July 28, 2022

LIT

Meet Nué

Chicago’s Youth Poet Laureate is an Out South Connoisseur (from the Hunnids, to be exact).

BY CHIMA IKORO

Nué, who recently released their first book, Waning, shares how they went from hating poetry to being crowned 2020’s Chicago Youth Poet Laureate, and how who they are is heavily influenced by where they’re from.

Who are you?

I think it’s very important that I’m a South Side nigga, from the Hunnids (hundreds), from Chicago. Not just any South Side nigga from the Hunnids, from Chicago—I’m a Libra. That’s very important. I’m a writer, storyteller, poet.

Sometimes I like to think of myself as someone who just records what’s happening and what’s already happened around us.

What was the genesis of your writing?

The genesis of my writing is actually so super funny—it’s not that funny, but I like it. So basically, my grandma used to make me go to church, I used to hate going to church. It’s not a secret, it’s not something I’m ashamed of. I hated going to church. And every time I would go there, she would have cough drops or peppermints. I’d be like, “Grandma, I am so bored, like what’s tea?” She would just give me a piece of paper, and she’d just tell me to write. She would be like, “I don’t know, write something.” I just used to draw honestly, and the drawings were not good, but they were drawings.

I think I started drawing like in 2nd 2 SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY

¬ JULY 28, 2022

grade and my mom made me read a lot.

Always. Even if I had the audio book, she would even have me read the book while I was listening to the audiobook. I was always like this super reader. At a point it felt wrong to be drawing these people I would just draw, and they not have a story, so I would write their story. I’d have notebooks of just stories and writings.

But poetry came a lot later.

Honestly, I’d always hated poetry. My understanding was it was about some old dead white poet who wrote it. Old white poets used to love talking about clouds and shit like that. I just hated poetry, but going into my freshman year of high school I remember being at home, and I was super bored, and I just randomly YouTubed spoken word. So random, especially for someone who has always despised poetry, and I instantly fell in love—I’m super impressionable.

I used to rap in elementary school, and it wasn’t good but it was good for its time, it was good for my age. So I tried out for my LTAB (Louder Than a Bomb) my freshman year, and I barely made it!

[Nué laughs hysterically] I think my coach laughed in the middle of my poem!

My coach fucking laughed at me in the middle of my poem, and there were some other people, they were judging the poem for the tryout—yes we had to try out. It was not no open, present, type thing.

Continued on page 4

SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY The South Side Weekly is an independent non-profit newspaper by and for the South Side of Chicago. We provide high-quality, critical arts and public interest coverage, and equip and develop journalists, artists, photographers, and mediamakers of all backgrounds.

Volume 9, Issue 22 Editor-in-Chief Jacqueline Serrato Managing Editor

Adam Przybyl

Senior Editors Christopher Good Olivia Stovicek Sam Stecklow Martha Bayne Arts Editor Education Editor Housing Editor Community Organizing Editor Immigration Editor

Isabel Nieves Madeleine Parrish Malik Jackson Chima Ikoro Alma Campos

Contributing Editors Lucia Geng Matt Moore

Francisco Ramírez Pinedo Jocelyn Vega Scott Pemberton Staff Writers Kiran Misra Yiwen Lu Director of Fact Checking: Kate Gallagher Fact Checkers: Ella Beiser, Savannah Hugueley, Phan Le, Kate Linderman, Yiwen Lu, Bry Moore, Sky Patterson, Grace Vaughn, and Grace Del Vecchio Visuals Editor Bridget Killian Deputy Visuals Editors Shane Tolentino Mell Montezuma Staff Illustrators Mell Montezuma Shane Tolentino Layout Editors Colleen Hogan Shane Tolentino Tony Zralka Webmaster Pat Sier Managing Director Jason Schumer Director of Operations Brigid Maniates The Weekly is produced by a mostly all-volunteer editorial staff and seeks contributions from across the city. We publish online weekly and in print every other Thursday.

Send submissions, story ideas, comments, or questions to editor@southsideweekly.com or mail to: South Side Weekly 6100 S. Blackstone Ave. Chicago, IL 60637 For advertising inquiries, contact: (773) 234-5388 or advertising@southsideweekly.com

Cover illustration by Jade Rector

IN CHICAGO The city as identity In this year’s Lit Issue—our first since the beginning of the pandemic—we explore the importance of place in shaping identity. In book reviews and Q&As, Weekly writers—and writers we interview—examine what it means to tie one’s identity to a city or neighborhood; why they write about the South Side; and how our understanding of where we live is also informed by stepping outside our neighborhoods and experiencing how others live. Many of the ideas for book reviews were crowdsourced by our Community Organizing section editor Chima Ikoro and feature books both old and new, which we believe are worth revisiting. This issue also features an expanded Exchange section, with letters from incarcerated writers and old Weekly articles that youth transformed into poetry.

We hope that you’ll read through the issue and get inspired to get a book from the library or one of the many bookstores we highlight in the issue—or even to take up the pen yourself.

A shortage of school librarians Over the past decade, the number of school librarians has dropped significantly.

There has been a twenty percent decline nationwide. Locally, this means that out of the 513 district-operated schools—not including charter schools—more than 400 Chicago Public Schools do not have a librarian.

Alison Macrina, an activist librarian and the director of Library Freedom Project, thinks leaving it up to students to access information using only digital tools can be dangerous. Macrina said digital tools like Hoopla—which provides online and mobile access to eBooks, audiobooks, comics, music, and movies through a partnership with schools across the country, including CPS—bring up misinformation and disinformation in their searches. “A whole bunch of us noticed that search results in Hoopla for things like the Holacaust, COVID, feminism, abortion and other quote unquote controversial issues…not only are filled with misinfromation and disinformation in their search results, but those are the primary results.” The Sun-Times reported that this decline in librarians began with a formula called Student Based Budgeting (SBB) which allocates dollars to schools based on the number of enrolled students, an approach that hurts Black and brown students in low-income communities.

City violated civil rights of Black and Latinx residents A report from the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) blasts Chicago officials for racist and discriminatory policies that concentrate polluting industries in Black and Latinx neighborhoods already burdened with environmental and health issues. The report was spurred by complaints from community organizers about the proposed relocation of General Iron, a metal scrapping facility, from Lincoln Park to the Southeast Side, which the Weekly has covered extensively. HUD found that the City did not listen to residents’ concerns about exacerbating health problems and played a key role in facilitating the move, denying the permit only after organizers had placed intense pressure on officials to respect their demands. If the City doesn’t change how polluting industry is planned and zoned, it risks losing HUD funding, federal money that goes toward housing in Chicago. Last year, it was $375 million. In response, Mayor Lori Lightfoot has denied any wrongdoing and vowed to challenge HUD on the report, instead of recognizing the negative impact her and previous administration’s decisions have had on the health and safety of Black and Latinx communities—one recent example is her refusal to make public the Inspector General report about the botched implosion in Little Village during the pandemic.

IN THIS ISSUE meet nué

Chicago’s Youth Poet Laureate is an Out South Connoisseur. hima ikoro................................................2 where i’m at A review of a dazzling collection of poems and visuals reflecting the many sides of the Windy City. sarah luyengi...........................................5 where to get ‘lit’ out south Where to find great books on the South Side, featuring Kido. chima ikoro..............................................6 the exchange: marketplace The Weekly’s poetry corner offers our thoughts in exchange for yours. chima ikoro, nué, armani rogers, alycia kamil, kierra wooden.................7 meet nate marshall

The South Side writer and educator takes us through the experiences that shaped his world view and his work. chima ikoro............................................11 meet kierra wooden

The writer and multidisciplinary artist, also known as Ho3micide, from the South Side. chima ikoro............................................13 the block party on the beach

Despite some mixed feelings, the energy at the new location did not disappoint. kia smith................................................... 15 cycles of imprisonment, escape, and healing Review of I Can Take It From Here: A Memoir of Trauma, Prison, and SelfEmpowerment by Lisa Forbes. molly morrow........................................17 book review: the third coast Thomas Dyja details how the city of Chicago made its mark on American arts and culture. sado marinovic......................................18 this empty cage

featuring poems from currently or formerly incarcerated writers. arnold joyner, jomar lopez, justin dismuke, peter saunders, oscar curtis...........................................20 book review: the south side Natalie Moore weaves history and her own story to illuminate segregation in Chicago. ariana v...................................................24 paper machete

This section of The Exchange features black-out poems created by current and graduated high school students. roots crew.............................................25 community, nostalgia, and 'vaporú' A review of Citizen Illegal, a book of poetry by José Olivarez. reema saleh...........................................29 comunidad, nostalgia, y vaporú Una reseña de Citizen Illegal, un libro de poesía de José Olivarez. reema saleh, alma campos...................30

LIT

I remember my best friend was like, “How did you do?” and I was like, “I did not make that shit bro, they laughed at my poem.” I definitely don’t have that poem now; it’s burned, it’s gone, it’s in the earth now. My best friend was like, “they WHAT? Aw naw, we gotta figure out what they laughed about!”

everybody. It shapes how I talk, where I want to put my roots in.

I come from that big group of Chicagoans whose ancestors come from the South.

My entire family is from the South, I have no family whose ancestors are from the north. My entire mom’s side is from Mississippi, my entire dad’s side is from Alabama. I claim Mississippi a whole bunch. Damn near all I write about is being from Mississippi, and Black people from the South, and Black Chicagoans and their way of life.

They had me go all the way back into the school, all the way up to the third floor, and made me ask my coach—who wasn’t my coach at the time—made me ask what she laughed at. She just kind of shoo-ed me off, and laughed again saying, “Don’t take it personal, you did good.” And so, I barely made the team. That’s how I got into writing.

What are you excited for?

Why do you think writing about the South Side is important?

I feel like it’s just as important as everything else I write about, whether it’s something as miniscule as the bus going on the South Side, or someone I love. I have a popular poem I do, it’s really short, but it’s one of my favorites because it was one of the first poems I was experimenting with in terms of form and how I was writing. I think writing and liking that poem made me want to write about the South Side a little bit more. I give my best work to my niggas and my community and myself, that’s where my best work comes from. So when I write about the South Side, it’s important to me because I know I’m not going to commodify it. That’s why its important to me—because I know I’m not going to read it to niggas who can’t relate to it, who don’t know what I’m talking about.

You can have an audience of people that consume your work, yet that’s not who you write for. So I won’t ask who your audience is, I’m wondering who do you write for?

That’s kind of how I interpreted the questions because who I write for isn’t

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NUE´, ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY HAMMERMEISTER

usually my audience. I was reading some of my old journals and this one line I wrote said, “I’m writing just to breathe.”

That’s really what I be doing for real.

Literally just write to breathe just to get weight off of my shoulders. I write for me, honestly, and that’s not how I started off at all. When I was writing those stories in [middle school], I was having people read my writing because I wanted them to read it. And they would be like, “Okay Nué, where’s the next chapter?”

The stories weren’t good, they were like Wattpad stories, but they were really fun to write, and they were really fun to see how other people experienced them. When I look back on that I think I couldn’t have been writing for me, but I think I was because even when I was pumping out things to write, I was doing that because I needed someone to talk to

about my writing. I do truly do things on the terms of ’I write for me’. Even when I’m going to write a performance piece it’s because I’m in the mood to perform.

I’m in the mood to be consumed.

What is your favorite poem out of your book?

Oof. I would have to say, there’s this one called “How I Describe Her to Others.”

It’s that poem and then the next two are “Waning” and “Working On It”.

Does where you’re from shape who you are?

It shapes a lot of my personality, because a lot of my personality is being from the city I’m from. That may be corny or cliche but that’s the truth. It shapes how I look at people—everybody, and I mean

I am excited for my move. When I was writing my book, I told myself that when I was done writing it, I was gonna move.

And so I’m moving to a place I’ve never been before. So that’s very exciting. I’m moving to Philly, I’ve never been. I was looking for a city that’s just as affordable as Chicago, and close to other cities I would want to travel to, unlike Chicago, and then I wanted it to have Black people.

What is your favorite place Out South?

The Point. The Point, The Point, The Point, The Point. It’s the place that I can go to and literally just sit at, and just be at peace. I have a lot of East Coast friends and they’ll be like “you’ve never been to the beach, yada, yada, yada”—I don’t care what nobody says, Lake Michigan is an ocean. It’s The Ocean, it’s my ocean!

One last thing: to Southsiders, G, the Kenwood graduates specifically are out here trying to spread this propaganda that [redacted] is good when Italian Fiesta is down the street. That’s all I have to say. I think that’s a little wild—I know it’s accessible, I know you could get it fast, but I think that kind of speak to my point. Chima Ikoro is the Community Organizing section editor for the Weekly.

LIT

Where I’m At

A review of a dazzling collection of poems and visuals reflecting the many sides of the Windy City.

BY SARAH LUYENGI

W

hen I’m asked where I’m from, I often have to pause before answering, “Well, Chicago,” before going into a speedy thirty-second summary or explanation of my life. Because, yes, I was born in Chicago to immigrant parents, but then I moved to the suburbs, and then, well, I spent most of my youth in central Illinois, but I couldn’t stand that “cookie-cutter farmtown” feel so I returned to the city to complete my college education. But, in the end, Chicago has always been a part of my story, a part of my identity, and Wherever I’m At: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry reflects just that: an array of people who were born and raised in Chicago, people who moved to Chicago or lived in Chicago only briefly—poets and artists like Arthur Ade Amaker, Ana Castillo, Tyehimba Jess, Xavier Nuez, and Alma Domínguez to name a few. They help define what Chicago means and is and always will be.

Chicago has been called many things over the years, each term serving its own truth, former truths, and depicting a different side of the city, the neighborhoods, the people, the culture, like the Windy City, Chi-Town, and the White City (some less favorable like “Chiraq”). But these names shine a light on what Chicago is really like. While, sure, it may be windy, its political scene has been described as “long-winded and windy” since the 1800s as the Chicago Reader put it. Carl Sandburg’s poem “Chicago” describes us as “stormy, husky, brawling” and “City of the Big Shoulders…” While Chiraq is one of the more controversial nicknames, it highlights the darker side of the city and has since become the unwanted posterboy for crime and violence.

Featured poems, like “Summer and

the City,” “Chicago is Illinois Country,” “Bronzeville Poet” and “What it is about Chicago” are a strong contrast to headlines like, “Chicago police officer shot,” “Gunman injured in shooting on East side,” “Mother of child killed in hail of gunfire fights for justice.” But each depiction and each poem behaves almost like an old 90s hologram 3D card: tilt it one angle, and a version of Chicago in chaos and crime exists, but tilt it another way, and it’s a version of Chicago, with everyday people, in technicolor. Each version is layered on top of the other.

Each version is part of a larger truth.

Angela Jackson paints a nostalgic version of Chicago with “Summer and the City” by weaving lines centering on childhood—“as we danced jagged up and down the street”—with lines depicting the older generation, like “slow rocking grandmothers.” I cracked a big grin reading the lines “last night, night before, twenty four robbers at my door,” recalling when my friends and I sang the same song while jumping rope in the school playground.

While comparing two generations is nothing new, Jackson does so in such a way that instantly pulls the reader into the narrative of warm summer nights, soul food, folding chairs, and street lights.

Chicago is alive in “Summer and the City” but there are also undertones of something more. Lines hint at America’s history in the Deep South, and the Great Migration or exodus of Black Americans fleeing to the North in search of opportunities—a Promised Land. Jackson ends the piece by drawing parallels to the Biblical story of Exodus with “the memory of us, their milk, their honey.”

Elaine Equi’s “Ode to Chicago” portrays the “larger than life” side of the city, comparing buildings and streets

to prehistoric beasts. There’s almost a sense of someone outside looking in— Chicago is massive, all encompassing with “pterodactyls swoop[ing]” and “sea serpent[s] enticing tourists with lewd chatter.” A visitor’s experience can be seen just as that: excessive, extraordinary, extreme, and more. We’ve all seen tourists excited to be taking the bus or train, ooh’ing and aww’ing at the slightest details that we may find tedious. But by using dinosaurs and mythical monsters as metaphors, Equi’s themes of origins and “know[ing] where we come from” shines through.

“Our homeland in exile that floats like a desert island, in the deep and vast sea of the City of Chicago…” is the last line of “A World of Our Own (to the People of Humboldt Park)” by Johanny Vaquez Paz and encompasses the overall piece. Chicago is a city of immigrants, full of rich culture, with 28.6 percent of the population being Latinx, 29.2 percent Black, 47.7 percent white, and 6.8 percent Asian. Humboldt Park in the North Side has a large, but changing, Puerto Rican community and once had the largest Puerto Rican middle class in the Midwest. Vaquez Paz illustrates the neighborhood’s glory days by creating a strong sense of community—“a neighborhood with well known faces” and small businesses, restaurants, and cultural centers. Switching between English and Spanish further enhances the tale of “between two flags,” and the shadows of colonialism.

Also layered throughout the pages is artwork from local artists: black and white images of construction sites, sketches, action shots of Chicagoans in their everyday life, paintings of neighborhood landmarks all answer the question, what is Chicago like? It only enhances the

experience that each visual is from a different year, spanning from the early 1900s until present day.

Each poem and photograph in Wherever I’m At: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry serves to paint Chicago as a whole: several shades of cerulean, azure, burgundy, vermillion representing the stories and voices of the millions that share this city. A city of the old and young. A city of immigrants. A city of low income and extreme wealth. The foreword and introduction both highlight not only the history of Chicago, but its evolution.

One hundred and sixty authors and artists with roots spanning from India and Korea to Nigeria and Chile reflect the essence of the question: what is Chicago like?

As Donald G. Evans writes in the introduction: “This is what it’s like. And this. And this. And this.

And the other.”

Wherever I’m At: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry, Chicago Literary Hall of Fame’s first major publication, $25, plus shipping and handling, 311 pages. Sarah Luyengi earned her B.A. in English with a concentration in creative writing from the University of Illinois at Chicago in 2014. Some of her non-fictional work has appeared in Borderless Magazine.

JULY 28, 2022 ¬ SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY 5

LIT

Where to Get ‘Lit’ Out South

A few places to grab good reads on the South Side, featuring Kido, a radically inclusive Black-owned bookstore.

BY CHIMA IKORO

W

hile the boom in online shopping has made it easy to get any item our hearts desire shipped straight to our doorsteps, there is something irreplicable about the feeling of walking into a bookstore, perusing through bookshelves, and flipping through pages until the right piece of writing calls out to you. So, we’ve compiled a few well-reviewed and well-loved bookstores on the South Side for our readers to visit in their free time.

The Weekly also stopped in to chat with Keewa Nurullah, the owner of Kido, a “diverse kids boutique” and bookstore that carries sustainable clothing and toys, and inclusive books.

Seminary Co-Op and 57th Street Books The Seminary Co-Op Bookstores, Inc. is independently owned and includes two magnificent bookstores located in Hyde Park.

Seminary Co-Op, at 5751 S. Woodlawn Ave., is regarded as one of the best academic bookstores, featuring a wealth of scholarly writing mostly focused on social sciences and humanities. They also carry books covering health and fitness, math and science, history, and more.

57th Street Books, at 1301 E. 57th St., has a more general collection of genres such as children’s books, cook books, science fiction and mysteries.

Their website has comprehensive categories that give patrons a good idea of what they can find in-store, even detailing what’s displayed on the front table. Both stores are now open for in-person browsing amid the ongoing pandemic.

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Paragon Book Gallery Paragon Book Gallery has a long history that started seventy five years ago when the first store was opened in Shanghai. Its flagship store moved from China to New York and then to Chicago, and then back overseas to Beijing.

After opening multiple locations in China, Chicago welcomed Paragon Book Gallery back as they found a new home in the Zhou B Art Center, 1029 W. 35th St. Here, the store offers unique books on Asian culture and art, serving as a “liaison between Chinese and American academic and creative communities.”

Visits to Paragon are by appointment only as they continue to take safety precautions amid the ongoing pandemic.

Pilsen Community Books Pilsen Community Books is a one-stop shop for a wide array of used books in varying categories. Becoming Chicago’s only employee-owned and operated independent bookstore in 2020, the store buys used books from community members and also offers two monthly book subscriptions—a great and sustainable way to circulate books and find your new favorite read.

The subscriptions, titled ‘Seeds of Change’ and ‘Bread and Roses,’ are available to ship anywhere if you aren’t able to stop by the store monthly, making the program hassle-free and accessible. The bookstore supports Liberation Library, an organization that provides books to incarcerated youth.

Pilsen Community Books is now open for in person browsing at 1102 W. 18th St.

Kido, the eye-catching radical children's boutique and bookstore “I think the goal was just to make the books that you would have to dig for at a traditional bookstore easily accessible,” said Keewa Nurullah, the owner of Kido.

“So kind of outwardly reflecting kids of color, children with disabilities, kids who are from marginalized communities, so that they’re in focus.”

When I walked into Kido, located in South Loop at 1137 S. Delano Ct. in the Roosevelt Collection Shops, the first thing that caught my eye was a book titled My Two Moms and Me with diverse stories for kids with lesbian parents.

Kido’s instagram, which has amassed over twenty-one thousand followers, posts their diverse offerings daily, but seeing these books in person evokes a different type of emotion.

They witness many reactions as patrons enter the store; some people gasp, looking around the store in awe and wonder, and others feel so moved they even cry. “It's very powerful to be seen, you know, and to feel like someone has put intention behind you being reflected, and you being cared for and just spoken to,” Nurullah said. Amanda Payne, the store manager, said they keep tissues around just in case. “It really helps us feel like we’re doing something that helps,” Nurullah said.

Nurullah, who grew up on the South Side in Chatham, believes that representation in books and media is crucial to building a strong and healthy foundation for children, which past generations, including our own, have been deprived of. Although these books are seemingly for kids, adults enter the store and leave with literature that speaks to and heals their inner child as well.

Children who may experience trauma or have a hard time navigating the world as a result of their identities, abilities, or family structure can benefit from knowing that while they are special, they are not alone in their uniqueness.

“I can’t remember exactly which book it is, but there’s a Black dad and an Asian mom, which is my family, and I just suddenly was like, ‘I’ve never seen my family [in a book]’,” said Payne. I left the store with one of Nurullah’s favorite books, Your Name Is A Song by Jamilah Thompkins-Bigelow. The book chronicles a young girl who became disheartened when her classmates and teachers cannot pronounce her name. Her mother encourages her to see the musicality in her name and all unique names, highlighting African, Asian, African-American, Middle Eastern and Latinx names. I was drawn to this brightly illustrated read after seeing a name in my mother tongue, Igbo, featured in the book. “It’s really affirming for a lot of people, so [I’m] glad to facilitate that experience,” Nurullah said.

Although Kido offers clothes, toys, cards, pins, decoration, and many other trinkets, they’re a member of the American Booksellers Association—they are, in fact, a bookstore. “I think that some people might not call us a bookstore, or treat us as a bookstore,” Nurullah said, “but we definitely are the go to for children’s for children’s books, you know, diverse children’s books.”

If you get the chance, stop by to take a look and immerse yourself in the restorative power of representation, brought to you by your local Black-owned, Southsiderowned, family-friendly bookstore, Kido. Chima Ikoro is the Community Organizing section editor for the Weekly.

LIT

T

In this special segment of The Exchange, we’re sharing many thoughts in response to a few prompts. he Exchange is the Weekly’s poetry corner, where a poem or piece of writing is presented with a prompt. Readers are welcome to respond to the prompt with original poems, and pieces may be featured in the next issue of the Weekly.

This special edition is more than just an exchange; it’s a marketplace where readers and writers have traded in an array of poems in response to multiple of our prompts. This section includes This Empty Cage (page 20), which features the writings of currently or formerly incarcerated folks, Paper Machete (page 25), where young poets turned our stories into their own tools, and much more.

And it Shall Be Given

Dead Man’s Dogma

i heard that human needs are insatiable; there will always be a new thing for us to ask God for once that last request is fulfilled or forgotten, but that’s just human. some times, i wonder if for every thing we gain, we lose one thing to keep us wishing and wanting and busy. what is there to live for if we have everything we want? if we see stars crossing the sky, or candles on a cake, and we are speechless? our desire—dried up in our throats. our mouths empty and closed, having already been fed.

To Ask is to Exist. to cross my fingers, clasp my hands on the edge of my bed, to rejoice one moment and to revisit that prayer with an addition the next, is to be alive. so i always kneel, squeeze my eyes closed, part my lips to receive. if i can breathe enough to ask in faith, then, if i am not anything else, at least i am still here.

Shoot first and you just might survive Niggas getting by Scheming on people who keep ties Keep ya feet alive Pull it at the white if they eyes I’m never sugar coating shit Won’t even tell a white lie We some Minute men wading in water For our dividends Blood runs thick But it never can tell where rivers end Many men Talking bout fives but never giving ten Came a long way from doing nothing Ask em where they been Inner tensions overcome From doing dumb shit Shedding skins People And other shit we grew up with Take the time to savor ya flavor Don’t Push ya luck Cause when you die All the guilt and your angst Is what you stick with

by chima

“naira”

ikoro

by armani rogers

JULY 28, 2022 ¬ SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY 7

LIT

Directions to find me by nué

If you are looking for me and know it

or

1

Find the nearest blackness Whether it’s the ink you’re reading, a pot of greens, a turned off phone, your eyelids, a city’s sky.

Then find yourself lost in it.

If you come for me, follow the music, let your knees unbuckle. put on the dirty sneakers in your trunk.

If you come for me, come with empty solo cups. bring a bib and a tongue ready for fingers.

I’m leaving tonight and you’re coming after or with me.

Ain’t you ever disappeared before?

We don’t blend in with the blackness we become it.

2

or

If you are looking for me and don’t know it.

I’ll be a light in Chicago’s skyline or a star in Mississippi’s sky waiting for you.

I’ve been chasing my whole life. though your papers are slow burners the lightness of your joint will once dissipate.

The laughter of smoke sessions always grow into only echoes. Bills get high in the city, someone will have to flip the switch Stars always burn out.

We all fade.

I’ve been chasing my whole life who will run for me? hurry.

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The last bus stops running at 11 by nué

When the sun goes down we are speedy snails, slugging our bodies, yearning for our feet to unite with our porch steps. We leave a slimy trail of sweat that slips from the creases of our foreheads that work gave us With the droop of daytime comes the drip of the corners of the bus driver’s mouth How his face sags down to the souls of his shoes like jean back pockets that dwell behind knees How denim dangles on the Dan Ryan’s thighs like dreads I think the 115 Waits for me at 95th. faces jeans hair ambition all sagging gatheronthisbus in a cluster and we are falling fireworks to sink further south into the city like mother’s breast in a spaghetti strap We are all floor huggers weep like willows and wilt in Chicago’s cool night heat At 10:00 pm on the 115, it is finally okay for black folk to be dead white light fallen stars onto earth’s surface.

LIT

Hauntings I don’t mind by armani rogers

Transition glasses For the flashing lights Every night reminded by these people Living different lives Different heights Changing up the code What I’m living like A lil spice here and there She tell me all the shìt she like Playing by some Different rules Got it with some different tools Repo man Collecting on these dudes All these niggas due Ever since I jumped off the porch aint had shit to prove I give it all on every play Like I don’t have shit to lose That’s the game tho Never been the same bro Catch me at a function But I ain’t with the same tho If you gotta ask somebody about me Then its case closed Salty niggas muggin like That ain’t the way the game goes

All my fam Be surprised When they see me in action I guess they’re scared of the life Like it’s a fatal attraction They think I’m doing the most Or I’m out here just acting I’m not same lil boy Who was crying from back when Niggas clowned me all around Cause I was so emotional Paid a few bill off this rapping Played a couple shows Drove my first Mercedes this year I want a couple mo And different whips for different trips something just to drive slow I been Haunted by little things But it make me do more for me I been stepping everywhere And I still got more to see People still want more from me Ether tapping in You gon definitely hear more of me

Genesis

by kierra wooden

i fantasize the moment in which I can stand up in the center of the room and shine. where I can crystallize my pain, and give halos back to my demons.

I’m no longer afraid to cry. i fantasize the moment in which I can stand up in the center of the room and shine... where I can look into my eyes and not flinch at the stories.

I’m no longer afraid to die.

Navy blue Volvo come with more than 4 seats I been looking at Florida suites And I’m plotting on floor seats Every second of my day I be looking for more of me The source of my anxiety I been haunted by little things

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Ode To Nikki Parker by alycia kamil

(2019)

This piece was inspired by the stifling experience of constantly viewing the mistreatment of Black women in film and TV. Growing up it was hard to shake the indoctrination that someone who looks like me would ever be deserving of true love that doesn’t come with being ridiculed either before or after the fact. When we’re constantly witnessing the public humiliation of Black women on screen, it aids & enables what we see in real life.

Black men don’t know what they got, Til they don’t got it no more.

You deserve love, just like anyone else.

You don’t need to be the punchline to anyone’s joke.

The second option, someone’s last resort.

You fine, just the way you are.

When can a Black woman love, without being ridiculed?

When can a Black woman be herself, without being deemed as less than?

Who told you, you weren’t worth more in the first place?

Why does pain always have to be synonymous with love?

Why didn’t anyone tell you, you could’ve done better from jump.

We praised you for loudly being who you are, Just to see you limit yourself to a man who only likes you when you’re silent.

How come black women always gotta be quiet to be desirable?

Why, when we rightfully take up space, we’re expected to shrink to finally be held?

And we can never seem to be small enough.

Love be that fairytale ending we never see.

Someone forgot to add that to our storyline.

True love for us be a typo.

A plot twist.

Our happiness, be the last two episodes of the series, After going through 5 seasons of being laughed at.

And is it really happiness if we had to sacrifice so much

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¬ JULY 28, 2022

for it?

We so good at sacrifice.

So good at holding space for others and never for ourselves.

We be placemat and fine with it.

Were told if we did that, we’d find the right one.

And what do they do to find us?

What sacrifices do they make?

Your worth isn’t because of that man.

Isn’t because he finally saw what he was missing, After years of it being right in his face.

You don’t need that man to bring something out of you we don’t already see.

You don’t need that man to love yourself.

Which is cliche, but we not used to that either.

That’s not language we used to hearing.

Love be like those distant cousins you see once every year, and sometimes not even that.

Black women learn how to love through labor.

We learn to love through hardship.

So much work, that when it comes easy we don’t believe it to be real.

Why do people find humor in a Black woman’s discomfort?

Which part of our embarrassment makes such a good joke?

Why can’t we love without doubt always being there to remind us it’s on borrowed time.

In a world full of Nikki Parkers’ and Professor Oglevees’, There will always be a Black woman who lowers herself to a man who is subpar.

Always will be a Black woman who isn’t scared to love too hard and get hurt.

A Black woman who allows herself to be human for once, And bare herself to the world even if it means they’ll make a mockery out of her.

The whole world watched as you opened your arms, To a man that wouldn’t even give you an inch, And all of that, Just simply, For a laugh.

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Meet Nate Marshall

The South Side writer and educator takes us through the experiences that shaped his world view and his work.

BY CHIMA IKORO

N

ate Marshall is a published writer and educator, among many things. Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago in West Pullman, Marshall is the author of Finna, his latest book of poems illuminating Black vernacular, and Wild Hundreds, the award-winning rhythmic classic that paints a picture of the urban experience.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

How did you start writing?

Initially, I started writing probably in my early teenage years. I was interested in hip-hop and rhyming, and then I saw the show Def Poetry. That was just very cool to me. It kind of gave me this notion that poetry could be a thing, or that poetry was sort of more active than the thing I had thought about it being in my head.

The first thing that I really wrote: we had to do Young Authors, this contest thing, it was required for our school. You had to write a book. For me, I was in the 7th grade, so I was like twelve or I probably turned thirteen. And I was like, “yeah, okay, if we have to do this Young Authors, and I don’t really feel like writing a real book, if I write poems it’ll be easier because poems”—I knew enough to know—“don’t have to take up the whole page.” I was like, “a book of poems doesn’t necessarily have to have a beginning, middle, and end,” so I didn’t have to come up with an idea. So I was kind of trying to not cheat, but finesse. So I wrote this thing and won for my classroom and then for my school.

My English teacher was like, “we’re going to start doing this poetry slam thing, you should be part of it,” and I was like, “no, that sounds terrible. Why would I want to do that? I wrote this thing because we were required to write a thing, and I did it.” But then she kind of made me do it. Then I went to Crossing The Street [the kick-off event for the competition formerly known as Louder Than A Bomb (LTAB)], and I was like, “okay, yeah, this is very cool, actually.” The rest is history. This was 2003.

Why do you find it important to write about the South Side?

I think it kind of comes back to when I started writing. I went to Keller Elementary, sort of in Mount Greenwood.

It was weird because part of the thing about going to that kind of school is kids were being bused from all over the South Side. There were a lot of kids from like that Mt. Greenwood-Beverly-Morgan Park area. I remember doing a social studies project on neighborhood history, and there was something, to me, that was really both frustrating and interesting about that project. Because I think I didn’t really understand what a neighborhood was or understand myself as living in one. For me, what a neighborhood meant was a place like Beverly or a place where all the lawns are done, and there’s signs that say, “Welcome to...”, and there’s white people—that was confusing to me in a way. But also around that time, too, I remember one of the things about going to school with kids who were from outside your neighborhood, there’s that

thing of like, when you make friends with somebody and you’re gonna hang out, this sort of negotiating happens. And I remember at that point certain friends not wanting to come to my neighborhood or their parents not wanting them to. That hurt my feelings, I just didn’t understand.

Going into a space like Young Chicago Authors, like Louder Than A Bomb, at that time, it really opened up—it was the first time that I really began to navigate the city independently, in a broader way.

I’m from West Pullman. West Pullman to Mount Greenwood, they feel very different, they’re very different parts of the city in some ways, culturally, but they’re like ten minutes away. When we did the first LTAB, Crossing the Street was at Noble Street High School, then the whole event was at the Chicago Historical Society, now Chicago History Museum, right in Lincoln Park. And I’d never been over there. I was like, “what is this?” I remember seeing Jewish people wearing Stars of David and thinking they were GDs! That made sense to me. It was like, oh, okay, cool. Why would I really know what that was? I was coming from a place where, in some ways, my vision of the world was so small, I thought all white people were Catholic. It didn’t occur to me that other white people even had religious diversity.

I think the sort of very placebased writing was a way of processing my own place in the world, and all the complications with that. One of the things about being a child who was bused to school and then for high schools traversing so far to go to school, where you’re from then takes on a different kind

of meaning. It’s not a neutral thing. This is maybe not an experience others have until they move away from home, or they go away for college or that kind of thing, but for me, I was having that kind of experience from a pretty young age. So I think it made place central to how I think about the writing. Some of the writing that I first responded to was about place.

One of the poems that still is one of my favorite poems is Beverly Hills, Chicago by Gwendolyn Brooks. The reason why is because the poem is all about the sort of experience of riding through the neighborhood, Beverly, and being like, “damn, they have more money than me.” How does that make them feel? The complication of that, or the minimizing that class does. And that was my experience every single day from first grade to eighth grade, going from West Pullman to Mt. Greenwood. Beverly is where you had to drive through on the bus. I just think all of these things have made writing about Chicago, specifically to the South Side, specifically the Black South Side, a very important, grounding element to my work.

How does where you’re from shape your personality?

There’s two components to that. One is that I’m from Chicago, from the South Side, like born in Roseland Hospital and was pretty much there my entire youth, and so that has really fundamentally shaped me. But the other thing that I think is also true of me, that has also shaped me, and maybe it’s part of, again, why place plays such a big role, is because JULY 28, 2022 ¬ SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY 11

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I feel like I’ve also been really defined or really shaped by being distanced from.

What I mean when I say that is going to school outside of the neighborhood and being bused, which is the thing that I really do for pretty much all my schooling, does something that’s particular perhaps, and then the other thing is when, from like age nine up until I went to college, I would go away for at least three weeks every summer, sometimes for much longer, to like various sort of academic summer camps. Those things really shaped me, because part of the thing I think happens a lot [is that] growing up in one place has particular quirks versus living in another place has particular quirks.

People there do certain things, they say certain things or whatever. But until you leave that place, you don’t know that those things are particular. So like, you don’t understand that everyone doesn’t call it “pop” until you go somewhere that calls it “soda.” But because I had that experience from a very early age, both in like micro and in bigger ways, it had me constantly negotiating that part of myself that was shaped by place and thinking about what I liked of that, what I didn’t like, what was good, what was also negative or what would be stigmatized coming out of that experience.

It’s place, but it’s also identity—it’s a race thing, too, because like when I was going to summer camps I was often one of the very few Black students, particularly like Black men, and particularly if there were other Black men, that their parents were immigrants, which is a little bit of a different experience, right? So that meant that people would then ascribe certain things to me. They’d be like, “Oh, he’s from, he’s dangerous, whatever, whatever.” And then, I just had to decide what I wanted to do with that, sometimes you use that and feed into it in ways that might benefit you, sometimes you’re trying to butt up against that, sometimes you’re just like, “Whatever. I’m just gonna ignore you.” For me, these things have always been working in concert.

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NATE MARSHALL, ILLUSTRATION BY JENNIFER CHAVEZ

Who do you write for?

In so many ways, a lot of people. But I think also recently I’ve begun to think “what if that were a bit more of an intimate practice for me?” Very early in my writing journey, I was introduced to performance and stages. And that has been really great for me, but part of what that does is it makes you think of that question of “Who do you write for?

Who’s your audience?” as literal. What it means is sometimes you get in the habit of processing things that are really personal to you for a literal crowd of people who also might have a different relationship to those things. And so recently, I’ve started

to want to think about that question in a more intimate way, like, what if I write a poem, or what if I write this thing, and I’m only thinking about a single person?

How does the poem change? How does it shift? What is the difference in the materiality?

More broadly, the people who it means the most to me whenever they really respond to it is young people. I’ve had the privilege of corresponding with a couple of incarcerated folks who read the work or have dealt with the work. And those conversations have been really rich.

So when I think about the audiences that most excited me, those are certainly the two.

What are you excited for? What’s new?

I’m excited to be back living in the Midwest and to be back closer to home. I’m getting married in a few weeks. I’m excited to read.

I feel like the pandemic, one of the many ways in which it fucked up my life was that it destroyed my ability to focus on things.

I’m hoping to recultivate that, and I’ve been reading more and it’s just exciting to be like “ah, yes, this is the thing I really enjoy.” It’s the thing I enjoy. Chima Ikoro is the community organizing editor for the Weekly. She last wrote about Kina Collins running for Congress in Illinois’ 7th Congressional District.

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Meet Kierra Wooden

The writer and multidisciplinary artist, also known as Ho3micide, from the South Side.

BY CHIMA IKORO

K

ierra Wooden, also known as Ho3micide, is a storyteller and multidisciplinary artist from the South Side of Chicago. She does 3D design and animations, creative code, graphic design, and she writes poetry.

She’s released two self-published books, her latest being To The Angel in The Room.

child. I feel like definitely the things that I experienced growing up inspire most of my writing and some of the tones of why I’m writing, and what I’m trying to tell or how to tell it.

What’s your journey as a writer?

I’ve been writing for about thirteen years.

I started writing when I was in 6th grade.

I used to get on a computer and write little short stories. Or I used to get those little spiral notebooks and write short stories and I used to give them to my classmates to entertain them. I used to make funny, creepy stories and stuff like that. And then I progressed over to poetry in like 7th grade after experiencing my first ever emotional heartbreak.

As of lately, I feel like my writing, especially since I wrote my book, has basically been the evolution of me becoming a young woman from a teenager, a child into an adult woman. It’s like that transition, growing up and learning and experiencing lost friendships, relationships, the things that I’m experiencing in my own unique life. I feel like that’s where most of my writing has been stemming from, writing about my life lessons and the things that I’m still struggling with. The book is called To The Angel In The Room.

Does where you’re from inform your work?

Where did the inspiration for the title of your book come from?

I grew up in Jeffery Manor, South Shore and Avalon Park. I feel like I’m growing up and seeing the things that I wrote as a kid, the short stories, I feel like I was influenced by the things that was happening in my neighborhood. It would usually be little remixes or parodies of things, but it would be some real life thing that’s happening. Like, when I was twelve years old, I got followed home by a man in my neighborhood–in the neighborhood he was flagged as a rapist, and he was on the loose. And I used to like looking back and looking at the stories I used to write and see how that influenced some of the things that I was writing as a

I took a Woman’s Literature course in college and there were things that I was reading about and not too many people really explore the spirituality of things, it’s still kind of a taboo. So I felt like when I used the title, at first, it was inspired by a moment that I had when I was younger. My uncle passed when he was twenty-two, he was killed, and there was a moment when I woke up in the middle of the night, and I saw him. And because we moved into his room and stuff like that, because we were moving, it was me and my sister, my cousins, we had the bunk beds and stuff, it happened fifteen, sixteen years ago. And I woke up and I

What do you find yourself writing about the most?

KIERRA WOOD, ILLUSTRATION BY SHANE TOLENTINO

saw him and I know that I saw him. And I tried to wake my sister up and when I looked back he was gone. Basically, how that transpired to this—as I got older, I go to therapy, and I tell my therapists sometimes I feel like I’m just looking at myself. I’m so aware of my actions and

my decisions, and sometimes I don’t feel in control. So I kind of felt like the title just came from me spectating my life, and telling my story, watching myself and those moments where it’s really hard, and those moments where I’m really happy.

That angel is me, I’m my own savior, and

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my uncle gave me that glimpse. That’s something that I’ll always remember.

That’s where I got the title from.

How did you figure out what you needed to do in order to publish a book?

When I wrote the first book that was my lesson on how to go about publishing. I didn’t have any resources because I didn’t have anyone in my life that I knew that published a book, or where to go to. I wrote the book starting 2016 and then it was published in 2018. Honestly I didn’t really get into my creativity, like embracing it and embodying it, until I got to college. So I didn’t have any creative resources around. I used social media; there was an author that I followed and he was just giving out resources and also offering up services to help other authors.

So I had put all my poems together, and he helped me format everything and told me where to go, how to self publish as well, what resources there is out there, what websites that’s available that’s free and affordable for indie book writers.

That’s how I published the first one— he edited my book, and he formatted it the right way. One of my friends from Columbia did the book cover.

I didn’t think I was gonna write a second book or anything, but I did get more connected with other authors. I was also published, the same year, in another book by this author named H.D Hunter from Atlanta, Georgia. I was kind of just networking [and] branching out. From there, I learned how to do it on my own, and if I do want to go through an actual publishing company, I know what to do.

What are you excited for, within any of your crafts?

Right now, I am working on a personal project. I went to college for game design and programming, I was more so on the technical side of the programming aspect.

I never knew I could do design. I never knew I had that ability until less than a year ago, so I’ve been practicing and learning and putting out my own personal projects and still taking commissions. Right now 14 SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY

¬ JULY 28, 2022

I’m working on a little short film, because again, overall, I am a storyteller, and I wanted to create something like a little short story of something that’s unique to me, something beautiful. I’m starting the production on that with the whole rigging animating. I do produce beats as well. So I’m working on the music and everything for it so that’s like what I’m excited about. Getting that animation done and also getting the other required materials that I need to make it one of my best projects.

What is a tale-tell sign that you’re from Out South?

I feel like on the South Side we’re more guarded. I feel like we can come off as “we’re not so easy to talk to.” Because we have to be on our P’s and Q’s all the

What place makes you feel most nostalgic on the South Side?

There’s actually two places: La Rabida Beachfront, which is right by my house on 67th, and then when I got to Jefferey Manor that’s where I feel most nostalgic because that’s where I went to school, I was aware of growing up there. I started 1st grade [in] Jefferey Manor and I left there when I was in 5th grade, so most of my friends are still over there. And we’re all still very close so whenever I’m around there, I just think about all the things that I used to do as a kid and I love just being in the neighborhood.

Chima Ikoro is the Community Organizing section editor for the Weekly.

Who is your audience?

When I’m writing, my audience is always geared towards Black community, Black

“They’ll add a random 'r' or take the 'r' off of something else, like 'cah' (car). That’s how you know someone is from the South Side.” time. I feel like certain words and how we pronounce certain words definitely like you can tell. What part of the city you from have different dialects. I just started this job at the National Museum of Public Housing, it’s more like oral history and painting history from people that’s in public housing. You know, hearing how they talk and the conversations that are had you can tell like someone is from the South Side based off how they say certain words like “community” they’ll say “kermunity.” They’ll add a random “r” or take the “r” off of something else, like “cah” (car). That’s how you know someone is from the South Side.

as an individual and what I went through because of that experience. I feel like it opens up their eyes a little bit, because I’m not attacking them. I’m just talking about what’s happening, my feelings. I’ll have conversations on Twitter and in my DMs, and sometimes we will have that conversation and it’s like, “I’ve never really thought about that.” I do feel like that opens up that different perspective for my male audience, which I’m very grateful for, even though they’re not my intended audience. ¬

queers, Black women. Also people who deal with mental health issues because I have an anger problem. So I feel like those are my audience. But when I used to post my stuff a lot on social media, I was very shocked at the audience that I was actually grabbing as well; I was writing more so for the feminine experience and stuff like that. And I actually was grabbing such a huge male audience. I wasn’t expecting that these were the dominant people in my audience.

Sometimes men do lack self-awareness when it comes to other people outside of themselves. When they see things, it’s not like it’s in a tone of “I hate these people” or anything, I’m just expressing how I feel

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These apartments are subject to monitoring, compliance, and other restrictions by the City of Chicago’s Department of Housing. For more information visit www.chicago.gov/ARO. 6-22

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The Block Party on the Beach

Despite some mixed feelings, the energy at the new location did not disappoint.

BY KIA SMITH

T

he COVID-19 pandemic put many of Chicago’s signature events on hiatus. No cookouts, no family reunions, and no Silver Room Block Party during that time. This past weekend, however, the Block Party returned with new additions and a brandnew location by the beach.

After two years, The Silver Room Block Party returned—this time at Oakwood Beach—extending to two days instead of one, and with tickets starting at $50. The reactions to these new changes were mixed, but when the weekend rolled around, the change was welcomed with open arms. The new location offered more space and opportunity for people to spread out and be comfortable: organizers allowed attendees to bring picnic blankets and lawn chairs, which made the beach look like a large cookout with art activations, multiple stages, and wellness activities.

Though it started seventeen years ago in Wicker Park, The Silver Room Block Party moved to 53rd Street in 2015 as a one-day festival. The event attracted over 40,000 people across the city in 2018, with some attendees flying or driving in to attend, according to event organizer (and owner of Hyde Park’s Silver Room store) Eric Williams.

“Luckily, everyone missed the Block Party… so we just reached into our community and had people do some local marketing [and digital marketing] to get the word out,” said Angie Estrella, the digital content manager for The Silver Room.

These efforts paid off because over the course of the two-day festival, it was packed with attendees of all ages and

high-energy musical acts, reminiscent of other festivals such as Taste of Chicago, The Chosen Few, and even Hyde Park Brew Fest.

Loona Dae, Mother Nature, DJ Ca$h Era, Tamarie T & Thee Elektra Company were just a few of the acts that blazed the four stages set up on the beach—and their energy did not disappoint. The crowd matched the energy of the performers. Everywhere you looked, there were crowds of people dancing, singing, smiling, and truly enjoying themselves. “[Performing] was fun. The sound system was definitely booming, and I look forward to doing it again. I’ve known about the Block Party for years, and they’ve been telling me, ‘Hey man, we’re gonna get you on,’ and finally, this year it happened,” said Tamarie T, lead singer of Thee Elektra Kumpany.

The Silver Room Block Party also presented an opportunity for Black and Brown-owned businesses such as Sprinkle Dazzle Collective, One League Chicago, Englewood Branded and more to vend, network, and showcase their products. Reginald Jones, owner of Outliers Apparel and a previous attendee of the Block Party, said his experience as a vendor was more community-oriented and intimate than his previous vending experiences.

“I love the camaraderie between the vendors and the people just coming to have a good time. As someone who experienced the Block Party from the consumer side, it’s amazing to see them bring the same vibes and expand it to such a big space,” Jones said.

Jones said that moving to the beach

PHOTOS BY MATEO ZAPATA

wasn’t a big change, but others had different reactions to the pivot. Many took to social media to voice their concerns, where critiques ranged from the price point being too high for a once free event, to it being unnecessarily long to go from one day to two—to others saying that the vibes were just right.

“The spacing is beautiful. We’re not bunched up, and I feel safe,” said Candy Hampton, who has attended the Block

Party since its early days in Hyde Park.

“But where are the 53rd St. businesses?” she queried.

Despite the mixed feelings, The Silver Room Block Party is back together again—and here to stay. Kia Smith is a freelance journalist, selfpublished author, content creator, and influencer. Keep up with her on Twitter and Instagram @KiaSmithWrites JULY 28, 2022 ¬ SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY 15

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Event organizer Eric Williams

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Cycles of Imprisonment, Escape, and Healing

A book review of I Can Take It From Here: A Memoir of Trauma, Prison, and Self-Empowerment by Lisa Forbes.

BY MOLLY MORROW

A

fter years of emotional and sexual abuse from family, religious trauma, fourteen years of prison, and a controlling marriage, Lisa Forbes realized she was “stuck in a loop.” This loop, Forbes later discovered, is common among those who have experienced trauma.

Patterns of control imprisoned Forbes throughout her life. The memories of family that bullied her throughout her childhood are reflected in the mocking children of her much older husband many years later. In her romantic life, she is constantly reminded of the sexual abuse she suffered from her older brother. But her time being imprisoned does not end at her release; she experienced a marriage that leaves her trapped and isolated, continued reliance on and abandonment from those she trusts, and systemic issues that prevented previously incarcerated individuals like herself from holding steady jobs or finding permanent housing.

Her new memoir, I Can Take It From Here: A Memoir of Trauma, Prison, and SelfEmpowerment, is her story of hardship, resilience, and eventual healing and self-acceptance. We learn about Forbes’ childhood growing up in poverty on the South Side, where her Jehovah’s Witness family frequently mocked and belittled her. She was sexually abused by her brother for many years, but found solace in reading and graduated from high school at the age of fifteen. From there, she entered the workforce and began a relationship with a man named James, with whom she soon had a child.

One day, Forbes visited his house with their young daughter and, after

encountering James and his new wife, stabbed and killed him.

Sentenced to twenty-five years, Forbes spent a total of fourteen years in prison separated from her child. In that time, Forbes read classical literature and obtained multiple degrees, but once attempted an escape that landed her with additional time in prison and permanent scars.

After her release, she experienced hardship after hardship while trying to get back on her feet and rekindle her relationship with her daughter. Tempted by the security he offered, Forbes later married a much older Muslim man for whom she changed her lifestyle completely, but found herself again under the thumb of another—isolated and lacking autonomy.

However, Forbes’ most life-changing moment, from her perspective, is not the crime she committed, or perhaps even her release from prison. After her husband ignored her and refused to celebrate their ninth wedding anniversary, she finally came to understand the cycles of abuse and trauma in her life.

After their divorce, Forbes went on a quest of self-discovery, exploring selfhealing methods like the Emotional Freedom Technique, a process of psychological acupressure called “tapping.”

This ritual allowed her to come to terms with emotional scars, including those she caused others.

The repeated trauma and control Forbes found herself subject to also provide a complicated and nuanced evaluation of religion. Growing up a devout Jehovah’s Witness, Forbes was shut out from the secular world and warned of Armageddon at a young age. She laments her childhood,

in which she was kept away from nonJehovah’s Witnesses and not given the educational support she craved. In prison, Forbes investigated and practiced every religion she could access, but did not feel compelled to follow any particular one.

When she later married a Muslim man, Forbes agreed to practice Islam, but felt distant from this religion as well. Her controlling husband frequently criticized her actions and her way of praying. “His concept of God seemed small to me,” Forbes writes. “Any God I worshipped would have to be bigger than that.”

Forbes’s meditations on religion reflect the same notions of control that she experienced in many other areas of her life, as the beliefs and rituals imposed on her by

her family and husband perpetuated the isolation and helplessness she was already experiencing. Yet her continued curiosity and education in a variety of religions demonstrate Forbes’ resilience in spite of it.

Powerfully woven through Forbes’ memoir is the transformative role of education. Despite her brother’s constant sexual assaults, her mother’s fanatical religious ideology, and her family’s distance and mockery, the young Forbes turned to books and education for comfort. She returned to the solace she once found in books again during her time in prison, where she completed degree and certificate programs and read the literature her religious mother frequently denied her.

Though Forbes’ love for learning certainly comforts and guides her, <i>I Can Take It from Here<i> does not ignore the limitations of education when faced with discrimination as a formerly incarcerated person. Despite her degrees and work experience, finding permanent work has been nearly impossible thanks to her past felony. She questions why formerly incarcerated people are treated in this manner, and searches for another way. She asserts what many progressive activists push for: “Integrating restored citizens into the workforce can be done without compromising public safety.”

Forbes concludes her memoir with the creation of a company, Lisa Forbes Inc. With it she works to advocate for formerly incarcerated people, whom she refers to as “restored citizens,” with employers and landlords, and hopes to “act as a mediator between America’s restored citizens and the business world. She poignantly claims that the discrimination restored citizens JULY 28, 2022 ¬ SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY 17

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face in voting, in the workplace, and in hiring processes “amounts to a kind of perpetual punishment for a debt that has been paid in full.” She goes on to state that preventing the formerly incarcerated from achieving success and autonomy for themselves is fundamentally antithetical to American values.

Advocates for criminal justice reform typically focus on issues plaguing currently incarcerated people: bail, poor prison conditions, exploitative labor, and more. Those who support the struggles of formerly incarcerated people often push for legal reforms, such as removing voting restrictions and preventing discrimination against those with a criminal record in housing and job applications, allowing formerly incarcerated individuals greater autonomy and opportunities after their release.

However, Forbes’ primary goal is not physical or financial, but mental. She believes the most important service that can be offered to currently or formerly incarcerated individuals is mental health treatment and support. “We as a society are facing an emotional trauma plague,” she writes, “a plague that has been misdiagnosed as an economic problem.

The violent crime rate in our country is a mental health emergency.”

Though studies have shown that violent crime is not highly correlated with mental illness, Forbes is correct that mental illness is extremely pervasive among those in prison. From a 2014 American Psychological Association (APA) study, sixty-four percent of those in local jails are mentally ill, along with fifty-four percent of individuals in state prisons and fortyfive percent in federal prisons.

Forbes begins the author’s note: “It is an under-recognized fact that most

former prisoners in the United States are traumatized before entering prison or while in prison.” She cites another APA article from 2016 that describes the high prevalence of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in youth kept in the juvenile justice system, and that they are particularly at risk to reoffend in the future.

As a result, Forbes believes that addressing the root issues that many incarcerated people face, namely mental illness and trauma as a result of economic hardship and abuse from family, will go a long way to prevent recidivism and crimes in the first place. From personal experience, Forbes believes strongly that had she received support for the religious, emotional, and sexual trauma she experienced at a young age, she would not have committed a crime at all.

Forbes’ memoir holds a particular place in the discourse surrounding criminal justice reform. As policymakers, activists, and ordinary citizens grapple with mass incarceration and public safety, Forbes is a voice to be heard in a conversation that must be had, as an advocate for addressing the root problems associated with crime with the hope of reducing recidivism and providing formerly incarcerated individuals with the opportunities they need to successfully re-enter society Lisa Forbes, I Can Take it from Here: A Memoir of Trauma, Prison, and Self-Empowerment. $17.95 (paperback).

Steerforth Press/Truth to Power, 2022.

256 pages.

Molly Morrow is a third-year student at the University of Chicago.

She last wrote about whether landmark designation would protect The Point.

“We as a society are facing an emotional trauma plague–a plague that has been misdiagnosed as an economic problem. The violent crime rate in our country is a mental health emergency” Lisa Forbes, I Can Take It From Here 18 SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY

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The Third Coast

Thomas Dyja details how the city of Chicago made its mark on American arts and culture.

BY SADO MARINOVIC

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he Third Coast, Thomas Dyja’s 2013 history of Chicago’s midtwentieth century, focuses on the city’s impact on the art and culture of the United States. The apt subtitle, “When Chicago Built the American Dream,” touches on the important role that the city has played in shaping the U.S. as it is today. The title refers to both the insecurity that Chicago carries relative to its coastal counterparts, as well as the pride it carries in its role as builder of the nation.

Dyja shows that in Chicago things are done for both form and function.

A work of art, whether a building or a poem, has a structure to it that must abide by the rules of its craft but also, crucially, bring something to the table of culture that moves people forward. Dyja argues that it is this unflinching regard for the empowerment and reverence of the ordinary people that gives Chicago a special place in the relatively recent history of America.

Architecture, being the epitome of the meeting of form and function, is a proper through-line for this piece. Dyja’s narrative begins with the 1938 arrival of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe in Chicago, a renowned modernist master set to become head of the architecture school that is today the Illinois Institute of Technology (IIT). The campus would be expanded and new buildings designed and built by Mies, but first the school would need to appropriate land and property from the surrounding and predominantly Black neighborhood.

One of the buildings on the school’s desired list was The Mecca, an apartment building where a young Gwendolyn Brooks dreamed up what would become powerful spiritual poetry inspired by the people she met. And so in the course of a few pages, Dyja sets the scene and brings to fleshy life mythic Chicago figures of the past in all of their pre-celebrity and insecure glory, and weaves them together in not only place and time, but in relevance. He writes them as characters in a story more than as great people of history, and in this method gives us an entry into their lives that feels intimate and raw while allowing the reader to feel as if they experienced these moments in time. As much as one would want A People’s History of Chicago, this is the next best thing.

With a more novelist-than-historian approach, Dyja skillfully connects Brooks to Chicago’s Black Renaissance, less famous than the Harlem Renaissance, as it “went unknown to most whites… its connections to Communism…would make it easier, even necessary, to forget.”

Charles White, a wonderful visual artist of this movement, referred to paint as his weapon and embodied the ideology prevalent among his contemporaries.

This was not by accident. The Chicago artists sought to differentiate themselves from the Harlem artists, and an unapologetic social consciousness was one of the ways they did so. It is impossible to tell the story of the U.S., much less that of one of its greatest cities, without touching on the struggle for racial

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equality. That struggle carries through the three decades (mid 1930s-1960s) covered in the book and into our own time.

From Brooks and the IIT campus, Dyja introduces a young Richard J. Daley, who is also a prominent figure throughout, as he was instrumental in the shaping of modern Chicago. Daley enters the stage as a state senator helping craft legislation that allows entities like IIT to force Black residents out of their homes, and ends as one of the most powerful mayors in America. Dyja makes the book a page turner by connecting history with politics through wonderfully individuated characters brought to life with a significant amount of research and attention to detail.

The Third Coast is also full of artists and culturally significant figures that have been nearly lost to history. There are too many to enumerate, but what is assured is that the book will give you new favorites to dig into—a new photographer, musician, writer, or activist.

Wayne F. Miller’s photography of Black Chicagoans from the South Side was a particularly pleasant discovery. Another was Mies’ fellow Bauhaus exile, Lazlo Moholy-Nagy. Primarily a visual artist, he dabbled in nearly every artistic form and brought something new to each one.

More than the beauty of his paintings though, his philosophy of art resonates with me and is a great summation of the Chicago ethic: “everyone is talented.”

The author inserts a bit of levity in an otherwise heavy and complex work of social history. One delightful example is his opening of a chapter with the words, “stately, plump Dick Daley,” a nod to Joyce’s Ulysses. Dyja’s literary passions are obvious and endearing with these Easter eggs of fiction in particular.

Elsewhere, he writes of the relationship between Chicago author Nelson Algren and French writerphilosopher Simone de Beauvoir. He does so with a novelist’s flair, imagining himself as a fly on the wall, writing “She tilted an eyebrow” in response to Algren’s suggestion he show her the rough side of

Chicago.

One of the most powerful moments of the book comes when he contrasts the trajectory of Playboy founder Hugh Hefner with that of the photographer Harry Callahan, another relatively unknown artist. Callahan loved to artistically photograph both bare trees and his beloved wife bare from the waist up. Hefner, on the other hand, paid $500 for a set of photos of a woman who took $50 for the work in order to pay a bill.

That woman was Marilyn Monroe and that first issue of Playboy featuring her body created the career and legacy of a man who wanted to live in loungewear and trade in his girlfriends once they left their twenties. Callahan’s marriage was one of “shared power and intimacy,” something that the Playboy owner could never grasp. Hefner’s name is honored on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, while Callahan is mostly forgotten. Ours is a complicated history.

Ultimately, the power of the book comes through in its portrayal of Chicago as the city that showed the U.S. a version of itself that it was not comfortable with.

From the trivial example of Hefner launching a successful magazine—and what its popularity said about the country, especially its acceptance of blatant misogyny—to the tragic: the open casket image of Emmett Till forcing the world to acknowledge the horrific violence of racism. Dyja argues that whereas the prevailing ideology of a New York or Los Angeles can be summed up as “look at me,” Chicago’s is instead, good or bad, “look at this.” ¬

Dyja argues that whereas the prevailing ideology of a New York or Los Angeles can be summed up as “look at me,” Chicago’s is instead, good or bad, “look at this.”

Thomas Dyja, The Third Coast: When Chicago Built the American Dream. $17.99 (paperback). Penguin Books, 2013. 676 pages.

Sado Marinovic is a writer from Chicago.

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This Empty Cage This section of The Exchange features poems from currently or formerly incarcerated writers.

BY ARNOLD JOYNER, JOMAR LOPEZ, JUSTIN DISMUKE, PETER SAUNDERS, OSCAR CURTIS

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here is something in this empty cage that never gets released,” says Iranian writer Garous Abdolmalekian in his poem "Long Exposure". The United States has the highest prison population and incarceration rate per capita in the world. These systems perpetuate harm both during active sentences and even after release. Despite this, writers and creatives have found ways to build communities inside correctional facilities, whether compiling their works in hopes that their stories can eventually be told, or continuing their writings later in life.

Upon creating The Exchange, the Weekly began receiving letters from incarcerated poets in response to our prompts. When looking at mass incarceration from afar, it seems like such a large issue to tackle. But publishing the work of incarcerated poets’ can bring freedom to their voices, regardless of where they are physically. ¬

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JUSTIN DISMUKE M22848

OSCAR CURTIS

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Book Review: The South Side

Natalie Moore weaves history and her own story to illuminate segregation in Chicago.

BY ARIANA V.

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n the summer, sometimes I prefer to read non-fiction books where I can dive into one particular topic and re-emerge a bit more knowledgeable.

The South Side, an acclaimed 2016 book

by Natalie Moore, is one such example; an account of segregation on Chicago’s South Side written in an accessible style and conversational tone.

Moore is a descendent of the Great Migration, a Chicago Public School (CPS) graduate and a proud South Side native. Currently a reporter for WBEZ focusing on the South Side, she’s won numerous awards for her work on segregation and inequality, but her impressive credentials don’t get in the way of her storytelling.

Reading this book feels like having a multi-day conversation with one of your most brilliant friends who loves their hometown. And while the subject matter may seem obvious to Black readers or anyone who is aware of Chicago’s cultural and social climate, Moore writes with empathy and great intellect, managing to break down complicated topics and history into simple issues and numbers all readers can understand.

She tackles many different societal ills and inequities that contribute to segregation, writing about housing, education, violent crime, and food deserts. Even if you intrinsically know much of what Moore writes about, it’s both disturbing and validating to read this book and have the data to back up your intuition.

Moore writes about the history of Chicago and segregation as well as the present day, but she also weaves in her own personal story. She grew up in a relatively middle-class home in Chatham and as an adult bought her first home in Bronzeville, so she talks openly about her feelings around gentrification and how she may 24 SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY

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be viewed as a Black gentrifier—though she has argued Black neighborhoods don’t really gentrify as expected. She is also willing to admit when she has preconceived notions—for example, when she goes to interview public housing residents living in the Robert Taylor Homes. “I walked into that interview thinking that Taylor residents surely wanted to leave. I walked out curbing my own biases to appreciate that the cliché of home is real. I thought about how it would feel if an outsider unsentimentally ordered me and my family out of our home. No one wants to be told that where they live is fucked up.” This is an assumption many folks might also hold and I appreciated Moore’s candor.

I learned a lot from this book— small facts like Bronzeville not being an official Chicago community area, as well as big lessons concerning the history of public housing in Chicago. As someone who doesn’t own a home, I found her chapter on public housing, block clubs, rentals, and homeownership particularly interesting and it certainly made me want to be more thoughtful about which neighborhood I move to this fall. She also succinctly explains why homeownership is not the best way for Black people to build wealth, which is remarkably refreshing and unfortunately still a timely message.

While the book covers heavy topics and racist tomfoolery, there’s also a bit of hope within the pages. Moore’s

journalism background shines through not just in the interviews she pulls from, but also the solutions she offers toward solving some major problems and reducing racial inequities. She is cleareyed about the challenges ahead but also cautiously optimistic, as are the scholars, activists, and residents she interviews.

Not all of the solutions offered may be achievable in this climate, but at a time when folks are finally starting to reimagine public safety, education, public health, and their relationship to their neighbors and communities, this book feels urgent and important, six years after

“Even if you intrinsically know much of what Moore writes about, it’s both disturbing and validating to read this book and have the data to back up your intuition.”

its initial publication. After all, dreaming is better than Chicago’s current approach which, as Moore notes, is to do nothing especially when it comes to education.

“To them [CPS] the problem is too big; that in action implies tacit approval of separate yet unequal. And right now Chicago isn’t even exploring ideas.”

A compelling hybrid of journalism and historical analysis, <i>The South Side</i> feels deeply researched but also movingly personal as Moore offers her perspective as someone who intimately knows and loves the South Side and Black people. Since the book was published, some things and people have changed or moved (she interviews the beloved owner of the Abundance Bakery who passed away earlier this year, Rahm Emanuel is no longer the mayor, etc.).

My hope is that this book opens people’s eyes or fosters their curiosity, prompting them to keep reading and learning about segregation, and how to be a better neighbor and Chicagoan. I would also selfishly love to see Moore write an updated edition or a follow up of some sort. Occasionally her reporting also results in her updating the content of the book without explicitly naming it, such as a piece from May 2022 about the closing of the Whole Foods in Englewood, a store whose opening she covers in the book’s chapter on food deserts. I would encourage all readers to follow her work and her continued reporting on communities on the South Side. Natalie Y. Moore, The South Side: A Portrait of Chicago and American Segregation. $18 (paperback). Picador, 2016. 272 pages.

Ariana V. is a communications professional from Chicago who currently resides in DC. This is her first story for the Weekly.

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Paper Machete This section of The Exchange features black-out poems created by current and graduated high school students.

BY ROOTS CREW

ILLUSTRATED BY ARIANDY LUNA

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he Roots Crew participated in a journalism and poetry workshop led by Chima Ikoro, the Weekly’s Community Organizing section editor. The workshop explored how reported pieces use facts, interviews and reputable sources in order to create a story. A well reported story doesn’t showcase the writer’s opinion, but instead gathers evidence toward a specific point or subject.

The art of papier-mâché uses paper, usually upcycled newspaper, bound by adhesive and molded into a shape that becomes hard and strong upon drying. Local newsrooms like the Weekly can empower the communities we serve by challenging false narratives and amplifying the stories of community members. In a way, we are using the newspaper as a tool to protect and aid our communities. This section is titled Paper Machete because these students have used copies of articles featured in the Weekly to craft their own stories through the creation of black-out poems. Similarly to how reported pieces gather found information to build a narrative, these poems are tools made from words that have already been written— reframed, refined and sharpened to serve a new purpose. ¬

KAE OSEI

KAE OSEI

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CIAN SOLEDAD, GRADUATED SENIOR

HAILEY BERK

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KIT VACA, JUNIOR

KIT VACA, JUNIOR

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MAYA WASHINGTON

NIA

MAYA WASHINGTON

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Community, Nostalgia, and Vaporú

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A review of Citizen Illegal, a book of poetry by Chicago Chicano José Olivarez.

BY REEMA SALEH

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itizen Illegal is the debut poetry collection of José Olivarez, a Chicago-based poet, educator, and performer. Published in 2018, his collection explores race, immigration, and community in a way that few writers have.

As the son of Mexican immigrants, much of Citizen Illegal explores the complexity of first-generation identity and community in between the nuances of citizenship and belonging.

When Citizen Illegal came out four years ago during the Trump administration, it felt especially timely. In the midst of draconian border policies and immigration raids, Citizen Illegal cannot be disentangled from the politics of then or now.

The collection’s title and its first poem “(Citizen) (Illegal)” put legality, assimilation, and this contradictory set of identities at the forefront. The parentheticals interrupt the stanza’s flow, levying state and societally-imposed judgment on everyday experiences. “if the boy (citizen) (illegal) grows up (illegal) and can only write (illegal) this story in English (citizen), does that make him more American (citizen) or Mexican (illegal)?

— “(Citizen) (Illegal)” “My Parents Fold Like Luggage” tells the story of his parents’ migration from Mexico. “My Family Never Finished Migrating We Just Stopped” centers on migration narratives in resistance to border security forces. Meanwhile, “Mexican American Disambiguation” unpacks the sense of identity that comes from not being Mexican, not being American, but something else: “my parents are Mexican who are not to be confused with Mexican Americans or Chicanos. i am a Chicano from Chicago which means i am a Mexican American with a fancy college degree & a few tattoos.”

— “Mexican American Disambiguation” “...my Mom was white in Mexico & my dad was mestizo & after they crossed the border they became diverse. & minorities. & ethnic. & exotic but my parents call themselves mexicanos, who, again, should not be confused for mexicanos living in Mexico…”

— “Mexican American Disambiguation” “Mexican American Obituary” finds Olivarez criticizing Latinx communities and their willingness to look away from the oppression of Black people while attempting to become American or assimilate.

“Juan, Lupe, Lorena all died yesterday today & will die again tomorrow asking Black people to die more quietly asking white people not to turn the gun on us.”

— “Mexican American Obituary” One of my personal favorites, “Interview,” is a series of different responses to the question, “Where is your home?” that capture this feeling of being out of place in Mexico, New York City, and Chicago.

Several poems explore the guilt that comes with being first- or second-generation, which feels only too familiar to me as the child of immigrants myself. This emotion comes from straddling two cultures at once and the pressure it brings—remembering your family’s sacrifices, the life they left behind, and the life they live now.

But Citizen Illegal does not spend its entirety mourning these questions of home and identity. Rather, it celebrates the mundane markers of home. Growing up in Calumet City, Olivarez is a Chicago poet more than anything. There’s a sense of nostalgia that demands to be seen. He is reverent towards cheese fries, VapoRub, and bitter Chicago winters, and these odes to little things are constantly popping up throughout the collection.

Stylistically, Olivarez is fond of

lowercase typeset poems and ampersands, and he carries the collection forward with a conversational tone. I started some poems chuckling and finished them a bit sad inside. The front flap of the collection’s cover describes him as “using everyday language that invites the reader in,” and that may be the perfect way to describe it.

Inspired by rap and hip-hop and coming from a spoken word performance background, he plays with language in new and inventive ways. Olivarez’s writing feels sincere, almost unbearably so, like a latenight conversation with a new friend. His poems call back to one another, reprising the themes of love, family, and community that have already been established.

There’s a dry wit and humor that Olivarez constantly brings to his writing.

His imagination lets him be inventive with language and atmosphere. Placed throughout the collection is a running thread of eight “Mexican Heaven” poems—all anachronistically showing heaven and its familiar inhabitants. Each poem calls back to one another as you pace yourself through the collection. At public readings, he reads them all together, but in the collection, they are broken into parts and set the tone for each new section.

They layer new characters and images, depicting Jesus as your reincarnated cousin from the block, St. Peter as Pedro welcoming all the Mexicans at the gate, and God as “one of those religious Mexicans” who the others must drink and smoke discreetly around. Sometimes, heaven is dirty because the women refuse to clean.

Sometimes, Mexicans sneak into heaven or are forced to work in the kitchen until they reach their own version of the American dream. But, of course: “there are white people in heaven, too. they build condos across the street & ask the Mexicans to speak English. i’m just kidding. there are no white people in heaven.”

— “Mexican Heaven” In many ways, envisioning the fantastical informs how he tells stories. In an interview with the American Writers Museum, Olivares described seeking

inspiration from Black mentors, learning about Afrofuturism, and thinking about the potential for Latinx stories. “Let me try and imagine what a future might look like for us that doesn’t end in death, assimilation, or deportation,” he said.

In “Gentefication,” whose root word gente means “people,” Olivarez writes the opposite of gentrification to life. In an imagined world where Gwendolyn Brooks comes back to earth to smell tamales and poetry workshops are being taught in the shade, a neighborhood rejoices. Instead of seeing a community displaced, people return home to celebrate and collect like grains of sand. “the whole block is alive & not for sale. the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo rescinded. it’s happening on our block & maybe it’s happening on your block. the bad news is the president sends the national reserve. The good news is they’ll never find us. we pack everything into the trunk of a Toyota Corolla, when la migra comes, their dogs bark & spit, but all they find is grains of sand.

— “Gentefication” Citizen Illegal offers a relentless reminder that home is not a country, but the markers of the communities that keep us alive. Drawing from the likes of Brooks and Sandra Cisneros, Olivarez manages to create vivid depictions of the lives and communities around him and gives them full agency in spite of their sociopolitical conditions. José Olivarez, Citizen Illegal. $16 (paperback). Haymarket Books, 2018. 87 pages.

Reema Saleh is a journalist and graduate student at University of Chicago studying public policy. She can be followed on Twitter or Instagram at @reemasabrina. She last interviewed artist Akilah Townsend for the Weekly.

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LITERATURA

Comunidad, nostalgia, y vaporú

Una reseña de Citizen Illegal, un libro de poesía de un chicano de Chicago, José Olivarez.

POR REEMA SALEH TRADUCIDO POR ALMA CAMPOS

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itizen Illegal, que en español se traduce a “Ciudadano Ilegal”, es la primera colección de poesía de José Olivarez.

Olivarez es poeta, educador e intérprete que vive en Chicago. Su colección, que fue publicada en 2018, explora el racismo, la inmigración y el sentido de comunidad de una manera que pocos escritores lo han hecho. Gran parte de su colección explora la complejidad de su identidad de primera generación en su familia que nació en los Estados Unidos, de ser hijo de inmigrantes y ciudadanos a la misma vez, y de su búsqueda por encontrar su propio camino.

Cuando Citizen Illegal salió a la venta hace cuatro años durante la Administración Trump, se sintió más oportuno que nunca.

Esto fue durante políticas fronterizas draconianas y redadas de inmigración y por eso Citizen Illegal fue muy importante para la política de ese entonces como de ahora.

El título de la colección y su primer poema “(Ciudadano) (Ilegal)” pone en primer plano la legalidad de una persona, la asimilación y este conjunto contradictorio de identidades. Los paréntesis interrumpen el flujo de la estrofa, como imponiendo juicio político y social sobre las experiencias cotidianas. “si el niño (ciudadano) (ilegal) crece (ilegal) y puede solo escribir (ilegal) esta historia en inglés (ciudadano), ¿eso lo hace más Estadounidense (ciudadano) o mexicano (ilegal)?

— “(Ciudadano) (Ilegal)” El poema, “Mis padres se doblan como equipaje”, cuenta la historia de la migración de sus padres de México. El poema, “Mi familia nunca terminó de migrar, simplemente nos detuvimos” se centra en las narrativas de migración que resisten a las fuerzas fronterizas. Mientras tanto, el poema, “Desambiguación mexicoamericana”, desempaca el sentido de identidad que proviene de no ser mexicano, no ser estadounidense, sino algo más: "Mis padres son mexicanos que no deben ser confundidos con los mexicoamericanos 30 SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY

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o chicanos. Soy un chicano de Chicago lo que significa que soy un mexicoamericano con un título universitario de lujo y algunos tatuajes”.

— “Desambiguación mexicoamericana” “... mi mamá era blanca en México y mi papá era mestizo y después de cruzar la frontera se volvieron diversos. y minorías. y étnico. y exótico pero mis padres se dicen mexicanos, que, otra vez, no deben ser confundidos con mexicanos que viven en México…”

— Desambiguación mexicoamericana” El poema, “Obituario mexicano americano” ve a Olivarez criticar a las comunidades latinas y porque no quieren reconocer la opresión de los negros y por querer convertirse en americanos o asimilarse.

“Juan, Lupe, Lorena murieron ayer hoy. y morirán de nuevo mañana pidiendole a los Negros que se mueran más calladitos pidiéndole a los blancos que no nos apunten el arma”.

— “Obituario mexicano americano” Uno de mis poemas favoritos personales, es “Entrevista”, una serie de respuestas diferentes a la pregunta “¿dónde es casa?” que captura el sentirse fuera de lugar en México, Nueva York y Chicago. Varios poemas exploran la culpa que conlleva ser de primera o segunda generación, lo que me resulta demasiado familiar como hija de inmigrantes. Esta emoción surge al vivir entre dos culturas a la misma vez y la presión que implica: recordar los sacrificios de la familia, la vida que dejaron atrás y la vida que tienen ahora.

Pero Olivarez no pasa todo su tiempo lamentando estas cuestiones de identidad.

Más bien, celebra las experiencias de su vida cotidiana en su hogar. Olivarez, quien vivió en Calumet City, Illinois, es más que nada un poeta de Chicago. Hay un sentido de

nostalgia que exige ser vista. Las papas fritas con queso, el vaporú y los fríos inviernos de Chicago son odas pequeñas que aparecen constantemente a lo largo de la colección.

El estilo de Olivarez es aficionado a los poemas escritos con letras minúsculas y el símbolo &, y trata la colección con un tono conversacional. Empecé algunos poemas riéndome y los terminé un poco triste por dentro. La portada describe el estilo de Olivarez como “usando un lenguaje cotidiano que invita al lector”, y esa puede ser la manera perfecta de describirlo.

Inspirado por el rap y el hip-hop y con experiencia en el spoken word, juega con el lenguaje de maneras nuevas e inventivas.

La escritura de Olivarez se siente sincera, demasiado, como una conversación nocturna con un nuevo amigo. Sus poemas están entrelazados y retomando los temas de amor, la familia y la comunidad.

Los poemas de Olivarez constantemente aportan ironía y humor.

Su imaginación le permite ser creativo con el lenguaje y la escena de sus piezas.

A lo largo de la colección hay una serie de ocho poemas de “Cielo mexicano”, todos mostrando anacrónicamente el cielo y sus habitantes conocidos. Cada poema hace eco del otro a medida que avanza la colección.

En las lecturas públicas, los lee todos juntos, pero en la colección, se dividen en partes y marcan el tono de cada nueva sección.

Olivarez superpone nuevos personajes e imágenes, representando a Jesús como su primo reencarnado que vive en la misma cuadra, San Pedro como Pedro dando la bienvenida a todos los mexicanos en la puerta, y a Dios como “uno de esos mexicanos religiosos” con quien los demás deben beber y fumar discretamente. A veces, el cielo está sucio porque las mujeres se niegan a limpiar.

A veces, los mexicanos se meten a escondidas al cielo o se ven obligados a trabajar en la cocina hasta llegar a su propia versión del sueño americano. Pero claro: “También hay gueros en el cielo. construyen condominios al cruzar la calle y les piden a los mexicanos que hablen inglés.

Estoy bromeando.

no hay gueros en el cielo”.

— “Cielo mexicano” En muchos sentidos, imaginar lo fantástico informa cómo Olivarez cuenta sus historias. En una entrevista con el Museo de Escritores Americanos, Olivarez dijo que encontró inspiración de mentores negros. Aprendió sobre el afrofuturismo y habló sobre el potencial de las historias latinas. “Permítanme tratar de imaginar cómo podría ser un futuro para nosotros que no termine en muerte, asimilación o deportación”, dijo.

En “Genteficación”, Olivarez imagina lo opuesto de la gentrificación y lo escribe.

Es un mundo imaginado donde la poeta Gwendolyn Brooks regresa a la tierra para oler tamales y donde se imparten talleres de poesía debajo de un árbol y el barrio está lleno de alegría. En lugar de ver a una comunidad desplazada, la gente regresa a casa para celebrar y juntarse como granos de arena.

“Toda la cuadra está viva y no se vende. el tratado de guadalupe hidalgo revocado. está sucediendo en nuestra cuadra y tal vez está sucediendo en la tuya. la mala noticia es que el presidente enviará la reserva nacional. La buena noticia es que nunca nos encontrarán. empacamos todo en la cajuela del Toyota Corolla, cuando la migra venga, sus perros ladran y babean, pero todo lo que encuentran son granos de arena.

— “Genteficación” Citizen Illegal ofrece un recordatorio implacable de que el hogar no es un país, sino lo que hay entre las comunidades que nos dan vida. Basándose en escritoras como Gwendolyn Brooks y Sandra Cisneros, Olivarez logra crear representaciones de las vidas y comunidades que lo rodean y les da poder a pesar de sus condiciones sociopolíticas.

LIT

A Timeless Coming of Age Story A review of Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks.

BY ARIANA V.

D

uring the summer, we often feel pressure to read the latest buzzy bestseller, but I am here to make the case for reading a backlist (not newly published) book: Maud Martha

by Gwendolyn Brooks, which came out in 1953 and absolutely blew me away when I read it last year. It can be finished in a day which makes it a special kind of summer read; a book you can finish on a lazy afternoon sitting inside in the AC or outside near the lake. It’s compact, made up of thirty-four vignettes, with little plot or dialogue, and it is very much a Midwestern story and a Chicago novella.

Maud Martha is about the mundane life of a young Black woman in Chicago, following her life from childhood to marriage. The Chicago/Midwest setting is apparent on every page, from the straightforwardness and contentedness of Maud Martha to the daily microaggressions of racism, hidden behind “Midwestern politeness.” One such example is the white folks at the movie theater, the World Playhouse, not directly telling Maud Martha and her husband they don’t want Black people in the theater, but not engaging with them either. They are able to watch the movie without incident and afterwards, “When the picture was over, and the lights revealed them for what they were, the Negroes stood up among the furs and good cloth and faint perfume, looked about them eagerly. They hoped they would meet no cruel eyes. They hoped no one would look intruded upon. They had enjoyed the picture, so they were so happy, they wanted to laugh, to say warmly to the other outgoers, ’Good, huh? Wasn’t it swell?’ This, of course they could not do.

But if only no one would look intruded upon…”

Brooks’ writing is obviously lyrical— she’s a poet after all—but it’s also

evocative. She conjures up the smells of Bronzeville, the dreariness of Maud Martha’s kitchenette, the simple beauty of dandelions, and the weariness that comes from daily interactions with racists and racism. Her sentences are lean—she says so much in very few words when she reflects upon her husband blatantly ignoring her at a party. At first, she’s not sure why he would be so hurtful, and then it dawns on her: “’It’s my color’ she thinks, that makes Paul mad, ’what I am inside, what is really me, he likes okay. But he keeps looking at my color, which is like a wall. He has to jump over it in order to meet and touch what I’ve got for him.

He has to jump away up high in order to see it. He gets awful tired of all that jumping.’”

Moments like this quickly paint pictures of complex subjects including colorism and beauty standards. Part of why the reader’s heart may ache for Maud Martha is because, as a dark-skinned Black woman, she seems very aware of how the world perceives her. She has subsequently resigned to mistreatment because of her appearance, but like many characters who are overlooked because of their perceived plainness, she becomes observant and introspective.

After an enraging, racist incident with a man dressed as Santa Claus, it’s clear that she’s also very aware that she could be angrier and louder, but it’s not her first mind. The book reads: “She could neither resolve nor dismiss. There were these scraps of baffled hate in her, hate with no eyes, no smile and-this she especially regretted, called her hungriest lack-not much voice.”

As a Black woman, there’s something so moving and timeless about those sentences that detail this feeling of pushing one’s anger down deeper and

deeper, but not feeling good about it even though it’s likely keeping you alive. I think it’s a feeling most Black people can relate to, struggling to keep your anger in check in light of a microaggression or major act of racism that isn’t worth confronting in the moment. Maud Martha’s contemplative and thoughtful nature developed when she was a child.

As I read, the chapters seemed to be symbolic of years of life. With this in mind, she may have been a toddler when she visits her dying grandmother with her family. She notices “How alone they were, how removed from this woman, this ordinary woman who had suddenly become a queen, for whom presently the most interesting door of them all would open, who, lying locked in boards with her ’hawhs’, yet towered triumphed over them, while they stood there asking the stupid questions people ask the sick, out of awe, out of half horror, half envy.”

Among the many heavy themes covered in this book, death kept reappearing and each time Brooks’ musings on death bowled me over in their simplicity and power. At one point Maud Martha offers this brutal thought: “She was afraid to suggest to him that to most people, nothing ’happens.’ That most people merely live from day to day until they die. That, after he had been dead a year, doubtless fewer than five people would think of him oftener than once a year. That there might even come a year when no one on earth would think of him at all.”

Maud Martha is a stunning novella and one of my favorite coming of age stories. The writing details a main character that is uncomplicated and unforgettable, while the book carries a wealth of topics such as racism, sexism, financial instability, marital infidelity, and dysfunctional families. Still, Maud Martha refuses to wallow in bitterness, and she finds small moments of joy and small acts of resistance that are beautiful to behold. She revels in being unremarkable while some of us will lead undistinguished lives we are not happy with. I wanted so much for her but what makes this book so moving is that she wants so very little for herself other than to be a “good Maud Martha” and cherished by those she loves. Read this when you need to be reminded that quiet novels and quiet people can often have the most impact on your life. Gwendolyn Brooks, Maud Martha. $18.99 (paperback). Third World Press, 1992. 180 pages.

Ariana V. is a communications professional from Chicago who currently resides in DC. This is her first story for the Weekly JULY 28, 2022 ¬ SOUTH SIDE WEEKLY 31

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