Sterling Notes Newsletter | Volume 8 Issue 1 by Sterling Notes

I Volume 8, Issue 1

SprIng 2015

2014-2015 SABES Executive Board:

Sterling Notes

• Joel Rhone • Nicholas Sheppard

KING REI)LEI II

• Moneque

UV4 Mw ‘55

-‘a

• Shaklra 0. Paul • Chelsea Anderson

**Sponsored by the Department of English at’Howard University, two groups of students in Freshman English 003 for English majors attended a production of August Wilson’s King Hedley II when it way playing at the Arena Stage earlier this year. Here is what one of those students has to say about the play.

• Naja Davis • Clara Grubbs • Jenelle Davis

Review of August Wilson’s King Hedley II

• Clara Romeo • Veronika Washington

I Inside this issue:

An Open Letter to My Naniral Hair

For Ferguson

Coffee Date

Twice as Good

Artistry as Weaponry: The Liberation of Aunt Jemima as a Political Work

The Split Image of African Americans

The Sorrow Queen

By: Grace Olubowale Filled with drama, laughter, and suspense, King Hedley II gives the audience a new avenue through which to define race and its relation to poverty within the United States in 1985 Pittsburg. Playwright August Wilson sheds light on the prominent poverty and dys function of King’s family and close friends. The play opens by showing King Hedley (Bowman Wright) with a large scar across one of his cheeks. He has just returned from serving a seven-year sentence for mur der, and he comes back angry but full of hope. This hope is displayed through his piqued interest in the flowers he wants to nurture and allow to grow. Hope, for Hedley, is getting out of his living conditions and moving to a place where boys do not get shot on the street by drive-bys. This hope is in some way fostered by his friend, Mister (Kenyatta Rodgers), with whom he intends to sell refrigerators in order to raise enough money to open a video store. King Hedley’s wife, Tonia (Jessica Frances Dukes), employs pathos through her monologue, explaining why she does not want to have the child that she is carrying. Her heartfelt explanation, however, is ignored by King when he explains to her that he wants to nurture something and someone. This alludes to the newfound interest King has for nurturing his flowers. King has always had a difficult relationship with his mother, Ruby (E. Faye But ler), and this is emphasized when the character Elmore (Michael Anthony Thomas) comes and proposes to his mother. Elmore later tells King who actually killed his father and why. This is unwelcomed by Ruby because she understands that King does not have the capaci ty to critically understand his surroundings and how this relates back to his financial and economic situation. Wilson wonderfully shows the relationship between race, class, and gender in this play. He places significant emphasis on the poverty-stricken King and his struggle to attain his dreams of (1) having a legacy through his child by Tonia and (2) being able to have financial security. This speaks to the broader struggle of race, class, and gender in the larg er scheme of the United States.

Volume

8, Issue i’ Page 3

An Open Letter to My Natural Hair

The Walk

By: Savannah Bowen

By: Tyshawna Ford

Dear Hair, I understand your desire for rebellion. For years, I tormented you. I rejected you and want ed you to be like other kinds of hair, ones that don’t have so much attitude, like those other 1kinds of hair that slide easily through combs. Although you were obstinate, I took away your freedom of expression and shackled you to my own warped idea of beauty. I spackled you with creamy crack. Even after I swore off of Motions hair products and no-lye relaxers, I continued to subject you to daily affliction with my blue mini flat iron as the tool of tor ture. I am eternally sorry for what I did to you. I know that you have suffered so much abuse at my hands. There are not enough deep conditioning treatments in the world to make up for the torture you endured. When you told me you were leaving, I realized I could not imagine my life without you. Slow ly you receded, edging away from my edges. The pain of seeing you gone was unbearable. There was no way I could continue a life without you. You came back and gave me another chance. I’m not so obtuse, Hair. I know sometimes you regret your choice to stay. Sometimes you think that my words were just empty promises. But I meant what I said. I ‘iced you. I still need you.

“The pain of seeing you gone was unbearable. There was no way I could continue a life without you.

And don’t you see all that I have done for us these past three years? I have struggled against my addiction to poisonous parabens and sulfates. I have relinquished all my ties to Suave and have embraced African raw Shea butter as my truest friend. I even purchased a silky satin pillowcase, just to give you extra coverage in the middle of the night when my bonnet inevi tably slips off. Just yesterday I contemplated purchasing a twenty-live dollar jar of Miss Jes sie’s “Baby Buttercreme,” but let’s be honest ,Hair; I cannot afford to spend that much on something that isn’t edible. Last year we made a lot of headway. You expressed your need for better shampoos, and I listened. When I was in that mandatory swimming course, you supported me, staying strong despite the hard, chlorinated water. And when the course was over, we tried those beautiful Senegalese twists. Remember those? I’ll admit, this semester has been really rough. I’ve slipped back into some unprotected hair styles, a habit I’m not proud of. But this doesn’t mean I don’t still love you. I am dedicated to making this work. We really could have something special if you let us. Summer is almost over, and I am already making preparations for our protective winter styles. I want nothing more than to wrap you in the finest Marley braid extensions. Hair, don’t be so quick to give up on us. We could make beautiful Bantu knot-outs together. Just think about it. Yours truly, Savannah

Picture

As I leave the school building, I feel the wind softly rub its loving hands across my cheeks, just as a proud mother does to her new born baby. I take in a deep breath of the cool, sharp air and allow my body to be taken over by its passion. I love autumn. I only live a half an hour away I should walk home today. I start walking, and although I’ve walked this path a hundred times, it seems the ground was freshly paved for me. Something feels different, but I continue to walk and pay it no mind. As I cross the bridge, I pull out my phone. Maybe music will make this journey seem quicker. The wind dances around me, bending, twisting, and spinning, forming beautiful angelic shapes. Then my eyes must have been deceiving me because I saw my soul slide, slither, and shake, releasing itself from my body, only to join the wind and’ mimic its movements. Amazed, I watch them both move so freely, so effort lessly; the sight was mesmerizing. I no longer hear my music. All I hear is the beating of some ancient drum and the playing of old sacred instruments as the wind and my soul become intertwined. I am no longer walking; I now float over the grounds of our ancestors. I now breathe their rich air, full of spices long forgotten, harmony long destroyed, and a love never known by present-day society. I have only begun, yet I feel like I’ve been traveling for hours. Suddenly, my bus zooms past me, creating a burst of wind, and I am forced to watch it storm down the road. Normally, this sight would infuriate me. But so far, my journey has been breathtaking and larger than life to such an extent that I would rather walk this road a million times before I ever con sider getting on that bus. Before I know it, I find myself surrounded by na ture. Trees and bushes tower over me on the left and right. I no longer hear ancient music, but I hear the leaves on the trees whispering among them selves. They giggle and smack their bodies against their neighbors. Such a carefree life a leaf lives, such a lovely, carefree life. They grow, and they know they will grow. They sit and they talk, laughing and relaxing all their life. Then one day the wind tells them time’s up and pulls them from the only world they ever knew. However, these leaves feel no sadness. They graceful ly fall to the ground, spinning in the wind, following the wind along its jour ney. They knew this day would come and that they shouldn’t be sad when it came but sad if it didn’t. This is because it’s in their nature to lose their lives, and where life is lost a new, more wonderful life shall soon be born.

For Ferguson By: Angel Dye I What to do when the government you think you elected to represent your interests wages war against you? What trenches can you find to lay in in suburban Illinois while military tanks patrol at 2am and throw tear gas to suffocate you? Another black boy is slain, and the out rage his death garners poses a threat to the system that strategizes to kill his kind. You should never apologize for hating injustice or deny the truth before your eyes. If they killed him, they will kill you too, and wherever you run to hide, they’ll say you’re plotting and scheming the same way they do. Now tell me that ain’t backwards op pression... Kill us when we’re innocent. Kill us when we rebel...It’s a Civil Rights re gression.

Volume

8, Issue i’ Page 3

An Open Letter to My Natural Hair

The Walk

By: Savannah Bowen

By: Tyshawna Ford

“The pain of seeing you gone was unbearable. There was no way I could continue a life without you.

Picture

Vol u me 8, Issue i

dotes

Page 5

Greatness

From the Concrete

By: Trikeria Johnson

“Truly, the present generation has a lot to be grateful for, but, instead, we take

it for

granted”

By: Jazmin Goodwin

How does the environment of our African American youth affect who they will grow to become? In most cases we are put down not only by the outsider looking in but by the ones who share the same skin, to whom we are kin. We are pacified with the everyday motions of life, being blind to the fact that we are continuing a cycle of strife.

From the concrete grew a rose with thorns of courage and petals of gentle sweetness, deep rooted in the soil of ground-breaking strength and a stem that constantly stood tall.

We look to those who have gained the street titles not knowing that the need is vital to not only have title in the streets but have title that’s within, a sense of identity, a sense of individuality, so the next person won’t look down on me and tell me things that I will not be.

From the concrete grew a rose, with breath-taking beauty and a fragrant scent that always lingered

It is a calamity to see a people killing themselves and not even care. It is cowardly to belittle another because you wallow in despair. Back in the days even though our people didn’t have it all together, they stood by each other’s side through trails, tribulations, and stormy weather. Where did the hope and peace go? Tell me what happened to the dream? When will we as a people stand and demonstrate the essence of unity?

in the mind and heart of others.

From the concrete grew a r9se, symbolic of a woman with simplistic eloquence

Your environment can influence your behaviour, but it doesn’t have to dictate your destiny. It is often said that we are our own worst enemy. The ones who were supposed to be friends to me turned their backs so that they could get ahead out of their own desire to succeed.

and an aura of exuberant confidence.

My Boys By: Angel Dye I’m afraid to raise sons in this world. Black men who will be profiled and targeted from my womb, young black boys walking anywhere full of pride might be used for target practice and fill up tombs. It’s scary to think they might lose the sparkle in their eyes leaving a corner store, leaving for college, or shaking hands with the corner boy. Giving birth to a black boy has become the prelude to planning a candlelight vigil and funeral.

How does the present generation think and act regarding the changes our ancestors fought and died to achieve? It is a new level to decree that African Americans have yet to truly succeed. We take it lightly— the countless lives that have been lost

I’m mourning for my boys! Boys they’ll label men alongside pictures of deuces up and Halloween costume grills instead of boys running around back yards or in caps and gowns or just working hard to pay their bills. Can I tell you how it pains me to think of all the black mothers who everyday breathe a sigh of relief that their boys just

so that we may not have to pay the cost of not receiving an education, not having a promising occupation, or not being able to discern what great man could run this nation.

made it to eighteen? Escaping the school/the prison pipeline systematically designed to brainwash their malleable minds then mass incarcerate them and steal their lives? It’s driving me crazy the way they treated Mike Brown, Jordan Davis, Trayvon Martin, and Emmet Till, our babies. Making public spectacles out of our boys to scare our communities...disregarding black life by spilling our blood in the

Truly, the present generation has a lot to be grateful for, but, instead, we take it for granted. We do not know the value of sacrifices that were demanded so that we may be a people of freedom and dignity that may flourish and thrive in every industry and let our past become our history. ‘Your past doesn’t dictate your future. It simply gives you the extra push you need to exceed greatness. For African Americans exceeding greatness is a task that still awaits us...

streets. Young boys don’t bleed any different than me or you, but they know if they bleed them out before they become men, they won’t have a chance to father more sons that have to be killed off too. My boys...black boys, with Skittles and Arizona tea in Sanford or New Orleans or D.C. or Chicago or Memphis or Detroit, just trying to survive in a world not tailored to their destiny. Even when they’re unarmed with their hands up, news media still calls them the enemy. But I’ll march today, tweet tomorrow, and shout until I don’t have to fear for my sons. Because I’d rather not have them at all than to bring them into this world staring down the barrels of police guns.

Vol u me 8, Issue i

dotes

Page 5

Greatness

From the Concrete

By: Trikeria Johnson

“Truly, the present generation has a lot to be grateful for, but, instead, we take

it for

granted”

By: Jazmin Goodwin

From the concrete grew a rose with thorns of courage and petals of gentle sweetness, deep rooted in the soil of ground-breaking strength and a stem that constantly stood tall.

From the concrete grew a rose, with breath-taking beauty and a fragrant scent that always lingered

in the mind and heart of others.

From the concrete grew a r9se, symbolic of a woman with simplistic eloquence

and an aura of exuberant confidence.

so that we may not have to pay the cost of not receiving an education, not having a promising occupation, or not being able to discern what great man could run this nation.

Volume 8, Issue 1

ing Notes

Pages

--.—

Page 7

But I’ve already asked you that on the phone. I know the answer anyway. Who hasn’t watched Harry Potter?

Coffee Date by Anik Yadav “Let’s get some coffee.” I utter that well-rehearsed line and sit across from you at the table joyed, and totally terrified.

—

nervous, excited, over

I don’t know why or how people meet for coffee, a drink of no significance. I hate the way they get addicted to it, artificially almost, as if it were a trend. And they brag about needing caffeine to function. They even post bogus status updates on Facebook. I had three cups last night to pull through. 19 likes, 35 comments Should’ve taken coffee shots before the psychology test. 56 likes, 14 comments Without coffee, my life would have been in the Mariana trench. 24 likes, 80 comments Coffee is my rechargeable lithium ion battery! LOt. 25 likes, 72 comments It’s stupid until you see these people without coffee—Then it’s stupid again. Still, here I am, with you, because I want to like coffee for you. But what if I fail to drink my coffee? I think. Sometimes I think too much. I overthink too, like what if I fail to impress you? I haven’t met a girl for coffee before. 1 don’t know the rules. Maybe that is the reason my world trembles even at the thought of it. Maybe, for some inexplicable reasons, I have self-esteem issues, and I cannot look into your eyes, and I cannot talk to you without stammering, and I become dyslectic around you. Or maybe it is the coffee itself. Hot, steaming bittersweet coffee lying on this table, making me nervous. Even though many have tried explaining it to me, I cannot grasp the idea that is coffee. How anyone, no matter how deprived of energy, can willingly fill themselves with copious amounts of an intoxicating substance— one that only leaves them a craving for more and a bitter taste in the back of their mouth—is beyond me. And its musty smells hangs so thick in the air. There aren’t any good words I can attribute to coffee.

I guess ‘coffee’ is some kind of unapproved narcotic that spreads maddening, incomprehen sible, hopeless feelings. Seriously, I can always feel it in the air when the scent of coffee is around. And now, I cannot fathom why I have willingly allowed myself to be surrounded by the bittersweet scent of coffee again, for a girl. A drink I hate and a girl I barely know. “So?” you ask, tugging me back to reality, urging me to say something, anything. I savor the moment of sweet silence, weighing my options with an unconvincing brush of wildness and nervousness, and decide how far I should go. I should say something. I will say something. I could start small: “Have you watched Harry Potter?”

“1 hate JavaScript and vegetable patties” feels safe. But you hate them too, so there will be no sentences to follow up. I need something witty, so even if we don’t speak much, we can still sit back and smile. But nothing comes to mind. I need anything. “Do you like coffee?” could be worth a venture. Many a deep and significant conversation has begun with a simple coffee. This thought rolls in my mind for a while, but with another sip of actual cof fee, it goes off the table.

Five minutes later, I can feel our desperation growing, but the words don’t come any easier. It’s difficult, really. And the fact that what I choose to say will represent me entirely makes it all the more difficult It could be what you remember me by tonight when you’re lying awake trying to figure out our meeting. I think you girls like to do that. Boys do it too, anyway. So I want to say, “When I look into your eyes, I feel like I’m diving into deep, safe av rs pools of sparkling liquid diamonds, and I want to stay there indefinitely: I really do. There’s nobody in this coffee shop, or in the entire city, that has eyes quite like yours, and eternity looks good—more than good, glorious—if I have those eyes to stare into.” I want to say that But that sounds like a random pickup line from a C-grade Bollywood movie, something that might make you uncomfortable. Worse, if somebody overheard and thought I was trying to impress a girl in a coffee shop, it would be a really awkward situation. Maybe I should abandon language altogether and appeal to the other senses. Eyes can talk too. Maybe if I gently, nonchalantly, carefully grazed my fingertips over your wrist, you might no tice it enough to notice me and drag your eyes from the worthless posters in the room and look at me, eye-to-eye, for at least one special moment However, this task—the task of touching you gently, caressing you, if you will—is too big a step. I am an amateur. I am nervous. I don’t know you properly. My eyes are not well trained. I will blink too much. I know I will freak out and spill the coffee on you, and you will hate me. This is my first coffee. I need to start small. Usually, the bitter taste and nasty smell and silly stereotypes mean it takes me a whole hour to finish just a cup of coffee. But now, with you, there’s a rush propelling the seconds forward much faster than they should be moving. A couple of minutes is all I have until both our cups will empty, and you will probably leave, hating me, and I will have to spend another week waiting for this moment to arrive again. The coffee moment. I don’t have moments.

“I can feel our des peration growing, but the words

don’t come any easier.”

You are already beginning to gather your things together, ready to dump them into your purse and leave without a second glance at me unless....Unless I act. Now! So, “Hey,” I blurt out all of a sudden, as if we’ve just met on the street With this nasty coffee affecting my brain, I can’t even choose words properly. Silly, stupid me. You nod with a smile. “Yes?”

Volume 8, Issue 1

ing Notes

Pages

--.—

Page 7

But I’ve already asked you that on the phone. I know the answer anyway. Who hasn’t watched Harry Potter?

Coffee Date by Anik Yadav “Let’s get some coffee.” I utter that well-rehearsed line and sit across from you at the table joyed, and totally terrified.

—

nervous, excited, over

“I can feel our des peration growing, but the words

don’t come any easier.”

The Sterling Notes

Volume 8, Issue 1

Page 8

Page 9

What Is Pain?

Coffee Date continued I don’t know what to do next. I am out of words, ideas, sweeteners, flavors, cream, and sugar. My “coffee talk” is too plain. I feel wussy. “You smile good,” I somehow manage to insert. Then I realize what I said makes no sense at all! You try to take your final sip of coffee, but what I just said makes you smile again, almost unbalancing the cup between your mouth and hand. I nervously point to the side of your lips. “There’s a coffee mark near your chin.” “Where?” you ask. I quickly grab a tissue and gesture at you to come closer. You pause for a moment but comply nonetheless. I bend towards you with the intention of erasing the coffee stain from your tender lips, but something tells me that I can do better. So I let go of the tissue and gently kiss you on the lips, where our last bit of coffee remains. You smile for the third time. And this time I feel your smile safely entwined within mine. And though you might not know it yet and though all the people around in this coffee shop never will, I already know we’ve just had the best coffee ever.

There Will Be Bad Days, Lonely Nights, & Heavy-Hearted Mornings By Jazmin Goodwin I want you to know that there will be bad days, days when you’ll wake up feeling empty and filled with nothingness. Mornings when tears will be streaming from your eyes before you can even plant your feet on the ground to get out of bed. Nights when loneliness will seem to consume your spirit and leave you feeling broken and less than loved. There will be bad days, lonely nights, and heavy-hearted mornings So this is dedicated to you for when these mo ments find themselves knocking down your door. For when the thought of tomorrow isn’t something you look for ward to but want to run away from. For when you feel like you can’t push through and strive towards the dreams ...

that once gave you hope in what we know to be at times a hopeless world. This is for you. This is to remind you of how beautiful the struggle really is, despite how difficult it may seem. Life isn’t always blue skies and rainbows, but if it wasn’t for the rainy days, we would nev r appreciate the sunshine. So stand tall in the adversities that surround you. Smile in the midst of life’s let downs, setbacks, and disappointments. Know that the universe is aligned in your favor and that a higher power is working to unveil your purpose, calling, and predestined greatness. Embrace your mistakes, and seek to learn from them. Utilize the knowledge and under standing you gain from the lessons and blessings in your life not only to empower yourself but to empower others. Trust yourselt, your struggles, and most importantly, your instincts to lead you down the path that you are inevitably meant to travel. And most importantly, above all, remember to keep God first and never lose the faith. There will be bad days, lonely nights, and heavy-hearted mornings, but remember, this is for you.

By Octavias Barnes

What is pain, Lord God? What is pain? For I have walked through the garden, My swollen feet pumping with veins. For I have overcome your obstacles in emergence. But never will I be the same. Is it because the blood that runs through me Runs cold like it was punctured by fangs? Or is it because the essence of my father Is a melody that no longer sings? For if there are those who know of pain, They know the emotions that it can bring. So I ask again, Lord God, what is pain? For I have walked through the valley of death Despite the depths of the drama it brings For I have walked by the river To seek out the wonderful joy of its springs. But this burden is a heavy one, And I am afraid it leaves a load that hangs. Is it because the blood that runs through me Runs cold like it was punctured by fangs? Or is it because the essence of my father Is a melody that no longer sings? Lord God, what is pain? For I of all people should know, Having watched the life of my father vanish and go. Now the water that runs from my body Is nothing more than a flood as tears flow, And everybody expects me to find a way to let it go. For my countenance has fallen, And to them 1 say no. I’d rather breath the slightest air And feel the chill as if it snows. I’d rather crumble into pieces Like a rose when fire shows. For let the ashes of my father Create a luminous effect that glows, Lord God, what is pain? For it is I who knows. It is the demise of my father, The one you so willingly chose. Lord God, what is pain? It is the sorrow that pours about like the rain. It is the veracity of knowing That with the death of my father Nothing else will ever be the same. In dedication to my father: James Howard Barnes

Silence By Chelsea Irvin She is begotten of silence— Of the small spaces in between each spoken word And quiet compliance— A child who is never seen, never heard, Because silence, at its core, is most absurd. It is a strange teacher, a stranger parent still, Almost neglectful in its voice unheard, Almost cruel in its oppressive force of will, But it was silence who begot her still. It was silence who raised her with a hard twist to her lips And to her eyes, a cold chill. She is the child who is not one, the one whom childhood skips. It is her own heart now, that keeps her here, Soft and warm and still beating within her, year after year.

The Sterling Notes

Volume 8, Issue 1

Page 8

Page 9

What Is Pain?

By Octavias Barnes

Vo Iii Twice as Good

*Sho story competition winner!

-‘:4

Twice as Good cont.

By: Savannah Bowen

“Savannah,

you

are not like these other white girls. You will have to be twice as good

get half as far.”

It’s time to talk about what Roberta Barnett did to me. It’s been nearly three years, and I am a different person now. I guess more than likely she is also a different person even though when we talked at Jaime Kaiser’s house party last summer, she seemed the same, except now she drinks mimosas and is in a sorority. Thinking about what happened still makes me cringe. But I need to because it feels like one of those life experiences that could turn into a life lesson that could turn into an adage that grandmas sew into inspirational throw pillows for their grandchildren to read. So, here goes. I was the best Latin speaker in my SUPA Latin class. SUPA stands for Sy racuse University Project Advance, which is like Advanced Placement, except there’s no test at the end of the course. I know that nobody speaks Latin anymore, so my statement is not exactly verifiable, but I really was the best Latin speaker in my class. Other kids had their strengths. Laura was excellent at verb conjugation. Gavin was fabulous at declining nouns and even made his own worksheets. Stephen wasn’t really exceptional at anything except memorization, but I guess it’s a skill, and he’s at Harvard now, so whatever. I was one of only two black girls in the senior class who took Latin. In sixth grade when I started going to school with white kids, my Dad sat me down and said, “Savannah, you are not like these other white girls. You will have to be twice as good to get half as far.” It was a conver sation meant to empower me, but at times my knowledge of this truth only heightened my fear of failure. Roberta Barnett was that girl in high school—the one who thought she knew more than the teachers because she listened to NPR and used big words, the one who would boss you around in Journalism and order you to format the page her way and then delete your work and do it all herself. She was a star Model UN delegate and editor of our literary magazine, and she received scores of 5 on 8 different AP exams. She was the girl who believed that she worked harder than anyone else and that this made her the best. She did work hard. She was very intelligent and would be at Columbia in the fall. And if I am honest, her confidence intimidated me. I finally had the opportunity to be twice as good as her, maybe even thrice! I was the best Latin speaker in the entire grade! And I knew that my talent was noticed by others because when students were chosen to speak dur ing the National Latin Honor Society induction ceremony, Mr. Ryan picked me. I could tell this pissed her off because she basically told me so the next day when we were putting in after-school hours on the news section of the Pel-Mel, our school paper. We were sitting in the stuffy computer lab and looking straight ahead at her screen when she said to me, “1 was kinda surprised that Mr. Ryan picked you.” It was eating her alive. Roberta was used to winning everything, and knowing that I had beaten her out at something she wanted was deliciously satisfying. It was glorious enough for me to ignore the rudeness of her comment.

She was butt hurt because she knew that even if she practiced every night, I would still be the best Latin speaker in the class. I knew this, but I didn’t know how much she wanted to take this from me. I thought we were cool. We bonded over our love of literature and had stimulating discus sions about religion and love. In my opinion, she was a worthy and respectable classmate, and may be even a friend. The week of the induction ceremony I got sick—like can’t-do-anything-except-drink-tea and-watch-Netflix sick. I was out of school for three days. Wednesday night I missed the rehearsal, but I was finally feeling well enough to return to school on Thursday and attend the ceremony that night. I hoped I hadn’t missed my chance to be the first black girl to ever read the initiate’s oath of the National Latin Honor Society at Pelham Memorial High School. That night, March 28, 2012, Rob erta messaged me on Facebook asking if I was feeling better and if I was coming to school the next day. I said, “yea i will be there” She said, “goody!” I said, “but im sad cuz i missed the language honor society rehearsal. so i wont guess i b able to read (sad face).” Moments later I heard a ping from my laptop. She had responded, “i dunno...you might still.” Reassured, I said, “yeah i will ask mr. ryan tomorrow about it,” and she replied with a giant smiley face. The next morning I arrived at school early to find Mr. Ryan and ask him if I was still slated to do the reading for that night. His old blue eyes looked at me with pity. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you were coming. Roberta’s name is already printed on the program.” I couldn’t believe that snake. She’d sent me smiley faces. She had known. She messaged me that night asking me if I was feeling better but hoping that I wouldn’t show up to watch her butcher a beautiful verse of classical Latin. How would Mr. Ryan know to print her name on the program unless he had asked her to fill in for me? And if he had already done it Thursday morning, surely Roberta knew that she was taking my place by Wednesday night. Why was she playing games? If! could have sewn a life lesson on a pillow in that moment it would have said “Don’t Trust the Whiteys.” Extreme and unfounded, I know. But at that moment I felt like it was me against the whole white world. I was just a brown girl trying to speak Latin. No one was going to stick up for me. No one cared that my achievements were being overshadowed and my accolades stolen. I felt stupid for forgetting to protect my throne. I should have emailed Mr. Ryan. I should have called the school or had my mother call. I should have gone to the rehearsal despite the risk of infecting other students. I should have demanded that they let me do the reading even if Roberta’s name was on the program. I bet that’s what she would have done.

Vo Iii Twice as Good

*Sho story competition winner!

-‘:4

Twice as Good cont.

By: Savannah Bowen

“Savannah,

you

are not like these other white girls. You will have to be twice as good

get half as far.”

Volume 8, Issue 1 Page 13

Twice as Good cont I did not do any of these things. I didn’t think of doing anything preventative, and after the shock of learning that Roberta had taken my spot, I became debilitated by my insecurity. I was too disappointed to speak up, and no one was go ing to fight for me either. I longed to read the initiate’s oath in front of all the other language society members and their families. I wanted everyone to know that I was the best Latin speaker in the school. I had earned my title. I deserved it But what was the point of fighting? Instead of breaking down racial barriers on the school stage that night, I would be sitting in the audience, working twice as hard as Roberta and only getting half as far. After the ceremony my mother rubbed my arm and said something soothing about everything being a learning experience. She let me defame Roberta’s name for about ten minutes before taking her tea and finding a spot on the couch. I retreated to my bedroom. Soon after, my father knocked on the door. Our relationship was often strained by our similar combative personalities. Along with a pair of giant feet, I inherited a stubborn and prideful character from my father. We fought over many things, especially my future tennis career, which was a point of weakness for me and a disappointment for him. I did not want to fight with him tonight I did not want to hear him tell me how I blew it or be reminded of my com plete lack of killer instinct I cried. But we didn’t fight. We didn’t yell. He sat at the foot of my bed and gazed at me with what I now recognize as paternal love. The truth is that this wasn’t about Roberta. Even with her petty behavior, I can’t blame her for going after what she wanted. She felt free enough to take the opportu nities she saw and not feel badly about the person who missed out. It wasn’t even about race, though that did com plicate things. This was about confidence. My ordinary childhood achievements—learning how to swim, how to ride a two-wheeler, how to compete in a tennis tourna ment—were all so difficult because of my insecurities. I looked at the bottomless pooi, the daunting bicycle, and the minacious tennis court, and I thought to myself, “How could I possibly be brave enough?” And all my life my father was there, bringing me to the tournament desk, taking away my floaties, removing my training wheels, telling me that I was going to be great and that I just had to swim, pedal, play. There he was again. That night he said to me, “You’ve got to take your place in this world.” I still don’t really have a killer instinct I quit tennis. — I’m scared to get my driver’s license, another milestone I am 1 putting off in fear of inadequacy. I still sigh with regret when I think of the moment she stood on stage and spoke my lines (she butchered them). I can’t pretend that insecurity does not wriggle its way into my life. But I think I have learned something about myself from writing about what Roberta did to me. I have grown to a point where I don’t feel in secure about being black and awesome anymore. Coming to Howard University has certainly cured me of that unfortunate malady. When I look around at the other brown faces here, all of them determined to make their hard work count, I see that I am not alone. I have learned that my hard work should never be undervalued by anyone, especially not myself. I should never let anyone shrink my miles into millimeters.

Artistry as Weaponry: The Liberation of Aunt Jemima as a Political Work By: Celina Brown In 1972, Betye Saar showed America, and the world, that satire is one of the best exhibitions of protest, es pecially when coupled with art At an exhibition at The Rainbow Sign in Oakland, California, Saar displayed her mixed media art assemblage entitled The Liberation of Aunt Jemima, which presents a popular Black caricature of the past in such a way as to criticize the caricature and its implications. In The Liberation, Saar not only uses a spe cific format known as mixed media assemblage to emphasize the harmful nature of the caricature, but she also re lies on symbolism and an overt representation of resistance to challenge the use of this damaging depiction of Black people. Looking at the art form Saar uses to present her piece, one may notice the significance of using assemblage to emphasize America’s habit of degrading Black people, specifically Black women. Mixed media assemblage is an artistic “technique involving the use of two or more artistic media” (suc,h as painting and sculpture) to create threedimensional structures (Mixed Media). In her use of mixed media assemblage for The Liberation, Saar fills a shallow glass display box with a figurine of the “classic” Aunt Jemima character, complete with onyx skin, bulging eyes, and large, bright, red lips. In this case, however, the “classic” figure is holding a broom and grenade in one hand and a rifle in the other. In the center of the figurine’s stomach, there is a painting of a “mammy” holding a mulatto child accompanied by a painting of a large, black fist Behind the figurine there are printed images of the Aunt Jemima logo found on Aunt Jemima pancake mix. These three artistic representations of Aunt Jemima—the physical figu rine (a minstrelsy caricature), the painting (a mammy/caretaker), and the printed images (a popular reference to Black subservience)—all serve as ways to emphasize the harmful nature of the caricature because they show the constant mockery that has been made of Black bodies through history. The symbolism provided by these three representations, as well as the overt resistance found in the supporting materials within the assemblage art piece (e.g. the grenade and rifle), further criticize the Aunt Jemima stereotype. Beginning with the symbolism behind the three different Aunt Jemima depic tions, one can notice that the painting serves as a symbol of the “Black mam my.” The multiple printed images from the pancake mix serve as symbols of the caretaker/homemaker/housekeeper stereotypes that Black women have been subjected to. The figurine, with her broom and minstrel-like attributes, serves as a symbol of Black stupidity due to its reference to minstrel shows. However, when one sees the grenade accompanying the figurine’s broom, the rifle resting in the figurine’s left hand, and the black fist in the middle of the assemblage, it is clear that Saar is boldly destroying the idea of Black stupidity/servility and replacing that idea with resistance. The grenade and rifle easily allude to the fact that Black women, and Blacks in general, are ready to fight back against oppressive powers (whether that be by force or not). The black fist is a direct allusion to the Black Power Movement of the 1960s, which popularized the raised black fist as a sign of Black unity and Black resistance against a systematically racist America.

Ha. That would look cute on a throw pillow.

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Ha. That would look cute on a throw pillow.

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The Spilt-image of African Americans

Artistry as Weaponry: The Liberation of Aunt Jemima as a Political Work cont.

By: Kristeph Cassimire Jointly, Saar’s representation of this resistance alongside her use of the three different Aunt Jemimas as symbols challenges the use of destructive images of Black bodies. The Liberation does this by taking the very imag es and ideas that have sought to demean the Black community and using them as weapons to fight against the racist system that produced the derogatory images/ideas. In essence, Saar is challenging racism by suggesting that what

“Split-Image: African Americans in the Mass Media” brings to mind many unsettling thoughts because since the experience of slavery, African American people have been torn between two identities and two cultures in a perpetual battle to establish them

ever is given to Black people as a means of degradation will simply be used as ammunition in Black retaliatory ac tions. Saar is challenging the use of these images by allowing the tools of resistance in the assemblage to represent Black empowerment in reality. The grenade for instance, as Saar states, is not so much a sign of violence as it is a sign that “you empowered yourself” (Saar, Interview). Hence, The Liberation can even be seen as a threat against

selves as equals in the eyes of white hegemony. Before slavery, Africans were per ceived as a strong people— a people of togetherness, oneness with nature and God, thinkers, builders, innovators. Slavery eradicated any perception of the African individ ual as anything other than subhuman and marred African history as Africans were

those whose are perpetuating degrading images of Black people. It is a threat that suggests that while some may continue to see Blacks as nothing more than servants and minstrel show fools, the Black community will be prepar ing an arsenal of empowerment against those who have chosen to make a mockery of Black people. Furthermore, the fact that the Aunt Jemima figurine is using a gun rather than any other weapon is significant. As Saar points out, “If you want to get somebody’s attention, all you have to do is have a gun” (Saar, Interview) because this country is

dragged from their homelands and submerged in a culture that was unknown to them. In the years after the abolition of slavery, the resiliency of African American culture was tested as it fought against white hegemony and the common misconceptions and stereotypes of the Negro that had deeloped in society. Whether contemporary African Americans should now seek to consolidate their African identity or to engender a coa lescing of African culture and Western culture is debatable. The split-image of the Afri can American that has evolved over several generations is most articulately presented

so driven by the use of fire arms as a means of retaliation that guns easily capture attention. Once again, this is not to say that challenging the use of deprecating images requires violence, but rather, this is to say that challenging oppressors requires the unique use of the oppressors’ own weapons as one’s defense.

by Jannette L. Dates and William Barlow in their essay “Split-Image: African Americans in the Mass Media.”

The Liberation of Aunt Jemima, as a brilliantly formulated political work, foreshadows the roles that Blacks will play in Black liberation while simultaneously. looking back into the past and residing in the present At the heart of this time travel is the assemblage art form, symbolism, and resistance that collectively challenge/work against the exploitation of damaging images aimed at the Black community. Concurrently, The Liberation empowers and liberates not only Aunt Jemima but also the Black race as a body.

Dates and Barlow delve first into the portrayal of the Negro in antebellum popular cul ture and discuss “the roots of the schism”— how initial incorrect representations of enslaved Af ricans and their master came about. As stated by Dates and Barlow, initial portrayals were used to justify the enslavement of the Africans and the institution of slavery itself. As a means of as serting white dominance, Negros were depicted in both literature and theatre as fools, only capa ble of poorly imitating the mannerisms, dress, and speech of their masters. It is paradoxical that to rationalize the heinous, degrading act of slavery, white people created false images of enslaved Africans that further degraded the Negro individual and gave rise to vicious stereotypes. One popular portrayal of the Negro was the contented slave stereotype. This depicted slaves as dutiful and comfortable in their subjection. Another popular characterization in thea tre was the crippled stable hand Jim Crow of the 1830’s which gave rise to the “Jim Crow” stereotype and gave whites the psychological reassurance that the Negro was not an equal. As blackface minstrelsy and its distorted representation of slavery became increasingly favored by whites, so too did the ideology of racism, mostly in the minds of the white working-class males who made up the preponderance of the audience of the

Works Cited “Mixed Media.” American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fifth Edition. 2011. Houghton Mifflin Har court Publishing Company. 27 Jan. 2015 Saar, Betye. The Liberation of Aunt Jemima. 1972. Mixed media assemblage. Collection of University of California, Berkeley Art Museum, Berkeley, California. “Betye Saar: The Liberation of Aunt Jemima.” Interview. Web log post. Visionaryprojectorg. The National Vision ary Leadership Project, n.d. Web. 25 Jan. 2015.

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minstrel shows. This lead to strong opposition to the abolitionist movement and its sup port of the emancipation of slaves. It is important to note that during this time period, America had already gained independence from the British, so white Americans knew to some extent what subjugation felt like, yet they celebrated their freedom from the British while slavery still plagued African Americans and thought so little of Negro peo ple as to not want them free. Dates and Barlow next explore postbellum popular culture as it regards the clichés of Negro life in enslavement found after the Civil War. Popular literature and the stage continued to flourish; the faithful servant (male) and the black mammy (female) caricatures developed. The wretched freedman was transposed to the brute Negro.

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Artistry as Weaponry: The Liberation of Aunt Jemima as a Political Work cont.

by Jannette L. Dates and William Barlow in their essay “Split-Image: African Americans in the Mass Media.”

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The Split-Image of African Americans cant. This period also saw more resistance by African Americans. To combat the inundation of stereotypes, Black writers created works to venerate African American heroes. Black writers also adopted strategies— such as parodying and signifying— as a means of contesting the power relations that existed at the time. African American authors and

Works Cited: Redd, Teresa M, and Carolyn E. Shuttlesworth. Revelations

petuating the same stereotypes that white people had created through their misguided perception. This occurred pri marily because the theatre was owned and controlled by whites, who dictated what should be portrayed to satisfy their white audience. Sadly ironic also is the inadvertent popularization of “coon” as a derogatory term for a black male by African American song writer Ernest Hogan. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, “coon songs” were widely popular, and even though most debased Negroes, there were songs by Black song writers that sought to erase stereotypes through their lyrics. Unfortunately, clichés still arose because whites had already disseminated certain views of African Americans. It is interesting that the offensive nature of those “coon songs” is perhaps analogous to modern day rap songs that degrade Black women by portraying these women as only capable of sexual appeal, thus creating a stereotype. Finally, Dates and Barlow discuss the mass media and the blatant white domination of mainstream culture is a society that methodically denies Black image-makers the ability to show authentic and positive Black characters and that favors the stereotypes created by whites. This gave rise to cultural resistance because African Americans attempt ed to create media products where possible. It is ironic that while obstructing the production of genuine products by African Americans, whites appropriated these Black products and distorted them

number of black formatted radio stations saw a rise. Dates argues that in the 1950’s and 1960’s in commercial television, Blacks gained entrance by whatever means they could, not becoming a formidable force until the 1980’s. So too did African Americans enter public television and print news, challenging the power relations once again. In advertising, however, it appears that African Americans were not determinedly targeted until whites saw that profit could be made. In conclusion, while there have been great accomplishments by African Americans in challenging white dominance in the mass media, it is still appears that the more things change, the more they remain the same. Stereotypes of Blacks are continuously surfacing through modern films that depict the cliché gun -toting, uneducated Black male; through shows that portray Black men as absen tee fathers; and in the local news in which the images of African Americans in volved in crime and violence are often highlighted. These all contribute to a splitimage of African Americans. Hopefully, with greater dogged effort, the stereo types will eventually be expunged, and a wholly positive image of African Americans will be conceived.

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an Anthology of Expository Essays by and About

Blacks. USA. Simon & Schuster Custom Publishing. 1997. Print.

poets such as W.E.B Du Bois, Frederick Douglass, Elizabeth Keckley, Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, Gwendolyn Brooks, and many others shaped positive images of Blacks and opposed white dominance. As stated by Dates and Barlow, popular theatre was an important cultural arena, and Black entertainers came to command postbel lum minstrelsy. This proved a disgrace, however, as African Americans adopted the blackface minstrelsy format, per

for their own financial benefit. This process was seen in 1960’s rock music and 1970’s disco music. It is only in the context of contemporary rap music that one notices African Americans battling white hegemony with some degree of success. Barlow asserts that is was only after radio had lost its national appeal that the

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“African American Literature.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 26 Sept. 2014, 12

The Sorrow Queen

By: Layla A. Reaves Chapter One: The Sorrow Fighters “Issa! Today I get my tenth acutta mark!” His small, out-stretched arm showed nine tiny red lines in a neat row. Each one was about an inch and a half across. “Happy birthday, Rowan.” She bent down to kiss his forehead. “Ah!” she touched behind his left ear and a coin appeared in her hand. “What’s this?!” “A silver coin!” His eyes lit up. “Where’d you find it? These are a zillion years old!” He peered down at the old silver coin with strange markings. One side had a drawing of a man facing sideways. “It’s our secret!” Issameli answered. “Now, keep it safe!” “Thank you SO much, Issa!” He hugged her waist tightly, pulling at her stiff, woven dress. His head brushed the curly hair that came to her chest. He ran off to his group of friends, proudly holding up the coin for all to see. lssameli watched him go and then continued on her walk. The Great Clearing was bustling like it did any other day. Women carried water to and fro in large clay pots atop their heads. Men carried logs, disappearing in and out of the perim eter of trees. Smoke from tens of fires decorated the air. Other women labored over the fires, cooking. The smell of yummy fish stew wafted out of the pots. And then there was the sound, lssameli’s favorite thing about the Great Clearing. There was seldom anything she liked more than to be woken up by women’s laughter as they wove baskets, the clanking of spears as teenaged boys sparred with each other, the low hum of men singing as they hacked away at neighboring trees, birds chirping, men and women digging and planting, and the rushing water from the Great River playing in the back ground all the while. All together it sounded like music, Issameli thought. But today the air had a markedly different, more vibrant energy. Today, Issameli decided, was special. The war rally was going to happen later that night. You could feel eve ryone’s expectation in the air, and she could barely contain her excitement as the sun set and the sky darkened to a deeper blue. *

“WE MUST FIGHT!” a powerful voice bellowed from a man’s great belly. “YEEAAHHHH!!!” the crowd surrounding the great bonfire cheered. Issameli sat on a log in the back next to Minnow, Pisa, and Karrato. “WE MUST FIGHT TO PROTECT WHAT’S RIGHTFULLY OURS!” Even the small families far away next to the great trees could hear. “YEEAAAHHHHHH!!” Men and women brandished their arrows, clubs, and spears in enthusiasm. “WE’VE ALL SEEN IT! THE SORROW QUEEN COMES LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT AND KIDNAPS SORROW FIGHT ER VILLAGES LIKE OURS!”

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The Split-Image of African Americans cont.

Works Cited: Redd, Teresa M, and Carolyn E. Shuttlesworth. Revelations

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an Anthology of Expository Essays by and About

Blacks. USA. Simon & Schuster Custom Publishing. 1997. Print.

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The Sorrow Queen

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The Sorrow Queen cont. “Issameli,” a tall, haggard man whispered in her ear. “SHE KIDNAPS THEM AND TAKES FROM THEM THE SORROW THAT IS SO RIGHTFULLY THEIRS!” “Issameli, your father requests more wood for the bonfire,” the man pes tered. Issameli looked up at her father, whose voice was louder than the howl of a pack of wolves. “BUT I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU! WE ARE NOT LIKE ANY OTHER SORROW FIGHTER VILLAGE!” Sneesiel was being bossy again. Her father was engrossed in giving his war rally speech. He wasn’t concerned at all with any firewood. “WE FIGHT! UNLIKE THE OTHER VILLAGES, WE DO NOT GO DOWN SO EASILY!” Sneesiel wasn’t giving up, still nagging in her ear. “Fine,” she conceded. She got up and stomped off into the surrounding trees. Her friends followed. “THE SORROW-CATCHERS WILL BE SORRY THEY EVER STEPPED FOOT INSIDE THE GREAT CLEARING!” “YEEEEAAAHHHH!” “I don’t know why he insists on bossing me around like he’s my dad!” Issameli’s arms were folded as she headed to the Great River. Pisa had already begun sorting through the forest floor, searching for firewood. “I only need one adult telling me what to do!” Aggravated, Issameli wanted an answer. “He’s right, Issa,” Pisa spoke. “The bonfire does need more wood.” Minnow wore his usual forlorn expression as he dragged his feet along. He was all too familiar with his friend’s hatred for Sneesiel. “Ugh,” Issa groaned. “Why do you always have to be so sensible? He just wants what’s rightfully mine. He doesn’t think I can take over after my father. But I can!” The forest was illuminated by the bright full moon as they trudged along, picking up branches along the way. Kar rato was unusually quiet until he spotted the river. “Last one in has to clean my casak for a week!” Even Pisa dropped her firewood and ran to jump in the river. Two bodies splashed in. Issameli crouched on her knees and leaned over the river. She stared at her toffee-colored reflection. She thought she could see a wrinkle forming near the corner of her mouth. “C’mon, Minnow,” she said: “We won’t ever be this young again.” She jumped in before he could reply. The three laughed and splashed while Minnow sat on the muddy bank, watching with his melancholy eyes. He leaned against a boulder and began to doze off. “Minnow, wake up!” Karrato threw water all over his face. He’d been asleep for at least an hour. Startled by the water, Minnow’s nostrils flared. His brows furrowed. Pisa apologized with her eyes. “I told him not to do it,, Minnow,” she said. It was moments like this that made Issameli wonder how Pisa and Karrato could have matching faces and be so different Minnow loosened his fists and started gathering firewood. “We should have been back by now,” he said: “Let’s go.” The girls followed without a word. Karrato laughed. Moments later, even Karrato noticed that something wasn’t right as they neared the Great Clearing. They stopped.

“Where is the sound?” Issameli asked to no one in particular. Her heart started beating rapidly. Pisa dropped her firewood. Suddenly, she was breathing hard. Issameli shouted, “How long were we gone, Karrato?” Karrato gave no reply. “Let’s go,” Minnow’s solemn voice led the way. There was no one. Not a single trace of a body could be heard or seen throughout the wide expanse of the Great Clearing. The great bonfire had been put out. Spears, clubs, and arrows lay charred on top

of it Aside from this, everything looked normal. Each casak was in its place, belongings safely inside. The village pathways were tidy and free of debris, It looked almost as if the Sorrow Fighters were simply away on vacation, to return at any moment Except the Great Clearing was never empty. There was always that beloved sound to awaken Issameli. “Where is everyone?” Pisa screamed. “I don’t understand.. Karrato started. “The Sorrow Queen,” said Minnow. They understood. “NO!” lsameli meant to whisper, but it came out as a scream. “This pain is MINE and mine alone! I will not let her take it from me! I will KILL HER for what she has done!” .“

“They couldn’t have gone far.. said Karrato. “We must find her! And kill her!” Issameli raged for her breaking heart. Pisa started crying. Minnow went to go hold her. “LET’S GO!” Issameli shouted. “We have to find them!” She fell to her knees. She saw Rowan’s coin stuck in mud beside her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Rowan,” she She forced herself up and began packing things into an abandoned knapsack that a soldier left whimpered. “Father. .“

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behind. “If we catch up to them, that means catching up to the Sorrow-catchers,” Karrato tried to reason with her. “They will turn you in to her and in a day’s time, you will have forgotten you ever had a father, let alone this conversation. We need a plan.” “He’s right, Issa,” said Minnow. Pisa still sobbed in his arms. “We leave at dawn,” Issameli said with flint in her eyes. To be continued.

The Fool In Shakespeare’s Kjpgjçar By: Alexa Listza King Lear is impossible to portray on stage; this is the assertion of H.A. Hargeaves in his assessment of King Lear in his note “Visual Contradictions.” Hargeaves addresses the difficulty of putting on a play that has necessary visu al aspects directors tend to ignore. He argues that Shakespeare sets his characters up to be rejected by the audience because after the characters have come to a realization that theatre-goers are meant to respect and agree with, some thing appears on stage that immediately goes against the characters’ insight Hargeaves uses the example of King Lear trudging through the storm and the insight he has on the problems of the ordinary man. Lear concludes that if wealthy men distributed their wealth and made ordinary men their equals, ordinary men would no longer struggle. Immediate ly after this speech, however, Edgar, dressed as mad Tom, comes on stage. Edgar, as Gloucester’s son, has his own in heritance and wealth, and it does nothing but condemn him, proving Lear’s thesis incorrect. While Hargeaves’s theory

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The Fool In Shakespeare’s 4ngjçrcont Hargeaves’s theory demonstrates Shakespeare’s attention to the humanistic qualities of his characters, he neglects to mention the Fool’s tendencies for rea son and logic which are not changed, and in doing so, he misses a theme of au jthority. As Lear begins to lose his sanity, the Fool’s knowledge becomes more !prominent. Shakespeare uses the Fool as a way to compensate for Lear’s lack of reason, and the Fool acts as Lear’s judgment and logic, representing that lost part of Lear. The Fool points out the hardships of pleasing Lear’s daughters: “They’ll have me whipped for speaking true, thou’lt have me whipped for speak ing true, thou’lt have me whipped for lying, and sometimes I am whipped for holding peace. I had rather be any kind o’ thing than a Fool. And yet I would not be thee, nuncle. Thou hadst pared thy wit o’ both sides and left nothing I’ th’ middle” (1.4.187-8). The Fpol would rather be whipped and take any oth er job than having that of the king. He thinks it is the king’s job and the decisions that come with it that are driving him to madness. The Fool views Regan and Goneril as two halves of Lear’s mind that he has given away, leaving nothing for himself, and he predicts an impending insanity because of it. The Fool pushes his boundaries by telling the king, “I am better than thou art now. I am a Fool. Thou art nothing” (1.4.198-9). The Fool emphasizes what Gon eril and Regan have taken from Lear, stripping the king of every value that made him higher than the fool. Goneril comes on stage and calls the king old and in need of guidance, essentially stripping him of the control he once had as king. A king without power is as basic as his followers and amounts to the same lowliness. The Fool, having heard of Lear’s recent gifts to his daughters, sets a guideline to live by in order to prosper. The rules serve as a warning of what to avoid and King Lear takes the Fool s words lightly ignoring their value and fol lowing his own guidelines. Outside Goneril’s home, the Fool tells Lear to “Have more than thou showest,/ Speak less than though knowest,/ Lend less than thou owest,/ Ride more than thou growest,/ Learn more than thou trow est... And thou shalt have more/ Than two tens to a score” (1.4.122-31). Throughout the play, Lear disregards each mandate the Fool sets for him. He gives all of his material wealth away, demands a right to more knights, surren ders himself to madness runs away into the storm and ignores teaching experiences Instead of his worth dou hung, as the Fool predicted would happen if Lear listened to him, Lear loses his life as well as the life of his favorite daughter. Directly after Lear’s conversation with the Fool, the disguised Kent tells the Fool that these rules will be easy to live by. Kent, having followed these rules in his loyalty to the king, is a visual element that agrees with the Fool’s knowledge, rather than contradicting it. The king’s Fool is expected to have an aura of humor anytime he speaks and is purposed with the task of entertainment. Not expecting to take anything the Fool says seriously, King Lear allows the fool to become the one character who may speak frankly with him. The mix of humor with his reason and a blunt tone serves as a gateway for the Fool to get through to the king with sensibility, reason, and judgment. Joking with the king, the Fool points out to him that “When thou clovest thy crown i’ th’ middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav’st thy golden one away” (1.4.166-7). The Fool points out that Lear’s decision to leave Cordelia, his golden girl, out of the division of the kingdom was unwise. The Fool compares this decision to the king having to carry a donkey on his back, making life harder for himself than is necessary. Immediately after this opinion is stated, Goneril enters to demand that the king give up fifty of his knights. Her disagreement with her father and her push for his submission emphasize the truth of the Fool’s words and that Lear has given his money and kingdom to an unworthy and ungrateful daughter, rather than one who truly loves him.