Because we have the right to create and distribute work that critically considers the world around us and our place in it as young women and as women of color. Because we have the right to let others know what we think, connect with those who feel the same way, and educate those who disagree. Because we have the right to acknowledge that we have been oppressed as women and as women of color and to encourage other women to identify and fight against oppression in their lives. Because we have the right to help cultivate a strong female community at K College, in Kalamazoo, in this country, and in the world. Because we fucking hate patriarchal, hierarchical, bourgeoisie, white supremacist society that tells us we're weak. Because we have the right to not speak, and listen, and shout at the top of our lungs, and be acknowledged and respected. Because we have the right to wear our hair naturally, cut short, legs hairy, short dresses, or low cut shirts without being ogled. Because we have the right to flaunt our sexuality and visions without consequences, threats, or fear. Because we love our fat, bony, curved, muscular, soft, pale, dark, golden, beautiful selves. Because we remember that what we do to the earth and each other, we do to ourselves. Because our anger and sadness and empathy and love is valid, and we won't apologize for it, or let it be burned out or turned against us. Because we believe the change will not be televised, tweeted, posted, tagged, blogged about, painted, sung, scrawled, or published. Because we believe the change starts from within. Because we believe in the inherent dignity of each and every person. Because we believe in a better world with our whole spirits, minds, and bodies, and imagining and working toward one is what we do.
Experiences*with*Beauty*from:**
The EXOTICA**
* * So*ever*since*I*hit*puberty*I’ve*been*told*that*I*am*“exotic”.*It’s*funny*cause*before*I* was*just*black*or*muddy*brown.*Morena,*(or*if*someone*took*special*notice)*a*mixed*girl;* Not*White.*And*I*thought*that*was*bad*cause*I*just*knew.*Even*as*a*little*girl*I*knew.*Even* before*knowing*that*I*knew.*I*felt*their*dirty*eyes*stabbing*at*my*back,*I*heard*their*pepper* tongues*dancing*behind*their*teeth*and*all*this*told*me*that*being*this*little*brown*girl*was* bad* so* when* somebody* called* me* “exotic”* for* the* first* time* I* was* confused* cause* I* guess* that*meant*that*I*was*pretty,*but*was*that*in*spite*of*my*brownness*or*because*of*it?*Their* words*made*no*sense.*.*but*I*drank*it*up.*The*compliment*dripped*from*their*mouths*and* eyes* like* this* sweet,* stick* nectar* that* only* the* girls* with* the* golden* hair* had* had* the* privilege*to*drink.**I*found*myself*addicted*to*the*taste.*And*sometimes*when*someone*is* kind*enough*to*pass*it*my*way*I*take*a*sip,*but*it*always*leaves*a*bad*taste*in*my*mouth.*But* I’ve* gotten* to* the* point* where* it* just* pisses* me* the* fuck* off* cause* what* the* fuck* does* “exotic”* mean* anyway?* I’m* sure* they* don’t* even* know.* I’ve* tried* to* figure* it* out* and* I’m* pretty*sure*that*the*only*criteria*for*“exotic”*is*being*colored*with*tits.*Maybe*its*cause*of* the*situations*I’ve*been*in*when*people*have*called*me*“exotic”*that*make*me*hate*the*term.* I* mean* sometimes* its* said* by* an* old* lady* behind* the* makeup* counter* at* Macy’s* or* something,*and*I*know*she*means*well*but*usually*its*said*by*girls*with*Vaseline*smiles*and* bitterness*in*their*eyes*who*pet*my*hair*like*I’m*an*animal*on*display.*Or*by*drunken*white* men*whose*mouths*taste*like*beer*and*a*superiority*complex.*Who*get*diversity*points*for* taking*a*brown*girl*home.*Who*slide*their*hands*up*my*thighs*and*whisper*my*name*in*my* ear*all*ethnicOlike,*like*the*way*I*say*it,*like*the*way*my*mother*gave*it*to*me.*Or*men*like* the*old*man*who*sat*next*to*me*on*the*airplane*who*put*his*hand*on*my*knee*and*asked*me* to* kiss* him.* “Has* anyone* ever* told* you* how* exotic* you* are,* Girly?”* That’s* why* “exotic”* is* such*a*dirty*word*to*me.*Its*supposed*to*be*a*complement*but*what*it*really*means*its*that* you’re*pretty*for*not*being*a*white*girl,*the*average,*the*norm,*the*ideal.*And*that*fucking* sucks*because*that*means*that*my*beauty*doesn’t*stand*in*its*own,*that*it*depends*on*being* “the*other”*to*be*beautiful.*The*term*“exotic”*does*not*exist,*it*doesn’t*have*truth*outside*of* the*terms*“normal”*or*“white”*which*means*that*my*identity*as*a*sexual*being*is*completely* constructed*by*Eurocentrism*.*.*.*but*honestly,*how*is*this*different*from*anything*else?*Its* not.* Like* everything* else* such* as* my* identity* as* a* woman,* daughter,* mother,* student,* American,*etc.*is*seen*through*a*colored*lens,*so*again*why*would*this*be*any*different?*I* mean* of* course* it* wouldn’t* be* and* I’ve* accepted* this* truth* as* a* woman* of* color* in* a* Eurocentric*world*HOWEVER*I*just*want*to*bring*to*light*this*microaggression**so*listen:* THE*WORD*“EXOTIC”*IS*A*FUCKING*RACIST,*SEXIST,*OBJECTIFYING*WORD!*So*realize*that* when*you*call*me*“exotic”,*its*just*another*way*of*calling*me*colored,*or*a*spick,*or*a*pretty* nigger.*And*if*I*am*beautiful,*its*cause*I’m*fucking*beautiful.*First.*Colored.*Second.* *
What it's like to be a mixed girl (for those of you who aren't) Emerson Invert I never know what the fuck's going on.
I could leave it at that.
My dad was black and my mom was white, making me Technically Biracial. When i was little, the best way i could sum this up was calling my dad chocolate, my mom vanilla, and myself caramel. It is no longer so simple, especially because neither of my parents are alive anymore and i can't ask them, how am i supposed to embody both of you? and mom, how did you see dad when you were taught that he was less than invisible and dad dear dad how i am i supposed to act even halfway black when my halfway black ass was taken in by mom's family and their quiet Catholicism, when my halfway black ass was surrounded by ivory skin and sunburn growing up, when my halfway black ass didn't know what a weave was until i was fourteen after you'd already died and i can't demand, how did i miss this? Can't i demand, how did i miss this? I remember dragging a brush through curls like all the girls at school could crying and grasping at straws, tugging at teased tendrils, and tears: why can't my hair be long and blonde, why can't i be normal, dad this isn't a good poem. but race is hard for me to think about and hard is hard for me to write about so i'm doing my best: When i was seventeen i learned the word nigrescence at smith college as a Prospective Student via the Women of Distinction read Women of Color program (and my own mixed feelings). Nigrescence: the process of becoming black, literally or figuratively and i realized that the second instance is what never happened to me, and something i have no clue how to begin so when someone calls me black i feel modest and when someone calls me mixed i feel like paint and i want to be painted black paint seeping in beneath tan skin toward some deeper understanding of you, hackberry street, bethel baptist, ashy elbows, acting right, you, your brothers, sister, sepia portraits of black woman named birdie on the upright piano,
your mother's wig, your father's macaroni, you, single black father in a white neighborhood, speaking different around friends, around family, you. So here i stand in the land of limbo, my personal, pigmental purgatory, waiting for some answer. Do you have an answer? Do you, because i have a question: what the fuck is going on and, more, how the fuck am i supposed to be?
Can it ever be? Short Story by: Tshephiso Teseletso Last%night%my%sister%called%and%asked%me%again,%still%in%an%excited%tone%like%the%previous%time:%“Have% you%found%a%boyfriend%yet?”%%For%some%reason,%my%mind%immediately%slid%back%to%that%boy%who%sat%in% the%corner%in%one%of%my%classes.%He%was%not%handsome,%he%did%not%wear%white%sneakers%after%it%had% rained,%he%did%not%have%this%masculine%body%that%I%craved%for%or%have%a%dreamy%voice%that%I%had% always%wanted%in%a%guy.%He%was%just%a%guy%with%a%charm%that%I%just%could%not%avoid%drooling%over.%He% was%tall,%too%outspoken,%and%a%magnet%to%other%girls.%He%possessed%none%of%the%qualities%of%the%ideal% boyfriend%that%my%friends%and%I%picked%in%search%for%my%boyfriend.%%Apart%from%all%these%distinct% qualities%that%he%had,%he%had%one%other%thing%that%I%could%never%make%him%change.%He%had%something% that%I%knew%I%could%never%have%or%be.%We%both%have%something%that%we%could%not%run%away%from%or% hide%before%anyone:%We%had%the%skin%colour,%contrasting%skin%colours.%% I%met%him%just%when%the%timing%was%wrong:%I%had%a%few%weeks%left%before%I%went%back%home.%Possibly% the%location%was%not%that%bad,%or%even%if%it%was,%I%am%unable%to%remember%how%bad%it%was.%The%only% memory%I%have%of%our%first%encounter%was%his%sweetness,%the%calm,%peaceful%and%dreamy%look%that%he% gave%me,%the%very%warm,%friendly%and%irresistible%smile%that%brightened%the%room.%My%heart%was% pounding%so%heavily%and%my%stomach%yielded%these%groans%that%I%decided%to%abandon.%My%head%was% spinning%in%rounds%and%in%kites.%I%had%often%read%of%love%at%first%sight%and%there%was%no%other% definition%that%I%could%come%up%with%for%the%incomprehensible%feeling%that%I%felt%before%his%almighty% presence.% Daily%we%bumped%into%each%other,%in%almost%every%corner%that%I%can%think%of.%He%was%persistently%in% my%presence:%physically%and%mentally.%I%carried%his%image%with%me%wherever%I%went,%somewhere%in% my%heart%it%was%stored%and%somewhere%in%my%head,%I%kept%on%conversing%with%him:%telling%him%all%my% past:%we%cried%and%laughed%together,%the%things%that%I%would%want%to%change%about%the%society%we% live%in,%we%shared%our%dreams%and%toured%the%world,%bonding%in%a%way%that%only%my%fantasy%world%can% showcase.%I%grew%even%more%attached%to%him%in%this%world%of%ours,%that%the%real%world%did%not%seem% fun%and%intriguing%because%of%the%physical%constraints%that%I%experienced%whenever%I%was%closer%to% him%in%reality.% Finally,%I%decided%that%before%I%became%too%attached%and%go%crazy%in%my%world%of%expectation,%I% should%just%get%rid%of%my%fantasies.%Reality%struck%me%that%possibly%there%is%no%way%I%could%ever%have% this%guy%because%we%are%so%different%yet%very%similar.%Our%personalities%are%a%total%match%but%that% does%not%seem%to%help%bring%us%together.%We%have%different%skin%colours.%The%more%I%thought%of%it,% the%more%hopeless%I%became.%I%saw%my%fantasies%as%being%too%fantastic%to%be%real.%Our%worlds%were% separated,%divided%into%two%by%something%that%I%had%no%control%whatsoever%over.%Even%if%I%tried,%went% against%my%principles,%dared%at%all%cost%to%have%him,%I%found%the%probability%of%him%and%I%being% together%fall%below%the%zero%level.%The%more%I%thought%of%it,%the%further%the%scale%level%dropped,% further%below%zero:%into%the%bigger%negative%numbers.% Abruptly,%I%noticed%that%I%haven’t%answered%the%person%who%will%always%be%willing%to%give%me%a%chance% to%talk%my%lungs%out,%somebody%who%is%always%there%to%hear%my%other%side%of%story%and%not%judge%me% or%deny%me%any%opportunity%because%of%what%I%am:%her%young,%black%sister.%Finally%I%found%my% embarrassed%voice,%cleared%my%throat%and%spoke%convincingly%in%a%soft,%calm%tone:%“%I%might%be% younger%than%you%but%let’s%just%say,%you%are%way%too%far%to%understand%the%controversies%of%this% worldPsome%things%just%can%never%be”.%
Baking Cookies with Elizabeth Miranda Hoegberg men have licked your candied legs licked them slick and quiet-quick but still you slowed to see me sit chew my arms and watch them bleed you showed me better things to bite and better things than hate we jaw as one on crooked feet gorged on kitchen scent and love we eat the air we gulp the fleshy smell of us of sugar all around your golden legs your steaming hair perhaps you crackle crunch like cookies oh! you make me meaty greedy eager for your slow warm crumble glad to see our thin skin mingle so much sweetness so much self
Note: "Vine" comes from Smith's long poem about the 2001 Cincinnati race riots entitled Juncta Juvant, which will be zined in full in May. Details on how to access it in the next RPD. V. Vine by Bloody Mary Smith Ten years later it’s what you remember most Falling dappled pink light / risen heat / mulberries Stars raining down from upturned blue / just blossoms because you’re white and safe and at home with your mom and your dad Still there’s always the first time you read “Nikki Rosa” “childhood rememberances are always a drag / if you're Black” So that ten years later you try to remember a different most Falling dappled blood light / risen heat / mulberries Stars raining down from upturned blue / gunshot meteor shower so that ten years later it won’t matter that you were white and safe so that ten years later it wouldn’t have to be the newspapers telling you the whole story many-tongued and crawling over you in stranglehold constricting as vines on old brick houses even ripped away and ten years later leave dark scar lines traced in rivers leaking weeping down red brick façade at least you know now
“childhood remembrances are always a drag”
dredged up editorial words all aslant
“if you’re black”
what truth is this “He wasn’t the only one in Cincinnati shocked by the outburst. The city and the nation had made significant progress on racial issues since the 1960s” “The outpouring of grief / was more intense / because Mr. Thomas was different / He did not have a serious criminal record, and / he wasn’t carrying a gun. / He was shot after running from police, trying to avoid an arrest for old / traffic violations” “Officer Roach / would later explain that he thought Mr. Thomas had reached for a gun in his baggy pants. He said he / feared for his life. / When the two men confronted each other / in the dark alley, / his gun / “just went off,” / the officer said” “Many people couldn’t understand why there was so much rage” Italics your own derision “and I really hope no white person ever has cause
to write about me because they never understand” if only you remembered “Dumpster fire on Elm. / Looting on Vine. / Burning building in Over-the-Rhine.” if only you remembered yourself “Blocks away, a mob / pulled a white man from his car and beat him. / Looters raided and burned a furniture store, / carrying off lamps, chairs, / even a big-screen TV.” so you wouldn’t have to read “But some of the worst damage, / and perhaps the most lasting, was to Cincinnati’s image A city that preferred to keep its racial problems quiet was now the talk of the nation. if only you knew what truth is this “Many people said that’s the way things worked in Cincinnati, / where the topic of race has been shrouded for years / in a polite silence” So that ten years later what you remember most just standing stock still at the center of it baffled as a child knowing nothing only the overheard: to hear looting or the word looting to hear racism or the word racism to hear shooting or the word shooting Stars raining down from upturned blue / just blossoms because you’re white and safe and at home with your mom and your dad hard greeny white clustered close along the branch / just blossoms “and I really hope no white person ever has cause to write about me because they never understand Black love is Black wealth and they'll probably talk about my hard childhood and never understand that all the while I was quite happy” if only you remembered if only you knew _____________________________________________ White folks, flee! Still—there is me! White foks, fly! Here am I!
I had never been ashamed of my skin before As I walked down the chalky ancient road, I carefully stepped over massive coconut tree leaves. They yearned to be grasped by the mighty trunk of the temple elephant on its daily round through the village. I looked at the homes that lined the street now. The old woman who once blessed me with a banana stood behind her prehistoric cast-iron gate and did not wave like she did all the other times. She stared. I continued. The home where the man who had made thousands of ornate masks that overwhelmed my big almond eyes as a child no longer stood. Its old plot of dust lay in the shadow of a tall skeleton of cement. I tried not to let the looming apartment complex taint my memory of this place. I walked a little faster. As I tried to estimate the amount of steps between my Ama’s house and the train tracks like all the other times, I was interrupted. Construction workers brought from the north shouted at me in Hindi. Though a tongue foreign to Kerala and a seemingly innocent mind like mine, I knew why they shouted. I ran home so quickly I had to hold the edges of my dress down. I realized I was wearing a dress. My abnormally curly black hair clung to my face wet with either tears or sweat. Maybe both. I wanted to scratch the freckles off of my milky tan face and conceal my big almond eyes behind one of those ornate masks. But the mask maker was dead. His home was taken over by those workers, and I could not hide. This was not like all the other times.!
what is white dough snow salt not my fault make it right fuck that shit fuck that box start again find the light
—Graphic by SLYCHEE
I know lots of Good People. You know them, too – they volunteer, engage with the community, have deliciously cliché college application essays. We don’t really run in the same circles, but on occasion, they’ll talk to me. I read this really good book lately, they say. I get excited because so have I! I wonder if it’s a classic or contemporary and if I’ve read it already. But before I can ask the title, it hits me: someone has obviously casually mentioned to this person that I’ve been in a rather unfortunate, non-consensual sexual situation. Of course this is why they’re talking to me, I’m just another charity case for them to feel good about. I already know what book it’s going to be, some Young Adult novel I outgrew before anyone would think to call me a Young Adult. The book is Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson (of if they’ve Seen A Really Great Movie Lately, it’s the 2004 Lifetime adaptation of it starring Kristin Stewart) or Just Listen, by Sarah Dessen, you know, the prolific author whose books all are about troubled girls and look the same. Or, god forbid, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. When these people find out that I want to study law, they nod knowingly and solemnly and pat me on the shoulder. I have made the mistake of telling them I am considering criminal law, and they think I want to be valiant, heroic prosecutor and put Very Bad Men in jail left and right, because, you know, it’s just that simple. I guess I didn’t mention that I want to be a defense attorney in the style of Atticus Finch or something, but since they hadn’t wanted to talk to me about books I really do like, they wouldn’t know that. I’ve also considered going into contract law, but it doesn’t matter to them. I could tell them I also wanted to declare Holy War on the United States or moonlight as a meth dealer, but they would still say, Oh, how brave of you, how noble, and be able to walk away knowing that they have convinced me to do something Good and have somehow Changed The World today. I think next time they ask about which type of law I want to practice, I am just going to say Maritime. - Princess Peach
1. I am twelve years old holding an Irish fiddle. I am learning for the first time that Asian American is not the same as white. I know this weekend Fleadh cheoil isn’t about who can be the most white. It’s about who can play the best music but I feel like I’ve lost already, already placed last because there was some secret difference between a Suzuki violin and an Irish fiddle that nobody told me about. Some unwritten assumption about Irish freckles and light hair that everyone was born knowing, but I just didn’t realize until now as I’m sitting down in a chair and telling the judge I’m going to play a hornpipe from his homeland with these Chinese fingers. 2. Hi, I’m Jasmine. Nice to meet you. Hey, Jasmine. Where’re you from? I’m from Ann Arbor. You know, U of M. No, like, where are you from? My grandparents were from China, but I was born here. I’m third generation. 3. People always ask, “What’s the difference between a violin and a fiddle?” Depending on the mood, I say, “They’re the same instrument, just different styles of music.” Or, “One of ‘em’s got beer spilled on it and the other one don’t.” 4. Nine o’clock Sunday evening, and I’m sitting in the pub with three old Irishmen. Today, I’m not the only Asian in the building. I can see two girls, international exchange students I’m guessing, giggling at the bar and snapping pictures of us. I keep my head tucked down against my chinrest, sneak glances at them from the corner of my eyes while my fingers fumble over the strings, pretending to keep up until the tune ends and scattered applause
trickles across the floor. Immigrant from the old country props his fiddle on his thigh and leans over for a sip of the Irish coffee by his feet. “This is my student Jasmine,” he introduces me to the flute player. “Her grandparents are from China but she doesn’t speak Chinese. She’s learnin’ to play the fiddle. A really lovely player. Really good.” 5. I am seventeen years old, competing in the last Fleadh of my life. When it is over I will not even bother to pick up my score sheets. After I play and fail to make the cut to the next round, I walk out of the backroom and into the bar just as a little girl is walking in with her mother. She’s wearing a red velvet dress and carrying her fiddle case slung over her shoulders, backpack style. Her straight black hair is caught up in two ponytails, and I want to tell her: Play the fiddle because you love it, not because you didn’t think you were good enough at classical violin to make it in an orchestra. Sing Irish because you fell in love the first time you heard a reel, because of that hitch in your throat that makes it hard to breathe when the music starts running away with your lungs so fast you can’t keep up and just sit there gasping, knee twitching, nervous spasms to the tune pounding so thick your eyes throb with it. Play hard, because when your eyes are closed, head rocking to the beat, you won’t see the questions. —Jasmine An first-year
Every night before bed my father would read to my brothers and I. One night he read us a picture book about Harriet Tubman helping the slaves escape to freedom on the Underground Railroad. The book that he read us was a picture book from a set of three books about important women in history. The women featured in the other two books were Betsy Ross (who is credited with sewing the first American flag) and Anne Frank, but Harriet was my favorite. She seemed so brave and selfless, helping to free other people even though it was so dangerous and even spying for the Union during the Civil War. The book was filled with colorful drawings of the antebellum South, huge green fields of tobacco and white tufts of cotton broken up by the laboring slaves and their overseers. We had leaned in school that the slaves were black and their masters were white and the images in the book showed just that, dark skinned slaves and their pale masters. I looked down at my arms, freshly scrubbed in the bathtub, and frowned. My skin didn’t look like that. Instead of being the dark brown or creamy white in pictured in the book, it was a light tan-ish color that matched the pale wood of the kitchen cabinets. I was confused. How did I fit into this story? Was I a black slave or a white master? It seemed like I had to be one or the other and there was no other option. When my father finished the story and closed the book, I asked him whether we would have been the masters or the slaves. It’s only now, with some perspective, that I can truly appreciate the difficulty of the position that I put him in. How do you explain hundreds of years of racism, slavery, oppression, and privilege to your 7-year-old, daughter from a Japanese/Italian immigrant family who has only been taught to think in black and white? My dad paused for a moment, thinking it over. Then he told me that there were options beyond just black and white, slave and master. He said that we would have fought the masters and tried to free the slaves. “Like Harriet Tubman?” I asked. “Yeah, like Harriet Tubman,” he replied. -E.M.D.
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Please send praise, insults, and writing or art to rpd.grrrls.riot@gmail.com by 8 May themes: sex