PROCESS a multimedia zine
VISION
ZU H R A A M I N I
CO N T R I B U TO R S
L AYO U T
MICKEY SHIN
S U P P L E M E N TA RY V I S I O N
M A R LY N A J A N E L M AY R A C A STA Ñ E DA
E X T R A S P EC I A L T H A N KS
S U S A N N E B E EC H E Y KAZI JOSHUA LY D I A MC D E R MOT T
marlyn ajanel zuhra amini anonymous mayra castañeda kerr ivan cirilo roberta delilo daphne gallegos ashley hansack kyle levin nathaly perez casey poe mickey shin olivia thomas brenna two bears wangeci cherokee washington anna zheng
who are you in the
p ro cess
The theme was an invitation and provocation to reflect on being in the process of in the capitalistic society we inhabit, in which we must always be our best most efficient selves. The project, itself, was realized as a process of creating and taking ownership of publishing space at a higher education institution with a largely white upper class demographic. Navigating the publishing world pressures most to make themselves palpable and marketable in often compromising ways. Amongst these pressure, there are specific pressures imposed on people of color in publishing spaces. I do not have space here for a detailed analysis of them but know that, as such, this zine was created by POC with POC content. This is not say this zine solves any problem but I hope it allowed our contributors additional ground to play with their creative processes.
cover photo by zuhra amini
e moci o nes Las emociones son poderosas. Nos hacen sentir, nos hacen querer mentir, nos hacen querer huir. Nos hacen querer llorar, nos hacen querer borrar, nos hacen querer gritar. A veces nos sentimos attados, otras veces nos sentimos robados. Pero no debemos olvidar el poder de las emociones. Nos hacen sentir, nos hacen querer decir la verdad, nos hacen querer confrontar una gravedad. Nos hacen querer sonreir, nos hacen querer recordar, nos hacen querer cantar. A veces nos sentimos liberados otras veces nos sentimos generosos. Pero no debemos olvidar, el poder de las emociones. mayra castaĂąeda
diaspora like calling mama and saying “i’m fine” because i have no other words diaspora like having silly boys in elementary school squish their eyes and saying “i’m just like you” diaspora like not having the conventional white ingredients at home diaspora like my middle school friends telling me i always smell like “chinese noodles” diaspora like learning the word “chink” from your white friends diaspora like an outsider looking into a white box with white families diaspora like claustrophobia, two walls closing in on you, no escape diaspora like choking diaspora like drowning diaspora like fury so hot that it dissipates once released diaspora like diaspora like diaspora like d i a s p o r a hyperventilates in yellow. diaspora like me.
anna zheng
R E F L ECT I N G O N MY B O DY W H E N I A M I N T H E P RO C E SS O F D E TA N G L I N G . (a wangeci x roberta delilo collaboration.)
roberta delilo
“I LOVE YOU.” The words were in English. The sentiment was universal enough I thought, something we had both heard of, if not experienced for ourselves. Yet I found myself using those words as a placebo for things I could not say like “how are you so desperate to belong when everything looks and smells like you?” and “why me? why do you need to hear this from me?” I used the word “love” when I had nothing else. We were young to each other. We were young to the universe. We only had “love” in English.
wangeci
Mujercita mujer mia, how can you give when all anyone did was take? how can your body be filled with soul when it was covered in bruises for most of your life? your children ridiculed you for being too soft and hated you when your voice was too loud. your entire life was a series of never good enough you were taught that life was meant to be hard. life did not offer you a bite of the sweetest peach instead, you were expected to grow strong enough on tortillas and salt you were expected to carry your three children on your back while everyone believed that your weakness was your fault Your heart was squeezed and twisted by a man who cannot love And the pain is a ghost reminding you that you should not be so full of hope Your smile has lost its curve, and still, You are the most beautiful lady in my eyes I regret that you feel like you’ve been forgotten, because you have been. It seems as if no amount of glue could piece you together. Still, the purple impressions across your arms Have not left an impression in your heart And the roughness of others has only taught you to be softer. -M.A
marlyn ajanel
reflecting on my body in the process of racial identity
“It is our task as Xicanistas, to not only reclaim our indigenismo- but also to reinsert the forsaken feminine into our consciousness.� - Ana Castillo
nathaly perez
I’ve been out of school for about 2 years now and have had the privilege of working in the communities I grew up in. It hasn’t been all roses and rainbows tho. I have come to realize how corrupt these nonprofits are. White people are still on top. The goal is to get money from our poor communities. It’s fucked up and I’m figuring out how to survive and thrive. Recently I’ve been leading campaigns for environmental justice and against gentrification in Los Angeles. More notably I’ve been working to fight factories polluting black and brown poor neighborhoods, taking over alleys and vacant lots to push the city to convert them into parks and gardens, leading murals, and fighting for increased and improved pedestrian safety and street services.
Reflecting on my body when I am in the process of living.
ashley hansack
My body in the process of organizing.
I have been organizing in Watts for about 1 year now. We have been taking over blighted vacant lots in the community and fighting for this one in particular to become a park. It is hard work being an organizer. Self care is super important. It’s been super rewarding as well. It has been an honor being able to organize in the neighborhoods I call home.
ashley hansack
In the process of accepting. You know what you did to me and you knew it was wrong. You are a coward and weak. You pretend like it never happened. You may not even know it happened. I survived you by living in denial for the things you would do, but maybe what you did was real. I should have said something but I was scared. I was the perfect victim. Living in constant anxiety for 14 fucking years was hell. I have a long way to go until I can forgive you but at least I am in the process of accepting my own sufferings. Fuck you, A broken brown girl anonymous
mickey shin
Hair Politics Why is my half-black, half-white hair a political statement? It is what people fear the most. Two things that come together that should never had the chance to bloom. But it did. America is so rooted in hate that most people don’t even recognize it anymore. I am scared and sad, but mostly sad about the future. My curly head of hair is a target for attacks that can’t actually be justified but somehow will anyway. It poses a threat to half of the Nation. I don’t know why, yet I have been trying to figure it out for a while. I mean my black family has no real power in this America since it has been founded. Laws have been created to separate all minorities from the majority. Meaning all people that are undervalued and have been drowned out, don’t matter on a political or social level. That’s what it feels like. After this election, some say it feels like we are moving backwards but I don’t think that’s true. I just had too much hope, I believed that America would not pick a candidate that didn’t run on sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, and racism, but I was wrong. I don’t think I will ever have that type of hope again, it’s faded at least. After the results came the next day I went to Fubu, one of the many diversity clubs. It was the most diverse room that I have been in since coming to Whitman campus. It was beautifully sad. There was crying, even all of the professors, people I looked up and admired wept with uncertainty. No one talked for a long time but slowly people opened up. They shared how they practiced self-care with ice cream and how they were frightened not for themselves but for their far away families. They shared how they heard guns shooting as Hillary gave her concession speech and how terrified we all should be. There were long pauses that were filled with tears and sighs. I cried as quietly as I could, but as I left that space, I started to sob and fell into the arms of a friend. I was a mess. My hair was a mess. The Nation is a mess.
olivia thomas
marlyn ajanel
kerr ivan cirilo
kerr ivan cirilo
in the process of resurgence
Dííjį́yéego hózhǫ́ dooleeł. If you listen closely, you can hear the accent in my voice.
Diné bizaad, I apologize ahead of time, because it is not Navajo accented english I speak, but english accented beauty.
Just as surely as you take up space in my mind, I consciously clung to your consonant and syllable line every single morning, to the beat of the rising sun and the harmonious tones of my ancestors.
You see, this high school to prison pipeline on our land turned reservation taught me the importance of our continued tradition of oration.
I lost you, diné bizaad
I lost you, diné bizaad
to an Indian-less Indiana, to boarding schools and redskin propaganda.
to academic eurocentrism, to white requirements and optional “cultural pluralism.”
“I don’t understand why Native speakers always introduce themselves in their language, they all follow the same formula. Step outside the box a little, do something new!”
brenna two bears
If I could opt out of this white box the institution calls a safe space, if I knew that I wouldn’t be judged by the color of my face, if I knew that the survival of my language wasn’t a race, maybe I wouldn’t share the life and vitality of diyin’dine’é with you. Clearly, all the times I had to force thick white words through my round brown mouth, originally built for the curves of nizhonigo, and the rhythms of shádí shimá shizhé’é, mean nothing to you.
The white of my teeth speak, ”Hello. My name is Brenna Two Bears.” The white of my eyes see a name tag that reads, “Hello. My name is Brenna Two Bears.” Is that not enough for you?
So I continue to fight tongue to teeth, cheeks hollowed and brow furrowed in concentration. Ya at eeh. Ya at eeh. Ya at eeh! Until my language no longer sounds learned. Until I can learn to say hello, and not feel my face burn in shame. Yá’át’ééh. Shí éí woruṥik’sebi ga yinishyé. Repeat those words to myself, because no one here can speak with me, can demonstrate the correct way to pronounce and enunciate. Zhe naxgu’na. Nana’xgu? But if my language of beauty cannot reach you, then lemme give you the remix. 60% of aboriginal children in Canadian residential schools died while attending.
brenna two bears
The suicide rate of native teens is more than twice the rate of any other racial demographic. One in 3 indigenous women will be raped at least once in her life. 1.5 billion acres of land were stolen from the indigenous people of the United States.
Out here, there is only me.
So out here, I live and breathe,
my language.
brenna two bears
kyle levin
cherokee washington
Reflecting on the process of braiding my hair
Whenever I sit down and begin the ritual that is taming the beast on top of my head, I’m more aware of my body than I usually am. Being Black and Native American, I’ve been blessed with a crown of curls that are hard to control, but worth every broken comb, years of tender headedness, and curious comments from strangers. Braiding my hair is the only way I can maintain and keep my curls healthy, but this particular process is a constant reminder of my dark skin, my curved hips, my big thighs, and slanted eyes courtesy of my rich heritage. Now, this isn’t to say that braiding my hair is a trigger that makes me hyper aware of my body in space in a negative manner. Rather, it reminds me that I come from a history of multicultural beauty that was cosmically orchestrated and gave me the body I have and love so dearly. I guess this is all to say that, being in a Black body, especially in our society today, is difficult and can be detrimental to one’s self esteem, although it shouldn’t be. It’s sometimes hard for us to say, “yes! I love my muscular legs and my big booty as Brown woman” because our bodies are always othered by the majority. But screw that, I do love my legs, I DO love my muscular legs, and I DO LOVE MY BIG BOOTY. Curly hair is just one reminder of why I love the body I’m in and the process of braiding my hair helps me remember to be thankful for and take care of this chocolatey vessel I call my own. And thus, I reflect on my body when I’m in the process of braiding my hair and I’m so glad I can.
I AM IN THE PROCESS OF FEELING COMFORTABLE IN MY OWN SKIN AGAIN.
daphne gallegos
cherry blossoms Springing from a small dismal seed, you contrast against nature with your dark wood. When the wind blows, your tiny pink offspring that showers the word with color. Your petals sing your beauty, by dancing with each other to form emotions. You take away that experience from the world, with your absence. And with your presence, you make dull scenery revive. Your wood, so very still, hypnotizes creatures with your natural beauty. Originating from such a beautiful place, you represent your native home. Sakura, your sweet sounding native name, Cherry blossoms all the same.
mayra castaĂąeda
Thinking of this I realize I reflect on my body when I am in the process of getting ready, right after I eat, in the morning, right before I shower, while I work out, and when I’m scrolling through social media (unfortunately). And I would like to think that, overall, all of this is in the process of self-care. How I feel about my body always changes, some days I really like my body while other days I wish I could change everything about it. casey poe
A Scene A woman crying profusely parked at a 4-way, STOP. I came home with this projection in my head. Wide shot: A second commuter approaches the 4-way, STOP. Close up: Foot on pedal the second commuter’s car halts. Wide shot: The commuter waits, yielding to the first commuter’s prerogative (positioned to the left of the second commuter). I thought she just arrived to the 4-way, herself, a few seconds ago. So I, like the responsible driver I am, yielded while also caught up in planning an evening in with junk food. I had yet another unfulfilling day at my job downtown and wanted something, really anything, that would resurrect the day. I think above all this, maybe I was distracted by a gnawing dread of the typicality of it all . . . but that’s too much introspection and this is hardly about me. Caught up as I was, I didn’t know she was upset at first. Wide shot: The second commuter’s car sits ideal for a couple minutes until Close up: embarrassment and confusion play on the second commuter’s face with the realization of time. I had been there for a bit! Wide shot as the camera glides from the second commuter’s car to the first and zooms into a close up: The woman is crying, devastated. Close-up: The second commuter squirms exasperated. I couldn’t tell why she was upset. She didn’t look hurt and her car seemed to be fine. I didn’t know whether to park myself, as she had done, and console her. But who am I? And can I do that? And I still had to get home to get my evening in before waking up to the gnawing. But why isn’t she aware of her impedance? As I was still clinging on to the rules of road she, parked as she was at a 4-way exercising her right of way prerogative, didn’t notice me at all. This would not do. Wide shot: The second commuter claims the right of way and releases the brake. Shot looking out of the second commuter’s right side window: As the car drives through, the woman’s eyes meets the second commuter/viewer just as the second commuter’s car aligns with the woman’s car. Bird’s eye view: The second commuter’s car is past the intersection and now out of the frame. The first commuter’s car remains – idle.
zuhra amini
in the
in f c r e at o s s e c p ro
zuhra amini
g s pa c e
PROCESS a multimedia zine