Houston, TX, and a BA from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, double majoring in Management & Society and Spanish. She is also a former Post-Doctoral Fellow of The Urban Education Collaborative at UNC-Charlotte. Brenda Bailey has been on this journey for several years. Her involvement with Writers Room has been a great experience. She has learned the importance of words, research, and using them to express yourself. She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017 to present). Kelly Bergh is a graduate of the Drexel University Masters in Publishing program. She has helped to design and create numerous Writers Room publications, including Quaranzine 2020: A New Ritual. Hari Bhatt is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence and Drexel University student. Norman Cain was born in 1942 and raised on Olive Street in West Philadelphia. He graduated in 1964 from the Bluefield State College in West Virginia, where he majored in social science and minored in English. A retired social worker, teacher, father of five, and grandfather of seven, he is active in several writing groups, including the Best Day of My Life So Far at the Germantown Senior Center. Anthology 7

388

Rosalyn Cliett is a native resident of Philadelphia, a life coach and teacher officiated by a higher power, who loves to write. Her goal is to enlighten others on solutions to life situations, through her writing. Something she calls “food for thought.” Becoming a part of Writers Room and the side-by-side classes—which were educating and exciting—have enlarged the steps that are essential to her destiny (removing the rest of the grave clothes). She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2021). Robert Decker ’21 is a writer and filmmaker and was a regular participant in Writers Room this year. He’s fascinated by artistic processes and crossdisciplinary art-forms. Alicia DeSimone ’19 is a photographer and writer. This year she helped to create Quaranzine 2020: A New Ritual. Eden Skye Einhorn ’21 is a writer and visual artist. For her senior project (fashion design) she created her own fabric. Valerie Fox is a Teaching Professor at Drexel University and a Faculty Writing Fellow with Writers Room. She’s a poet but recently has been writing a lot of flash fiction. With Jacklynn Niemiec, she created The Real Sky, a handmade book featuring words and art. Natasha Hajo was a Tripod writer-in-residence (2017-2019). She graduated from Drexel University (BS English ‘19) and was an ArtistYear AmeriCorps Fellow at Paul Robeson High School Husnaa Hashim has taught numerous workshops with Writers Room over the past several years. She was the 2017-2018 Youth Poet Laureate of Philadelphia and is the author of the poetry collection Honey Sequence (The Head & The Hand). Currently she is a student at the University of Pennsylvania. 389

Contributors

CONTRIBUTORS Briyanna Hymms majored in Biological Sciences and minored in Writing at Drexel University (BS ’18). She’s a lab tech on weekdays and a self-taught artist/plant-sitter on weekends. She’s a longtime member of Writers Room. Victoria Huggins Peurifoy recently completed her bachelor’s degree at Peirce College, focusing on organizational leadership. She is an author, poet, and spoken word artist. She facilitates a poetry and discussion group of senior citizens and she cofacilitates a story writing group called the Best Day of My Life So Far. She is a mother of 3 and a grandmother of 8. She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-21). Angel Hogan has performed as part of the Black Women’s Arts Festival, Literary Death Match, Moonstone Presents, First Person Arts and the Philadelphia Fringe Festival. Angel is interested in storytelling as a vehicle for tolerance, peace, and community building. Her first film, By Law, By Love, was completed in March 2019 Kyle Howey graduated from Drexel (English BA ‘19) and was a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2019), as well as Writers Room Alumni Fellow (2020-2021). This year he was a co-creator of Quaranzine 2020: A New Ritual. Dejah McIntosh is a photographer and aspiring fashion designer. She’s a graduate of Robeson High School (’19). She always makes clothes that she would wear and hopes to attend Drexel University, and to continue making new clothes that reflect her personality. For Writers Room in the spring of 2021, she co-curated and photographed an exhibition of portraits of Robeson High School seniors.

Anthology 7

390

George Jenkins has 25 years of experience in construction and building energy efficient housing. For the last ten years, he has been the Green Building Coordinator of YouthBuild Philadelphia Charter School. He certifies students in construction and educates them on the importance of renewable energy. They have an outstanding solar program and each year his goal is to have several students hired as PV installers. He has a BS in Building Construction Technology, a LEED GA, and OSHA 30 Certification. George loves his job as educator, mentor, role model, and in being an inspiration to young people. Aaron Jeong is a student at Drexel University (‘21), majoring in applied environmental science, and is a regular participant in Writers Room workshops and open mics. Uk Jung is an architect and educator in the Department of Architecture, Design, & Urbanism in the Antoinette Westphal College of Media Arts & Design. In 2016, he founded Studio HADA, a design and consultation practice in Philadelphia. His research is focused on the availability of affordable housing and affordable commercial spaces in underserved communities undergoing rapid development and gentrification. Mallika Kadovatiganti (’21, Biology) says the best decision she made was walking into the Writers Room studio two years ago. Her passions include giving her dog belly rubs, drinking coffee, and now writing. She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence. Janae Kindt ’21 (English) is a founding editor of LitEq (www.liteq.org). The LitEq mission statement: “Our goal is to equalize—to level out the noise that dictates what artists can and cannot do through human-centered processes that contribute to a culture of equity.”

391

Contributors

CONTRIBUTORS Mella LaFrance contributed to Quaranzine 2020: A New Ritual. Find more work by Mella at www.mellalafrance.net. Lauren Lowe has been a member of Writers Room since she was 19 and is a fervent Sixers fan—both have taught her how to trust the process. She is currently an MFA candidate in the Creative Writing Program at New York University. Alina Macneal teaches architecture classes at Drexel University in the Antoinette Westphal College of Media Arts & Design, as well as with the Pennoni Honors College. She’s a poet and longtime member Writers Room. Artist/writer Kelly McQuain is the author of VELVET RODEO, which won the 2013 Bloom Chapbook Prize, judged by poet C. Dale Young. The collection includes poems published in several national journals, including “Scrape the Velvet from Your Antlers,” which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by the journal Kestrel. McQuain is a writer, artist and college professor now living in Philadelphia. Alysha (Aly) Meloche is a PhD candidate and research assistant at Drexel’s School of Education. Her research interests include formal and informal art education, creativity, and aesthetics in interdisciplinary contexts. Her dissertation in progress features innovative mixed methods to study aesthetics and viewers’ experiences in museums. Some of her research experience involves using critical, participatory methods to co-create diverse, inclusive, social-justice-oriented, community cultural-preservation projects. Aly earned both her BA and MA in Art History from Temple University’s Tyler School of Art and Architecture. Her Master’s focus was on Late Antique architecture. She has many years of experience teaching college-level art history interdisciplinary design thinking and creativity courses. Anthology 7

392

Danielle Morris was a contributing photographer for But We Keep Going: Robeson ’21 Voices and Portraits. Amina Mosley is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence and student at Paul Robeson High School. As a socially responsive designer and researcher, D.S. Nicholas draws on her personal experiences as a person of Middle Eastern (MENA) descent who spent part of her childhood overseas, to understand the experiences of those that have been marginalized. Cosmo Randazzo (’21, Chemical Engineering). From a young age and now at 20, Cosmo’s passion for reaching the hearts and minds of others extends across mediums such as STEM work, food, illustration, music, mental health advocacy, and writing. With empathy and self-truth as fuel, they use poetry, psychological fiction/nonfiction, and spoken word as vessels through which they can connect with the world in a deeply personal way. Tariq Rhodes is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence and student at Paul Robeson High School. Chanda Rice is known to her friends as Muffy. She was born in 1961 on the train from New York to Philadelphia and was raised in North Philly by her maternal grandmother. Not only is a survivor, she is an overcomer, and by God’s grace she is here to deliver her story. She is a resident of Mantua.

393

Contributors

CONTRIBUTORS Ciani Richardson is a Tripod Writer-in-Residence and student at Paul Robeson High School. Carol Richardson McCullough is a Founding Member of Writers Room who has been an integral part of each stage of the program’s growth. Her work as Cultural Liaison has helped forge partnerships with institutions including The Free Library of Philadelphia and Mural Arts Philadelphia. Her work as a researcher on the Corporation for National and Community Service study utilizes her expertise as a writer and her experience as a secondary language arts teacher. She is Old School. Vintage. Currently she is checking her receipts and writing it all down. Hunter Robinson is a Senior at Drexel University with a major in Entertainment and Arts Management and a minor in Business Administration. She strives to stay on the creative side of the business and hopefully develop her own magazine someday. Anjelikal Rogers is currently a senior at Drexel University majoring in animation and visual effects. When she graduates, she hopes to find work in the commercial or tv industry and one day own her own animation studio. Aaliyah Sesay is a member of Drexel’s class of 2020 (BA English). “Easton” is an excerpt from her senior project, "We Make Plasas. Amen."

Anthology 7

394

Dominique Shatkin ’23 understands that chaos will work its way into a masterpiece, something that she’s come to realize through her identity as both a writer and a student with ADHD. She’s majoring in Global Studies to think critically about the world around her and make sense of her place within it. She is confident that Writers Room will be a significant part of her journey in making this a reality. Kimberly Sterin is a PhD student studying education policy and leadership. She became involved with Writers Room through a collaborative project in 2019. She is also a writer, teacher, and community builder. She believes in the transformative power of storytelling and the right to a quality public school education for all. Jerusalem Tamire is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence and an economics major at Drexel University. Rina Terry’s career has ranged from Continuing Education Coordinator for healthcare professionals, to high school teacher, to Assistant to the Dean of General Studies at a state college, to adjunct instructor, to Poet-in-theSchools for the NJ State Council on the Arts, to senior pastor of several churches, to Supervisor of Religious Services at a men’s state prison. Throughout, she has been a writer. Nick Vonk (’21, Screenwriting) doesn’t always know what to write, but he does it anyway. He loves the Writers Room community and enjoys getting to know all of the members. He did his 2019-2020 Fall/Winter co-op as Program Assistant at Writers Room. Nick is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence.

395

Contributors

CONTRIBUTORS Andrea Walls is a poet because a bunch of poets got in her head when she was young. She’s on the path set down by Nikki Giovanni, Sonia Sanchez, Gwendolyn brooks, LeRoi Jones/Amiri Baraka, Toni Morrison, Toni Cade Bambara, June Jordan, Etheridge Knight, Mari Evans, Carolyn Rodgers, Audre Lorde, Ntozake Shange, Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Henry Dumas, Paule Marshall, Gayl Jones, and many, many more. She became a photographer because she was given a camera at the moment she needed one. Her photographs want to be poems, too. She is pleased that her writing and visual art have been supported by organizations she admires, including The Leeway Foundation, VONA/Voices Workshops for Writers of Color, The Colored Girls Museum, Hedgebrook Residency for Women Authoring Change, Philadelphia Photo Arts Center, The Studio Museum of Harlem, and the Women’s Mobile Museum Collective. Andrea’s work has been published in venues open to alternative styles and points of view, including Kweli, Callaloo, Solstice Literary Magazine, New Delta Review, and The Fourth River. Alex Wasalinko is a poet and teaching artist. She is originally from Scranton but currently lives in West Philadelphia. She co-edited Quaranzine 2020: A New Ritual. Devin Welsh ‘20 edited the Robeson Portrait series in this volume. Devin is a writer and an ArtistYear Fellow at Paul Robeson High School in West Philadelphia. Originally from Lansdale, PA, he has had a passion for telling stories since he could hold a pencil. As a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence with Writers Room he used the combination of personal narrative and photography to explore his sense of self and his community.

Anthology 7

396

Rachel Wenrick, Founding Director of Writers Room and Associate Teaching Professor of Englsh, has also worked as a waitress and a roofer. All of these jobs require paying attention. Being a writer has trained her to look for the through-lines that intersect to make a larger narrative. She received an MFA from Columbia University’s School of the Arts and is coauthor of singer and activist Angelique Kidjo’s memoir, Spirit Rising. Patty West is a Landscape Architect who creates projects that bring together people and nature for the benefit of both. She is also the designer of Anthology 7 and other Writers Room projects including Home Book. Lyric Wise, Paul Robeson High School, '21, is a TRIPOD Writer-inResidence and an incoming first-year student at Drexel. Patrice Worthy is Assistant Director of Writers Room, where she provides high-level program support towards maintaining and building Writers Room’s civically-engaged partnerships. Prior to this, she was trained as a biochemist. Patrice enjoys working on creative projects that combine art with social impact. Melody Wright is a graduate of Temple University’s MFA in Creative Writing program. Her book, Count, was recently published by Overpass Books.

397

Contributors

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This book would not have been possible without the help of Ann Alexander, Ayana Allen-Handy, Shivanthi Anandan, Leah Appleton, Kelly Bergh ’19, Jen Britton, Ingrid Broadnax, Paula Marantz Cohen, Alicia DeSimone ’19, Ryan DeVito ’02, Beth Ann Downey, Margo Drakos, Dan Driscoll, De’Wayne Drummond, Adam Feldman, John Fry, Richard Gordon, Becca Graham, Patrick Grossi, Husnaa Hashim, Kyle Howey ’19, Carrie Hutnick, George Jenkins, Paul Jensen, Kelly Joyce, Uk Jung ’08, Kirsten Kaschock, Lucy Kerman, Roger Kurtz, Don Liberati, Michelle Lloyd-Miah, Sarah Lucey, Melissa Mansfield, Alysha Meloche, Danielle Morris, Gwen Morris, Brenna McBride, Janel McCloskey, Kelly McQuain, D.S. Nicholas, Rosalind Remer, Cyndi Reed Rickards, Subir Sahu, Sarah Saxton, Cara Scharf, Dominique Shatkin, Sarah Steltz, Kim Sterin, Cyrille Taillandier, David Unruh, Kathleen Volk Miller, Andrea Walls, Scott Warnock, Alex Wasalinko, Lori Waselchuk, Helma Weeks, Patty West, Katie Zamulinsky, and Andrew Zitcer.

Anthology 7

398

Special thanks to— Drexel University’s College of Arts and Sciences, Office of the Provost, and Office of the President for their continued support. The Corporation for National and Community Service for sponsoring Anti-displacement: The Untapped Potential of University-Community Cooperative Living, a Community-led Participatory Action Research study investigating the landscape of residential displacement and affordable housing options in West Philadelphia. TD Charitable Foundation for supporting a three-year series of public programming to develop our arts-centered model of co-living. The Philadelphia Cultural Fund. Their support allows us to further our creative work for the good of our community and for all Philadelphians. Canon for supporting TRIPOD, our intergenerational writing and photography project, since its inception in 2017.

399

Anthology 7

Editor-in-Chief: Valerie Fox Editors: Lauren Lowe ’17 Rachel Wenrick Project Manager: Patrice Worthy ’12 Photo Editors: Lauren Lowe ’17 Patty West Lead Photographer for Robeson ’21 Voices and Portraits: Dejah McIntosh Editorial Assistants: Devin Welsh ‘20 Sarah Lucey Designer: Patty West

Patrice Worthy

Writers Room is a university-community literary arts program engaged in creative placemaking and art for social justice. We are a diverse intergenerational collective of students/alumni, faculty/staff, and neighborhood residents whose work demonstrates a desire for collaborative opportunities in our joint communities. writersroomdrexel.org

WRITERS ROOM | Anthology 7

Articles inside

OUR GROUP OUR THOUGHTS: What is the Culture We Are Making?, TRIPOD participants

CONTRIBUTORS

Norman Cain

Inspired by Auntie Carol’s, Lyric Wise

Response to Carol, Mallika Kodavatiganti

Enter, Andrea Walls

Saavitri, Mallika Kodavatiganti

Porches, Hari Bhatt

Breaking Bread, Jerusalem Tamire

Dreams vs. Goals, Ciani Richardson

In the Forties and Fifties, Elizabeth Abrams

Anniversary [9 Snapshots on Expired 35mm], Split Screen, Alex Wasalinko

There Are Great Big Flies in the Sky, They Won’t Stop Telling Me to Burn, Dominique Shatkin

Celebration, Devin Welsh

Nick Vonk, The Day Muffy and I Got Vaccinated

Chanda Rice, The Day Nick and I Got Vaccinated

Anniversary/Celebration, Free Write, Rosalyn Cliett

Hibernation, Briyanna Hymms

It’s the Morning, Nick Vonk

No Thoughts, Head Empty, Eden Skye Einhorn

Daddy Issues, Larry Taylor Always Books the Aisle Seat, Dominique Shatkin

Sea of Pixels, Anjelikal Rogers

Sex (and You), Aaron Jeong

Union Transfer, Year of the Ox, Cosmo Randazzo

Anniversary, George Jenkins

Introduction, Devin Welsh

Once, Long, Long Ago, Kelly Bergh

Easton, Aaliyah Sesay

An Open Letter, To the Heavens, Cosmo Randazzo

She Made it Look Easy, Alina Macneal

Growing Pains, Devin Welsh

Reading the World Around Me, Devin Welsh

Bars, Diners, Restaurants, Reunions, Rina Terry

Observe and Absolve, Kyle Howey

Norman Cain

Four Wheels and a Fly Swatter, Alicia DeSimone