Sterling Notes Newsletter | Volume 9 Issue 1 by Sterling Notes

Volume 9 Issue 1

THE STERLIN(

FaIl 2015

2015-2016 SABES Executive Board: • Celina Brown

ALLE BRO\VN ENGLI11 OClLTY

Sterling Notes

• Octavias Barnes • Nicholas Sheppard • Chelsea Anderson • TamekaAmado • Jenelle Davis • Clara Romeo • Alexis Grant

Inside this Issue:

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SABES Reading of Invisible Man

“Ms.Grayson ,,

Picture taken at Dr.Oh’s workshop on Pre-Modern Writing Tool and Techniques 9

President’s Welcome “The Sate of Black Patriar 1 cny

“Close Knit”

“The Paradox”

“The World Famous Florida Avenue Grill”

“The Difference Between Poetry and Rhetoric”

I wonder what American culture would be like without Black voices in the arts; perhaps American culture would look like we simply were not here. Maybe the reality of Black struggle would go unacknowledged, relegated to lesser known sections of history along with any traces of Black beauty or Black intelligence.

“Black Lives Matter,” “I Can’t Breathe,” and “Say Her Name”—all linguistic affirma tions and declarations of our humanity and our pain—may not elicit a single utter ance, let alone drive a movement, without Black voices to create and speak them. But, thank goodness we do have Black voices. When America refuses to see us, our voices give us visibility. When we, as Black writers, use our voices in publi cations such as Sterling Notes, we demand that we be acknowledged, and we speak for those who cannot, or simply are not ready to, share their voices. That is why I encourage you to read these works raptly, find yourself in the voices of your peers, and then share your own voice wherever you can. After all, the Sterling Allen Brown English Society is intended to be one of many spaces on Howard’s campus where Black voices can be heard and shared. From provocative discussions in our

book club to honest and free verbal expressions in our open mic events, we strive to create an environment that fosters the voices of Howard students. Join us next semester and take part in the events and programs that our society has to offer so that you may experience the power and indispensability of our Black voices. —Celina Brown, SABES President

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The Resurection of Joshlah Hampton By: Megan Sims

ttp://www.dai1ypainters.corn/ aintings/1 77428/OIL.PAINTING-QF-PAJNT-

I’d like to say that I bring light to i.vs that Were once dark...and color to spaces that once had none at .111. I .iii’l nl, hut when I got my paint ‘::h, I become somethin’ other worldly. I’ve been in Harlem for two years ulow, ni,ukluu’ .u n,unue flr myself by doin’ what Ilove. I’ve won awards for my pailuttaug’, cd the things I seen in the South: Elders sittin’ on the rotten wood of old slhu(’ks playln’ with secondhand chessboards, little Black childiel) ruuuuuuluu’ tlnouih (lilt roads wit no shoes, Black men emergin’ from the fields with ,i weary sIckle, and Black women wit bouncin’ Black babies on they hacks .111(1 hopelessness in they eyes. My mama was hopeless; She raised me and my live sihlluigs alone in this small shack in Pelham, Georgia, not too far lu’ouiu Mlsi.ulu M,usun’s lauitation. Mistah Mason had the biggest cotton plantaUouu south of Al Iaiut.u •iuud every Blackface in Pelham thatain’thave no land of they own worked there, includ in’ me and my family. I couldn’t go far enough to inrj.et ill thai I saw, hut when I paint, I finally escape them sorrowful rneuuuorles, hut lately, somethin’ een troublin’ me so. “You bettah learn what I be teachin’, Boy,” In would siy every time he taught me somethin’ new, which was every day. his voice was deep like the rivers Langston Hughes wrote about. I usually start off with the face. I ain’t never seeuu suaulu light eyes on nobody before; his big golden brown eyes always twinkled under tile sun, but I paintedhis eyes shut. Jo’s eyebrows were thick, his host’ broad, and his lips large. These lips would rarely call me Elijah unless I did souuieihluu’ wrong, but I made his mouth twisted. And when he smiled his teeth Wele .us white as the cotton we picked, but I made ‘em jagged. His face was alw,uys Ieuuu, hut some I times he would let stubble grow on his pronounced chin ,uuu(t jaw ‘c.uuuse Jo used to say women like it like that. “Boy, my papa used to say dat a clean face show a man got dignity. So I say a half clean face show a man got dignity and love his Women,” he said that time he taught me how to shave. “I neva knew my papa,” I replied. “They say he was a drunk that liked to pick fights and—” “Don’t talk bad ‘bout yo papa, Boy,” he interrupted, gatherin’ his brows. “He ain’t here, but you got life ‘cause of ‘em, so least love ‘em ‘cause as Colored folks, the world don’t love us, so we gotta love us. Remember that, Boy.” Next I enliven the body. Jo’s structure was always somethin’ to behold, and he pushed his body further than it could go everyday he worked in them fields toilin’ the land that he and his People fertilized with blood, sweat, and agony. He had these broad shoulders and these large arms and hands that could drive a hoe deep into the soil day-in and day-out, hut I made them limp and lifeless. His chest was wide ‘cause it had to carry this lion-like heart that pumped pride and wisdom through his mighty veins. He was also very tall too, with a long neck, but I made his neck slanted. “Boy, you meant to be somethin’ special,” he said that time we just sat outside his shack in front of a warm fire. “How you know?” I was skeptical ‘cause I ain’t know no world beyond the one I was in. I used to make paint from berries and paint on old cloth I found outside Mistah Mason’s house. Jo would beam wit pride when he saw what I made. “It ain’t somethin’ you know, Boy, it be somethin’ you feel.” (cont pg3)

‘The last time I saw Jo, he was suspended in midair, his body cold and swingin’ in the warm Georgia breeze. He hung ac cused of rapin’ the daughter of Mistah Mason, but really, he was convicted of bein’ Black in a world where he ain’t loved, ain’t wanted, and ain’t valued! These past few days, he had continu ously beckoned me in my sleep ‘cause he wanted me to show the world what they did to him! “You’s a man now,” I heard Jo say in my dreams. “God gave you ‘dis gift to lift ya people up, Elijah! And make sho’ they see our sufferin’ so I ain’t died in vain, Elijah!” Even though I ain’t God, my rope was long and thick, and it was http://flickrhivemind.net/User/Cauquil%2OCIaude/ paintbrush helped me reach into made from the very cloth this back to life as this symbol of Josiah Hampton watchin’ heaven to bring there that night its sins! I was country cut from which is how he has always lived in my Black righteousness, of gleeful white faces as a crowd bushes behind the from gathered and played God! Jo’s screams echoed in a night that heart. So, RISE JO! was as Black as his skin, which was kissed by the brilliance :RJSE! of an African sun that gave his ancestors light! In the field pickin’ cotton, Jo would wear this worn white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His suspenders held up his large dark pants that al most dragged the ground, and his brown leather shoes were old, and the soles were almost bare, but he never complained. I used to see him sit in the grass pickin’ stones from the bottom of his shoes. But I made his clothes ripped and his feet shoeless. Lastly, I set the scene. Where the “American Dream” lie, I painted hauntin’ trees, and one tree bore the crop that personified the fear I hear, feel, taste, and smell hem’ Black in America. The

SABES Book club Reading of lnvlsJble Man By: Octavias Barnes The Sterling Allen English Brown Society (SABES) Book Club is designed to bring together a collective group of Howard University students. These students are not only interested in reading books outside of an academic schedule, but they also enjoy the pleasure of being able to converse with others about what they see happening in a literary text. Meet ings for the book club are typically scheduled every other week, but the schedule may be revised to ensure that it is worka ble for the members in the club. The nudge to alter scheduled meeting times for the book club originates from the empathy students share for one another. Students understand how rigorous the workload can be through the duration of a semes ter. Therefore, to negate additional stress, readings are assigned according to the time allotted between scheduled meet ings. The SABES Book Club is more than just another extracurricular activity open to students on campus. It offers the opportunity to enhance vital skills used in the classroom such as reading comprehension, textual analysis, and group par ticipation. The club is open to students of all majors and encourages students who have a zeal for reading and discussion to join. This semester the club has made an endeavor to read Ralph Ellison’s 1952 novel, Invisible Man. Thus far the club’s engagement with the text has followed the protagonist from experiences of the segregated South to events in the wild riotous streets of Harlem. The protagonist of the text, who is referred to as an “invisible man”, is actually unnamed. The portrayal of the main character as nameless adds a great deal of meaning to the text from the onset. The notion that this character cannot be identified alludes to his invisibility in society and to everyone around him in the story. The era in which the novel was written speaks volumes to the identity imposed upon African Americans at the time. Following the conclusion of World War II, African American men had to fend for themselves in a racist nation in which they were left without a finite sense of identity. Women were vividly displayed as guardians of the household, do mestic housewives, and caretakers of children. The solid roles already attributed to Black women, made it hard for Black men to carve out a niche for themselves in society, so identity become abstract for them. A man’s primary and prominent role in society resided in being responsible both inside and outside the household. Invisible Man raises a variety of ques tions that beg for scrutiny.

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The Resurection of Joshlah Hampton By: Megan Sims

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SABES Book Club Reading of Invisible Where does the protagonist belong in life? Where does he stand in life? What is his purpose? How does he figure these things out? The main character seems to be confused about his identity. He believes that he must heed didactic instruction from people of higher authority, mainly whites, and that he must be of service, to their utmost satisfaction: “Oh, I said with disappointment. I had hoped that by serving him the rest of the week I could win back his esteem. Now I would not have the opportunity” (Ellison 108). Up to that point in time, African Americans were only familiar with serving higher authorities. They did not know how to serve them selves. Ellison affirms this by introducing the main charac ter’s grandfather, who says, “1 never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days... ever since I g[a]ve up my gun” (16). This quote suggests that the charac ter’s grandfather has worked for Whites his entire life. By giving the audience a peek into an earlier generation, Ellison places the protagonist’s generation in juxtaposition with his grandfather’s generation. Both character’s serve Whites. The protagonist’s grandfather forces him to reflect on his blindness to the situation in a dream in which he has the protagonist read a letter: “To Whom It May Concern... Keep This Nigger-Boy Running”(33). Although the protago nist does not comprehend the situation enough to have an epiphany, he starts to learn more and more as the story pro gresses. Dr. Bledsoe, who is dean of the Negro state college the protagonist is attending, says, “You’re nobody, son. You don’t exist —can’t you see that? The white folk tell every body what to think” (143). By shedding light on the main character’s invisibility, Dr. Bledsoe tries to offer insight into where the protagonist currently stands from a social per more coherent later spective. Dr. Bledsoe also advises the protagonist not to be in the story than it was earlier. Ellison’s “invisible man” does come stagnant with that social position and to find out not have the responsibility of a husband to his wife and chil where he belongs in society: “You learn where you are and dren, but he has a social responsibility to eradicate his invis get yourself some power, influence, contacts with power and ibility in society and stand out. influential people then stay in the dark and use it!”(145). Works Cited The unnamed character is exposed to this advice, but he does not know how to use it to his advantage, which is why Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York: Vintage Dr. Bledsoe sends him away to Harlem. International, 1995. Print The vet, another character in the story, tells the pro tagonist, “You don’t have to be a complete fool in order to succeed. Play the game, but don’t believe in it that much you owe yourselP’(153). This statement suggests that it is necessary for the protagonist to play into the hands of white **Any student currently seeking active participation folk when climbing the corporate ladder but that he should in the book club should contact Dr. DeGout of the English not to let them exploit him for his service or give them con department (yasminhu@aol.com) or SABES Vice President trol over his thoughts. Therefore, when he is finished playing Octavias Barnes (octavias.barnes@bison.howard.edu). Upon the game or serving the white folks, he can benefit from it contact, students will be asked to pickup a copy of the book substantially by carving out a niche for himself in society. In and read it over the winter break. Books can be picked up retrospect, the topic of responsibility is even from Mrs. Hardy in Locke Hall 248 (the main English office). —

1 Overcrowding In Public Schools By: Nzingha Massaquol The issue of overcrowding in urban schools is not new. In an ideal world class sizes would range from 15-20 students. Unfortunately, a majority of the classrooms in ur ban schools have class sizes that range from 30-40 students. Overcrowding in classrooms creates learning environments that are unfit and creates challenges that are almost impos sible to overlook or overcome. Teachers can become stressed and frustrated because instead of spending class time teaching, they are trying to get everyone quiet and at tend to the needs of over 30 students. The students perform better according to a study done by the Center for Public Education. The only benefit resulting from increased class sizes is monetary savings for school districts. Usually, coun ties build more schools if the class sizes become too large. To save money, however, students are squeezed into class rooms, sometimes with two teachers taking over one class room. Students have been known to perform better when the teacher is able to give them one-on-one or small group instruction. It is impossible for a teacher to teach a class of over 30 students if all of the children are expected to have grasped the lesson by the time class is over. Overcrowding in the classroom can also cause discipline issues. Having more students creates more chances to have personality conflicts, tension, and other disruptive behaviors. Teachers may find themselves managing the classroom more than they are instructing. Another negative result of the overcrowding of stu dents in a classroom is that students who are struggling may be forgotten and fall behind. Students who grasp the lesson quickly will be able to learn no matter how many people are in the class. Other students need more direct attention and fewer distractions so that they will be able to

http://www.scu.edu/benson/ studentart/

maximize their learning potential. Because overcrowded students do not get all the knowledge that they would get in a regular sized classroom, standardized test scores suffer. There is already an overemphasis placed on such tests in the American public school system; this coupled with children who do not know the information they are being tested on, is a recipe for disaster. The chance of successfully proving proficiency on a standardized test decreases as the number of the students in the classroom increases. In addition, with large class sizes come more noise and less control over the class. When twenty students are talking, it is hard for the other twenty who are paying atten tion to the lesson to hear. Multiple voices all saying so mething different makes for a very chaotic classroom and an unfit learning environment Louder classrooms make it ex tremely difficult for students to learn and for teachers to teach. Teacher burnout is brought on by high amounts stress, which can stem from any of the issues listed above— issues that are brought on by overcrowded classrooms. The saying “the more the merrier” does not translate to class: rooms, where more students equal more stress. Teachers : already have a difficult job and are on the go all the time. : Any additional form of stress may lead them to search for a : different profession. Many first-year teachers end up leaving the profession because everything they learned in school about management and teaching is nothing like what hap pens in a classroom full of students. Works Cited “Class Size and Student Achievement: Research Review.” Centerforpubliced@nsba.org. The Center for Public Educa tion. Web. 26 Oct 2015.

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Absolutely No Eating or Drinking in the Lab cont.

Absolutely No Eating or Drinking in the Lab By: Adetomiwa Victor Owoseni

http://mrsevansteacher.weebly.com/8. science.html

“Hey, Barry, while you’re over there, could you cals, that made me nervous. With all their expertise, ap make me a quick gel? 2% agarose?” Christine shouted from proaching them would intimidate any intern. The chemicals, somewhere out of sight. however, were the great equalizer. What harmed one perI looked up at the frequently used bottle of agarose, son could harm the next, regardless of how cozy a person standing in its usual spot among the crowd of chemicals: : was with a particular chemical. front row for easy access and third container from the left. : A beeping sound filled the room. As I walked to the Good, the last person hadn’t failed to put the bottle back in : microwave, the sight of chemicals strewn around the lab its right place. : made me suck my teeth. Even though they had been scien “Sure, no problem.” I grabbed the gray container tists much longer than I had, respect for these substances and put it down on the desk. Slowly, I screwed open the cap and their order in the lab had never entered their minds. I to the agarose, which is used for making gels to separate shook my head in disgust and, using a tissue, pulled out the DNA, then carefully slid the glass door of the weighing scale. hot flask bubbling with the viscous solution. Without warnIt bothered me how painfully slow I was moving. My fellow ing, my hand holding the flask fell slack, and I had to use to lab mates moved much quicker than I did, with expertise on my other hand to stop the flask from crashing to the floor, a how to handle even the most dangerous chemicals. With move sure to peeve the other lab members. That was weird, godlike speed they flew around the lab, maneuvering although I had been feeling numb in my hands recently. through their domain showing off their mastery. At least it Maybe the heat was getting to me. I took the flask to the seemed like this through my envy. This was their home, back of the lab, the section specifically used for anything their territory, and I was just a two month intruder they contaminated with ethidium. were nice enough to host. Ethidium bromide. A deadly chemical so dangerous So slowly I moved, pouring the last of the 3 grams it stood out even in this room full of toxins. We used it to of white powder into the scale, then transferring it into my stain the DNA separated in the agarose gels. The problem flask. I walked over and added the clear liquid the agarose was that without proper caution, nothing stopped the eth was to dissolve in, then after slightly whirling it, put my so idium from staining our DNA as well. I picked it up and held lution in the microwave for two minutes. it in my glove-covered palm. The brown bottle was very “Ah shit. Don’t we have a meeting with Elaine right small, no bigger than the average orange pill container, yet now?” The heavy German accent of the most senior of the its power intrigued me. What I held in my hand was so pow lab members was easily recognizable. erful it commanded its own domain in the lab. “Crap, you’re right; I have to present my data!” ChaScared that inexperience would be my demise, os descended upon the lab. Leaving everything behind— Christine had always made me handle this little brown bot their experiments, their gloves, and their annoying timers to: tie with meticulous care. She made me pick it up slowly and go off randomly— everyone rushed to the door. As usual, I place it down slowly. She’d make me think about it slowly if was clueless. I started to take off my gloves and leave with : she was able to. I always did use care when handling it; I everyone else. : knew the power I held. What bothered me was that I could “No, Barry, stay here and finish making the gel,” : never experience its power. My hand had never touched it. Christine turned back to tell me. “And don’t forget to add : What did it feel like? What did it taste like? Unable to anthe ethidium bromide!” The door slammed shut behind her. swer these questions, I threw them to the back of my mind. I I sighed in relief when they were gone. The lab was put the ethidium back on its respected seat and sat on my more relaxing when it only housed me. I had come to the lowly chair, waiting for the gel to cool. conclusion that it was the other researchers, not the chemi

Leaning back, I spun the chair around, letting my : deeply as I yearned for the new chemical. My hand would mind clear of the anxieties of the day. Earlier 1 had my own : dip into one of the jars, then emerge with a fistful of some : new substance or dripping with some sweet nectar. When meeting with Elaine, which didn’t go so well. She had exgracious a rather than due to I had more know : ever the chemical was a solid, I would rub it between my me to pected fingers, exploring its hardness and texture. There were the recommendation from one of my professors. But as I was learning, A’s in the classroom did not automatically convert powdery ones, the claylike ones, and the paste-like ones, each a pleasure to hold in my hand without the restriction into A’s in the lab. We were discussing some process I apparently was of gloves. I could only imagine Christine’s face were she to supposed to have memorized when she asked, “How do you walk in on my observations. She might think me crazy. But I expect to safely operate in the lab when you don’t even knew I was in the right state of mind, maybe more than she know which chemicals to use?” I didn’t have an answer for that one, except for the was—she who was so terrified of these pleasures. For who obvious. I couldn’t safely work in the lab, and I didn’t know could properly describe the beautiful texture of paraform aldehyde without first sticking their hand into its glaringly which chemicals to use. I had only been in the lab for a labeled jar? That knowledge was worth month so far. How could I know all the any look that might come my way. chemicals except through careful exami But still, I proceeded carefully. nation and testing? Christine didn’t like Whenever I was done observing, I that, though, and she always made sure would close the chemical con tightly to tell me about the side effects the tainers them back in the place and causes chemicals could have. “This one order on the shelves. alphabetical same If that from one. cancer!” or “Stay away the come would tables. Dirtied Then get could lungs you breathe it in, your with experiments, they would give my reserving Usually good!” for up messed me away, so I made sure to thoroughly work that involved their use for herself wipe them clean with bleach. I always she never let me experiment with any of caressed the paper towels for a last feel the dangerous chemicals. of the chemicals. Grudgingly, then, But sometimes, when everyone would I throw the paper towels away went out for lunch or a meeting, I would and wash my hands, ridding myself of observe the chemicals on my own. My any evidence and coolly suppressing playground was the shelving stacked my impatience for the next time I high on the right end of the lab. Eagerly would be able to experiment. awaiting my arrival, the gray cylindrical I almost forgot about the coo 1containers stood alphabetically from left ing gel. By now, it might have started to to right, with some tall and confident in solidif’ in its flask. I rushed over to the the front and others hiding shyly in the other side of the lab and swirled the back. I would look around, making sure I Surprisingly, it was still liquid. I grabbed flask in my hand. was alone, then grab them down one by one, placing them a little pipette tip instuck ethidium and small bottle, the on the desk in front of me. red. That’s all we out tip came The tip side. the pipette of open screw Slowly, as I had been taught, I would The tip. tip ethidium again The use. of a of allowed feeling were to to used more the the cap (at first), but once I got : me. amazed them twist ferociously handling the chemicals, I would I plunged the pipette tip into the clear gel and open, watching the puff of powdery smoke explode into the : chemit around, watching the trail of cherry red it left observe swirled and the : the then bottle into peer air. I would was mesmerizing in its circling, much like the It behind. its in different was each : that immediately learned icals. I own special way, my eyes widening to behold them in their : swing of a hypnotizer’s pendant, going round and round, round and round... elegance. Some shone purer and whiter than ice cream, I must experience the ethidium now, I told myself: I were apple green, or the yellow of the sun’s bright rays on a hot day. The colors amazed me, and I would spend the first had touched the other chemicals many times before, so much that I could begin to notice the peeling and slight dis minute or so just peering through the rim of one of those coloration of the skin on my hands. But this one, seated containers, alone on its sovereign throne, away from all the others, When I was done with that, the time would come to feel the chemicals in my hands. This was the most forbid- frightened me. Today its seat would be mine. I tore through my gloves in my anticipation and den step. With a snap, I would remove my gloves, exhaling

“This was the most forbidden step. With a snap, I would remove my gloves, exhal ing deeply as I yearned for the new chemicaL”

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Absolutely No Eating or Drinking in the Lab cont.

Absolutely No Eating or Drinking in the Lab By: Adetomiwa Victor Owoseni

http://mrsevansteacher.weebly.com/8. science.html

“This was the most forbidden step. With a snap, I would remove my gloves, exhal ing deeply as I yearned for the new chemicaL”

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Ms Grayson

Absolutely No Eating or Drinking in the Lab cont. flung them on the floor. Grabbing the bottle and bringing it to eye level, I read the label. Ethidium Bromide. 76 ml (76 mg/mi). Store at room temperature. WARNING! Harmful Irri tant I slowly, carefully turned its cap to the right and gently set it down on the desk. As usual, I peered inside, bringing my face down so my eye was inside the container’s opening, as if staring through a telescope. I saw only blackness. An noyed that I couldn’t follow my routine, I put the container back down. Discouraged but not defeated, I stuck my index fin ger into the small bottle. My finger searched but didn’t find anything. The numbness in my hands might be more serious than I had thought, maybe a result of my constant handling of the chemicals. I pulled out my finger, and it was smeared with the red liquid, but I couldn’t tell it had touched the chemical without looking at it. The ethidium was again un touchable, out of reach. I couldn’t lose to the chemical. There had to be a way to experience the ethidium as potently as I had the oth ers --there had to!— and I would find it. My eyes lit up when the idea burst into my mind. With much care and expectation, I wrapped my fingers around the bottle. I slowly picked it up, then extended my arm until the ethidium was held above my face. My mouth opened wide but quickly shut in hesitancy. Suddenly Chris tine’s warnings came rushing back into my head. Ethidium bromide was dangerous with limited exposure for a long

Self-Reminder

By: Tierra Holmes Ms. Grayson was in a daze, peering intensely outside ofher two-story window, unconscious of the fact that her closest sister-friend was in the bedroom. She was preoccupied, thinking ofher daughter and wiping away tearsfrom her guilt stained cheeks. Her parenting was aform of protection in her eyes, and she wanted her grandchil--dren to understand as written in Prov erbs, chapter 23- the perils of ignorance. 4:30pm Ms. Grayson: She says that I’m bringing them up too hard. At 65, what does she expect for me to do? God did not put those children in my care for me to let them do as they wish. Clara has no right to judge me. Susanna: Maybe she means that beating and chastising the children are not the best solutions. Ms. Grayson: Look, I got two grandbabies to look after, and when she died, I swore I would bring them up right. Susanna: Sister Girl, just listen to yourself. Grandbabies? ShaRhonda is going on 18, and William is already 16. They are young people, not babies. ShaRhonda even says there’s a nice boy named Tony who wants to take her out. Ms. Grayson: Hmmp! ShaRhonda ain’t the brightest apple in the bunch; that girl knows nothing about love. To her, love is the shape oDrake’s beard and Meek Mill’s South Philly lips. Susanna: That’s what the kids listen to nowadays. We were the same way! Listening to Bootsy Collins, Parliament, and Funkadelic in the 70s. Girl, we were so fly the birds had to clear the sky whenever we showed up! f 5:30pm Ms. Grayson: Every Sunday, I took them to church, right there to AME on 6th street, the first African Methodist Church, right here in Philadelphia. The young kids now love to say ‘Philly, Philly.” I swear, you’d think after all these years of fighting for our rights, these young kids wouldn’t allow our city to be reduced to cheesesteaks and pretzels. Heck, Harriet Tubman passed through Philadelphia during her trips on the Underground Railroad! 6:00pm As Ms. Grayson slowly raised her chin to look outside her bedroom window, Susana turned her attention to the television. It was on NDC1 0, muted, but clear enough to follow the subtitles. The evening news was on. As usual, the meteorologist’s re ports always preceded orfollowed graphic news, as if the weather could make their black reality easier to swallow: a shooting, a dead body, a child, 30 minutes ago. Susanna leanedfurther down to the edge ofthe queen-sized bed. The camera zeroed in a petite girl between the ages of16 and 20. The girl was wailing, turning in circles as she attempted to pull out her hair drop ping to her knees and then quickly jumping up and forcefully pushing past the yellow tape. The dirty street created coal patch es on her white shirt From behind, she looked very familiar:, but she was wearing a pink mini-skirt and not the traditional black pants MLK High School There was a basketball court nearby. 22nd & Taskerflashed on a rectangular street sign.

By: Aisha Bowen

Note to Self. Even though he does not value Your worth, You are worth it. He does not respect your Time. Remember, your time is valuable. Valuable. You are. Though he rarely recognizes it. You are Beautiful. Outside and inside. You deserve Him who sees and cherishes that Beauty. Intelligence. You have it. The tricks. The games. The lies. You’re too intelligent. Forgive yourself for allowing your worth, your value, your beauty, and your intelligence to be compromised. No more compromise, Queen. You are worth it. Note taken.

period of time, so its damage would be much greater if the whole bottle was swallowed. How would the ethidium feel going down my throat? Would it burn the second it hit my tongue? Or would my stomach turn at the feel of it? Maybe my stomach wouldn’t even be able to take the ethidium, and I would expel it all over the floor, doubled over in pain. The cat was murdered by its curiosity, and I could feel the beast lurking by, its beady eyes greedily staring me down as well. For what seemed like hours I stood in this position with my arm extended, scared that if I put the bottle down, I would give up on my experiment but too frightened to go through with it. My triceps burned with my indecision. “Good presentation, Christine. You’ve really gotten some good data since you’ve come on the team.” I swung my head toward the door. The other re searchers must be coming back to the lab now. I was run ning out of time. If I didn’t swallow the ethidium now, every one would walk into the lab and see me stupidly holding the small bottle above my face. I heard the shuffling of feet out side the door. Christine and Elaine were talking outside; I could see them through the glass panel. Sweat poured down my face, my heart raced, my knees shuddered. Tilting the ethidium bottle toward me, I watched the red liquid trickle into my throat just as I heard the doorknob twist. I swal lowed, my hand still clutching the bottle, then smiled a sure ly red smile as their jaws dropped in horror.

Ms. Grayson: The TV ain’t teaching them a damn thing. Little William could be a fine young boy if he’d ignore these fast girls and avoid these corner boys. Guess I should be content that Little William does keep himself busy at that basket ball court instead of lurking around the bottom. Grief-stricken, she finally pivots, her eyes guided to the program by Susanna’s mournful stare.

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The young girl jumped up again, and someone grabbed her really tight, as if to console her. Blood was spilling through the street like the riverflowing through black veins. Growing up in Philadelphia, raising children and then grandchildren, Ms. Grayson knew these currents all too well Sometimes her tears created ripples in the river. The body was face down,floating downward on the concrete. The short haircut told her it was a boy. Then she saw the shoes. They lookedfamiliar: red, blue, and white Nikes. No. She shook the thought out ofher head. It couldn’t be. There was the young girl again. This time she had her head down and wasfrantically dialing a number on her cell-phone. Perhaps his tears had damaged the screen, butfor whatev er reason, she had to use a friend’s. Ms. Grayson took a hard look at the television and right before the news transitioned to a commercial, she recognized the young girl phone’sface and gasped. Then the phone rang.

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Ms Grayson

Self-Reminder

By: Aisha Bowen

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PoetIc Rebellion: In “Return to My Native Land” —

y: Shanique C. Campbell Aimé Césaire is equally revered as a founder of the Negritude movement, and as major voice of surrealism. In the formal sense, surrealism is regarded as a creative movement in litera ture that released the poet and artist from strict forms of expression. A surrealist technique that is regarded as the unconscious expression of creative forces is known as automatism. It is the act of automatic writing that is characterized by the avoidance of mechanical techniques and forms. In many of his poems, Césaire employs surrealist techniques like automatism as instruments of liberation and political change to break the shackles of trite, alien, and oppressive forms of poet ry and replace them with a Black language and mode of expression. This utilization of surrealist techniques to inspire decisive rebellion against Westernization and colonialism is unmistakable in Césaire’s poem “Return to My Native Land.” The poet, who is also narrator and speaker, veers between imagination and reality, poetry and prose, and self-consciousness and dislocation as he ives voice to his longing to return home. Hence, in “Return to My Native Land” Césaire utilizes automatism, a surrealist technique, as a revolutionary tool not only to protest colonial standards but also to advance the theme re(e)valuating of home as a source of pride, not shame. The reader’s introduction to automatism in “Return to My Native Land” is accomplished through the poet’s dream narration of and semi-conscious reflection on his pining to return home. The poem opens with the abstract desire “[tb go away.” It is professed in the subjunctive mood and stands as a single, complete thought, although it is a phrase rather than a sentence. At first, the phrase is illusive because it creates visual images of an escape and a return, but from where, to where, and of whom? The ambiguity of the declaration is characteristic of spontaneous writing because the thought is announced with very little deliberation or care for the conven tions of syntax or “proper” sentence structure. Furthermore, the separation of the wish “[t]o go away” from the rest of the line with a full stop creates the illusion of distance and thus plants seeds in the reader’s mind of migration and dislocation. Therefore when the speaker reflects on iow his “heart was pounding with emphatic generosities,” The reflexive beating that heightens the poet’s expression of self is an example of Automatism. The “emphatic generosities” of which the poet speaks refer to national consciousness and a feeling of connectedness to home. Conse quently, automatism parallels the urgency with which the poet speaks and echoes the pressing need to bridge the gap between his present location and “this land of mine. “When the speaker wishes “[tb go away” for the second time in line one, the tone is no longer hypothetical, but de finitive. The poet begins to imagine how he would “arrive sleek and young in this land of mine” if were to return home. Yet, whether the poet are his native land today, tomorrow or not at all, he cannot escape the land “whose loam is/part of [his] flesh” because he has grown to identify in relation to its landscape, history, and culture. The poet’s re(e)valuation of home is even clearer when he begins to speak to the land as lit were a person. “1 am coming back/to the deserted hideousness of your sores,” Césaire an nounces. The striking juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness in this line could be the result of una 1dulterated creative force that comes out of surrealism. In one breath, Césaire seems to describe home as abandoned and repulsive. Yet, in another breath, he concedes, “I have wandered for a long time, [and] I am coming back.” These statements are deceptively contradictory because Césaire uses the paradox to reiterate that home (beautiful or ugly) is part of his identity, not to proclaim home as a source of shame. The paradox, therefore, becomes a profound statement on the duality of home and Césaire’s double consciousness. Although the hideous sores symbolize the lingering scars of colonialism on the societies and minds of the colonized, they are also a re alistic representation of oppressive political and social structures that will greet Césaire on his homecoming. Still, the speaker’s awareness of these “sores” should not be confused with an ac r of said colonial oppression. When Césaire asserts “if all I can do is speak, it is for you I iall speak,” he also issues a call to re(e)valuate home by first cleansing the native land of its “sores.” The tone of confidence with which the poet speaks comes from his conviction that de spite its hideousness, home too is a source of pride and identity -

Black Liberation through Poetic Rebellion cont. As the second stanza opens, the speaker appears to Blacks and members of colonized communities away from be caught in a trance-like, fervent narration of his philosoph- demanding their liberation and revolutionizing their identi ic and artistic duties to his native land and people. This por- ties. Césaire further contemplates the thousands of indige tion of the poem departs from a simplistic first-person nar- nous peoples who died at the hands of paltry conquistadors ration and shows off automatism in its pure, prophetic state. but remarks, “all these / deaths futile / absurdities under Césaire proclaims, “And again I would say:/ ‘My mouth shall the splashing of my open conscience.” Here, the speaker ap be the mouth of those calamities that have no mouth, my pears entranced in his recollection of the history of coloniza voice the/freedom of those who break down in the prison tion in the Caribbean. By utilizing automatic writing, the po holes of despair.”Here, the poet accepts the charge to use his et is able to transcend time and place to retell the history of poetry to speak for the masses of disenfranchised Blacks black domination in the Caribbean as a way to re(e)valuate who cannot speak for themselves because they are either : home. Yet, should Césaire return home and depart from silenced by or deceived into accepting oppressive colonial: structures. The transition from the hypothetical, contempla- : his duty to be the “mouth of those calamities,” he would not tion phase to the action phase of the poet’s mission to re(e) : only betray the colonized who have been made into “petty valuate home as a source of pride is signaled in line 10, “[a] flunkies” but,also the “three-souled Carib” whose genocide nd on the way I would say to myself...” This act of talking to he blames on greedy conquistadors. As the speaker criticizes oneself is further evidence of automatic writing in “Return to conquistadors and even Blacks, who have allowed themMy Native Land.” Césaire warns himself to “beware of as- selves to be taken as servants, his tone grows increasingly suming the sterile attitude of a/spectator, for life is not a arrogant. However, this arrogance is fueled by Césaire’s bespectacle, a sea of miseries is not a proscenium, a man/ lief that he is the “noctiluca” to guide his people and his screaming is not a dancing bear.” However, together these home into an unending age of Black pride. Consequently, the lines are more than a mere warning to the poet to be mind- image of the noctiluca, an organism that gives off biolumi ful of his duty to actively advocate for his disenfranchised nescence when disturbed, is a symbolic representation of people. The lines are also a prediction that the poet risks who a Negritudinous individual ought to be. The “[o]ne more becoming an unproductive bystander and outsider in his thing” that the speaker hastens to say in the last stanza of : the excerpt functions as a closing remark that elaborates on own home if the warning is not heeded. There is an inherent, prophetic, spiritual, and time- : the role of the Negritudinous individual. Césaire assures less quality about lines 11-13 that surrealists would agree is : readers that he will not settle for the unproductive life the highest form of expression. Not only does the speaker “hobbling” before him by admitting that he has “no right” as sound as if he is preaching, but he may also be refashioning a a Negritudinous poet and a Black man to “reduce [himself] well-known scripture from Matthew 6:1, “Take heed that ye to this ellipsoidal nothing.” Hence, daring to “include do not [show] your alms before men, to be seen of them: [himself] between latitude and longitude” becomes Césaire’s otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in metaphor for the purpose of Negritude, that is, the selfheaven” (KJV). Césaire’s warning to himself is even more affirmation of Black peoples. The influences of Negritude and surrealism are insimilar to the text of the New International Version, “The World Is Not a Stage. Be especially careful when you are try- stantly recognizable in “Return to My Native Land,” but it is ing to be good so that you don’t make a performance out of the form of the poem that becomes its final unifying element. it. It might be good theater, but the God who made you won’t The visual organization of the poem rejects traditional stan be applauding.” (Mart. 6:1) This New Testament-like procla- zas and adopts the prosaic characteristic of narratives. Still, mation helps to validate Césaire’s air of arrogance in the : it is interesting to note how the first and second stanzas re following stanza, where he visualizes himself as the light, the : semble the organization of Bible verses in the New Testa : ment to reflect the prophetic and spiritual nature of their way, and the champion of Negritude. behold here I: content As the poet recapitulates the history of colonization Césaire’s passionate outburst—”And shifts stanza in the third stanza and makes predictions for Black libera the poet’s am!”—at the beginning of the third the structure of the poem changes to a right-aligned of tion, the implications duties to focus from his philosophic The poem’s organization can be attributed to the paragraph. The spectator.” change to of a sterile attitude the “assuming of automatic writing because the surre utilization Césaire’s what vivid description ushers in of a tense of present the use technique him to reject the conventional style his inspires of alist homecoming. the reality might be imagines Césaire The poet asserts that the life of a “spectator” is a “life hob- and form of European poetry. Certainly, “Return to My Na bling before me,” an existence so unproductive that it is akin tive Land” could have been written as a sonnet or ballad or to “death.” Hence, Césaire’s derision towards the “dazzling bucolic if Aimé Césaire so had desired. However, by utilizing pettiness of death” transforms death and pettiness into sym- automatism, Césaire actively protests European standards bols of European propaganda that lure disenfranchised and r(e)valuates home, his native land, as a source of pride.

PoetIc Rebellion: In “Return to My Native Land” —

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Everyday Black Man By: Sadiyah Malcolm

Everyday Black Man cont The

Second Shep herds’ Play, Everyman and

Black Man, I love you in the worst way. I see what they’ve done to you You’ve been tainted since the womb, and my heart aches for you. They’ve done their best to strip you of your glory and your pride Your morals Your dignity And you’re swinging blindly in order to win the fight, but you’re throwing your blows in every wrong direction My Pharaoh, my king, they have their hands on you, and you can no longer even decipher my touch from theirs Maybe that’s why countless times you’ve told me you’re growing numb to me But the Queen within me will stand by you in royalty, and in the slums, In failure and in accomplishment King, look at what they’ve done to you Four hundred years under their feet, and it’s like you’re still chasing their soles, and they’re still torturing your soul Black Man, my Black Man Lift up your head, and the King of Glory shalL come

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a1547e700ec8c7de7b94387a00e51Zf6.ipg Sometimes in helping others, if we’re not careful, we can become their stepping-stools. That’s what he’s done to you You gave him civilization, technology, and brotherly love But he has left you with nothing but faith and, in exchange for your naturalness, has given you a savage life Or should I say, he left you with that illusion

It torments my soul to see you wear the shoes he handed you, Speak the language he has handed you, my Nigga. To see you perpetuate everything he said you were My Nigga To see you struggle in the workforce My Nigga To see you call yourself a Nigga Wait a minute; you’re not my Nigga.... He told me that Black was synonymous with ignorance, failure and everything wrong. But within, I know that he lied. Black is strength, Black is solidarity, Black is power He whispers in my ear as you perpetuate the coonery he implanted in you

“Look at that nigga, you don’t want that nigga, that nigga can’t do this, that nigga can’t do that, that nigga will never this, that nigga will never that...” His argument sounded convincing for a while, But the Empress in me didn’t buy it. And I fight not to see it in you Countless times, I’ve fought myself because of my decision to be here to stay But he had me right in front of the mental cage he trapped you in and made me the face of your perils The face of everything wrong with your life The face of everything wrong with Black Women The face of every source of negativity He has numbed you to my tears, my pain, my words, and even my love. Maybe that’s why you no longer react to my feelings, spirit, touch, or love. Soon after that, you began seeing me as the enemy. I told myself, “I gotta go” “1 gotta go” “I gotta go” But it’s all mental because everything you were in the beginning, you still are. I can’t leave you in this state I won’t leave you here Because I saw your regal royalty shine brightly before my eyes and though masked by this anger, I know that it still shines and will never forget it. You knew how to hold me How to please me How to become one with me How to speak to me How to touch me And you won my heart. It’s still in you. Don’t believe the illusion of its disappearance. You’re still my King You’re still my King You are still my King And I’ll be by your side Inspiring you to break asunder these chains of captivity the enemy has on you, The fetters unseen. Every Day Black Man. And that’s why I wake up next to you every day, Black Man That is why I still love you every day, Black Man And that’s why I will love you Every-dayBlack-Man. ASHE. A Dedication to my husband Willie Douglas Jr., My Brothers and Black Men who comprises the global Black Male population.

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Everyday Black Man By: Sadiyah Malcolm

Everyday Black Man cont The

Second Shep herds’ Play, Everyman and

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Pagel7

Close-Knit By: Tahirah Nail

Florentine Skies By: Clara Romeo

By: Jamie Pascal

I’ve never yarn crawled with my mother who knits hats and scarves,

2. 4.

and she tries for blankets for the two of the three of “her girls” living east of California. Our father, who wakes early sleeps late because four women laugh loudly within the four walls keeping out airplanes sirens and the bird roosting in my lemon tree.

6. 8. 10. An extraordinary warmth emanated from the renascence city of Florence. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, sparsely speck led with beautiful milky clouds. On the ground, raven-haired families with sun-kissed skin stepped out of their tightly-packed houses to send off their children to school. Florentine kisses Send the Mamas back inside Bambinos to school

12. 14. 16. 18. 20.

I am not good at certain things, Like singing on key Or washing my face without getting soap in my eye Every time. But I am good at finding solutions to problems And comforting someone when they cry Paying attention during an hour and 30 minute lecture On the classics of Walt Whitman does not keep me awake. But please believe I stay woke to the issues of today. Rest in Peace Sandra, Michael, and Trey. Who am I? What should I say? The girl from Brooklyn whose answer is “Pray” By the way, you should know that I’m not Defined by my accolades. What makes me is my answer to a call Getting back up when I fall And looking great through it all I am dedicated to serving my purpose, Making the hardships worth it.

Perhaps the sunshine felt particularly sweet as the fog of Lon don still hung to my clothes. It was refreshing to feel Italian warmth: the London fog had a way of making people keep to themselves. Clouded, cold, gray skies Drive the London Blue Birds Back into their nests

The Paradox

As the little children rushed off to their studies, I wandered to the bustling scene of the leather markets. Greetings of “Ciao Bel la” accompany the brigade of purses, jackets, and wallets. Creased wise Nona Passes the colored leather To buy her cream milk

It is midnight blanketing a celestial heaven bejeweled by stars and wonders; it is grave silence and granite inscribed with epithets of used-to-be’s

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Who Am I?

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MftININ

By: Angel Dye ft is sunkissed melanin stretched over marrow and muscle; it is stench and decay shriveling once-living things into rot

It is pen flourishes, clefs, notes, and chasmal sonic booms; it is barrels and bullets interrupting time and roaring deafeningly It is young/old/respectable and urban Lives that Matter; it is the veils and suits we wear to mourn and bury irreplaceable bod ies

JIlE IiDI[

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Pagel7

Close-Knit By: Tahirah Nail

Florentine Skies By: Clara Romeo

By: Jamie Pascal

I’ve never yarn crawled with my mother who knits hats and scarves,

2. 4.

12. 14. 16. 18. 20.

The Paradox

It is midnight blanketing a celestial heaven bejeweled by stars and wonders; it is grave silence and granite inscribed with epithets of used-to-be’s

Who Am I?

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MftININ

By: Angel Dye ft is sunkissed melanin stretched over marrow and muscle; it is stench and decay shriveling once-living things into rot

JIlE IiDI[

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Documenting the History of the World Famous Florida Avenue Grill

“The Difference Between Poetry and Rhetorlc An Analysis of Audre Lorde’s ‘Power’”

By: Meron Ghebre

By: Alexis Boyd

“How was work, dear? You look like you’re just about ready to throw in the towel,” Bertha said to her husband, Lacey C. Wilson Sr.,

Enraged and sickened by the blatant racism and obvious abuse of power displayed in a shooting of a ten-year-old black boy by a thirty-seven-year-old white man, who was later exonerated, Audre Lorde authored an impassioned and poignant response to this unjustifia

after a long day of work. Lacey was holding down a job in downtown Washington, DC, as a shoe shiner along with several other low-paying jobs. He had been saving his tips, but it wasn’t for a new suit or pearls for Bertha. Lacey had a dream that was even greater than anything materialistic. Lacey had a vision that he was determined to see brought

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to life, and he was willing to work as hard as he could to make it hap pen. He envisioned a restaurant that felt like home, where the custom ers were friends, where you could get a soulfully, home-cooked meal for an affordable price. Lacey envisioned a place where black people could come and enjoy a meal comfortably without being harassed during a time where the nation was filled with racial tension. Lacey wanted to create a home away from home, when people of different races, social standings, and even religions could sit side by side and have a meal. In 1944, with all his tips saved up, Lacey and his wife Bertha were able to open up a small, humble restau rant right on the corner of Florida Avenue and 11th Street in northwest DC. It was affectionately nick-named “The Grill.” The cozy restaurant only had enough space for two bar stools; nonetheless, Lacey’s vision was coming to life. Lacey would send Bertha to the supermarket, and she would buy two chickens, and just as soon as those two chick ens were sold, Bertha would run back to the supermarket and buy two more. Business was gradually progressing for twenty-four years, and the restaurant grew to be more than its humble beginnings. It however, there was a threat to the life of The Grill during the 1968 riots shortly following the death of Martin Luther King Jr. Almost all of the businesses nearby on U Street were burned down, but not The Grill. Lacey stood watch all night long from the front booth and protected his restaurant with his shotgun. The Grill made it through the night and has been stand ing tall ever since. It has been 70 years since the Wilson family first established The Florida Avenue Grill in 1944; The Grill has stood the test of time and has grown to become The World-Famous Florida Avenue Grill. In honor of continu ing the legacy and paying homage to both Lacey and “The Grill,” The “Lacey” Condominiums were built right next to The Grill. This magnificent piece of history could have been torn down in order to create more space for condos miniums but the new owner of The Grill, Mr. Imar Hutchins, understands the importance of this historical land mark Mr. Hutchins quietly yet graciously accepted ownership of The Grill and has been the owner for several years now, but he never publicly announced it in order to avoid any resistance. Mr. Hutchins wanted the loyal and new customers of The Grill to understand that new ownership did not mean changing the lovable charm of The Grill. Mr. Hutchins understands the sentimental value of The Grill to the lifelong residents of DC who have grown with The Grill ,and he understands the charm that The Grill continues to carry on. Lost in a passionate declaration of admiration for The Grill, Mr. Hutchins said, “Where else in DC can a congressman sit down and have a meal right next to a sanitation engineer? Where else in DC can one go and enjoy the exact experience from 70 years ago

ble act. On the surface, “Power” describes the poet’s overwhelming grief and anger at the murder of and complete disregard for a child’s life, illustrated by its vivid and arresting im agery and language. After a closer reading, however, this piece reveals its introspective character as Lorde grapples with the dual nature of power, manifested in the poem as

rhetoric and poetry. The metaphoric use of “rhetoric”— language that is used to influence and coerce others often dishonestly— represents traditional white power in the country, this being prejudiced, unjust, and oppres sive; in contrast, “poetry” represents the revolutionary power Lorde and other oppressed peoples create for themselves. While Lorde claims that both kinds of power are destructive, “power” ultimately suggests that rhe torical power destroys lives, but the power of poetry undermines social constructs, convention, and injustice. The poem’s first stanza, composed of only one four-lined sentence, immediately unveils the conse quences of poetry and rhetoric. Within those first, laconic lines, it is established that the latter is akin to killing your children, while the former may result in your own death. While both conclusions are horrifying, it is clear throughout the poem which one is preferred. The heartbreak that the author shows throughout the poem at the loss of a child’s life far outweighs any concern she shows for her own wellbeing. Rhetoric signifies the unprinci pled, prejudiced, even murderous power that the most important people in society possess. Lorde’s sanguine metaphor reappears briefly in the third stanza and, although considerably muted, distinctly explicates the poet’s views on the vulgar and lethal capabilities of rhetorical power. The boy’s life-blood, so treasured by the poet in the previous stanza, is abused by the policeman: “[he] stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood.” eleven white men who It also discarded by the jurors the moment they exonerate the child’s his murderer; said they were satisfied justice had been done! and one Black Woman who said/ ‘They convinced me’...” (line 34). The latter line and the lines that follow it, in particular, allude to rhetoric’s coercive influence. The twelfth juror, the only member who was neither a white nor a man, was decidedly disabled both physically—”they had “...

dragged her 4’lO” black Woman’s frame/over the hot coals (lines 35-36)— and authoritatively— “...of four centuries of white male approval! until she let go/ the first real power she ever had” (lines 37- 39). The poet concedes that the woman lacked authentic influence in the face of the rhetorical power of her fellow jurors, and yet the poet does not absolve her of the consequences. By conceding to white societal power, the woman has condemned every future black child who may be subjected to the racist abuse of power; she has “lined her own womb with cement/to make a graveyard for our children” (lines 40-41). Lorde argues through this poem that rhetorical power, held in this country by white men for hundreds of years, has failed oppressed groups of peo ple time and time again and that their only hope for justice is to rely on the power of poetry.

through food?” Mr. Hutchins said it best; The Grill carries so many memories, not only for the employees but for the loyal customers. Many customers have fond memories of The Grill; it is a home away from home which is ex actly the vision that Lacey C. Wilson worked so hard to bring to life.

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Documenting the History of the World Famous Florida Avenue Grill

“The Difference Between Poetry and Rhetorlc An Analysis of Audre Lorde’s ‘Power’”

By: Meron Ghebre

By: Alexis Boyd

“How was work, dear? You look like you’re just about ready to throw in the towel,” Bertha said to her husband, Lacey C. Wilson Sr.,

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“The Difference Between Poetry and Rhetoric: An Analysis of Audre Lorde’s ‘Power’” cont. Although the nature of poetic power is never explicitly illustrated within the body of the poem, the composition itself is an instrument of poetic power. Audre Lorde’s poem directly condemns the policeman and the jurors she describes, and as a result it condemns the power they hold. Throughout the poem the read er is exposed to the corruption of societal power, its lack of justice, and the disturbing consequences of its misuse. Lorde’s writing is so poignant and impassioned that it seems undeniable that each reader will be stirred, and some may even be compelled to action. However, Lorde explicitly states that her readers cannot afford to wield the rhetorical power of their oppressors, but nor should they. Through her poem, Lorde demonstrates how members of historically oppressed groups of people can create power for themselves. It is the creative and artistic perspective and voice that incites change, that cripples, and that then ultimately dis mantles convention. It is true that rhetorical power can kill, but it cannot change the world the way poetry can. “Power” is not only an artful and passionate response to a brutal murder but also a call to her black read ers to realize that conventional power, rhetorical power, will not better their conditions and that the only way to break free from social oppression is to amass the poetic power between them and free themselves. Lorde, Audre. ‘Power, Poetry Fourtdar,on. Poetry Foundation, nd. Web. 03 Feb. 2016.

Ode to My Hometown By: Shanice Davis Ode to the hungry Pennies in a beggar’s cup Bring hope like raindrops Ode to the 6 train Adrenaline in the air Like secondhand smoke Ode to hush puppies To the cool kids that wore them In Catholic school Ode to the birthplace Where hip-hop made its first cry I hear the echo Ode to the people This elixir of culture Wakens childhood joy

Can I Come Over... By: Danielle Johnson Can I come over... And intellectually stimulate your mind While you intellectually stimulate mine? As we sit down and think... Please don’t hurry because we have plenty of time And time is on our side. Can I come over... And show up at your door While you were expecting me all the while I was thinking of you From the time I left my house... To the time I arrived at yours And I knew it was true From the moment I first laid my eyes on you... From your eyes to your thoughts to your intellect But especially the way I feel when you intellectually stimulate my mind... Would you mind... Can I... May I... Caress your mind, body, and soul? And one more thing... While all this is happening... Can you... Will you... Take me on a trip through the depths of your soul So I can truly get to know you? And yes... as a matter of fact I just need you to answer this... Would you mind if I pierce your heart with my love... As we both shine together And soar away as doves? Because as you and I both know... Doves are the symbol of peace and love And this is exactly how I feel when I am with you And even though I know you may not be in love with me, I know that you will always have love for me. Peace... often defined as a state of tranquility Is how I feel when I am in your element And I know that some will say that can’t be true... For one to suddenly feel tranquil when they are with that one person Or even with a select few... individually. But from my past experiences, I must say that this statement holds true That even though I know many I don’t associate with just any. So even though that statement sounds bizarre in this day and age... I feel like most people want to be center stage

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The center of attention, The popular one, The one that everyone knows their business... From their status to their love life to their academics To their financial situation to even problems going on in their family From my viewpoint, Being center stage will often get you into trouble That you had no business being in... All because everyone knows all of your business. In the end, It really isn’t all it’s hyped up to be... Because it can destroy or alter the way you view things in your life All because you wanted to be put on center stage. Personally, I choose to flock with a few because you End up loving those who are close to you Creating stronger bonds, friendships, and lifetime commitments And not having to explain yourself to all Because that is truly the best feeling... When people love you for you And not for you pretending to be someone you’re not... So, once again... Can I come over... And intellectually stimulate your mind While you intellectually stimulate mine... And please don’t hurry... Because we have plenty of time...

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James Baldwin and the Question of Intentional Fallacy By: Joel Rhone To many (maybe even a majority) James Baldwin is the bearer of bad news. Both his coded and overt cynicism towards America’s racially oppressive institutions are central in the criticism on his work and in biographies written on his life. This cynicism is directed at the repression of homosexual desire and the imposition of masculinity in the church as well as tensions between institutional ized anxieties towards miscegenation and fetishization of black bodies in Jim Crow spaces. However, despite the dark clouds that seem to follow Baldwin’s presence in literary spaces, he himself clarified that he is {was} “not in despair.” In fact, in the same interview, Baldwin enumerated a number of things he loved. Among them were travel, laughter, and family. Without a rigorous education in the formal study of literature, it is easy to understand an author and his or her work as inseparable. However, any upperclass English major masterfully warns against the “intentional fallacy” by which readers understand the meaning of a text through a biographical lens. One might interpret Langston Hughes’s poem “Advertisement for the Waldorf Astoria” as a critique of Harlem’s Black upper-class as Hughes was known to have held com patible views outside his writing. However, a closer reading of the poem—one which would analyze the poem’s formal elements—would locate the ways in which Hughes’s writing (here and in other works as well) mirrors and engages formal tendencies of earlier writers, suggesting a revision of the mapping out of the quintessential properties of the eclectic national identity in the United States. In tentional fallacy seems to work backward with Baldwin. The themes widely identi fied by scholars, culled from formal analysis of his writing, mistakenly inform read- http//www.fromtheau1tradio.org/home/wp content/images/ ers of Baldwin as a dark, cynical, elusive figure even outside of his writing. Both intentional fallacy highlight forms of the importance of separating, at some mo ments, the artist from his or her work. The separation proves useful in preserving an accurate under standing of both. Yet, though Baldwin’s case would appear as proof, one of his major works, Go Tell It on the Mountain, again blurs the line between fact and ‘Iction. It sells as a novel yet in some ways func tions as a biography. It is hard to know the difference. Many scholars understand and agree that Baldwin includes an immense amount of biograph ical content in his fiction. In Go Tell Iton the Mountain, for example, the protagonist is the son of a Pentecostal preacher in Harlem and a struggle between the two raises questions about the perfor mance of masculinity, alienation of the self in the African-American church community, and repres sion of homoerotic passion. Several interviews and biographies find these narrative points present in the way Baldwin himself grew up. But despite this overlap, Go Tell It on the Mountain is recognized as a novel and not an autobiography. This conundrum attributes to the mysteriousness that obstructs an accurate depiction of Baldwin’s humanity. Other artists, even of other art forms, are misunderstood in the same way. Rap artist Drake, for example, because he raps and sings about old girlfriends, bad break ups, and fake friends, also had to clarify in an interview that his emotional state is much more stable and healthy than his top-chart art work would suggest NWA—the canonical rap group that spoke in their music about attacking police, selling drugs, and carrying out violent acts—made it clear that their art work was just their critique and portrayal of the depraved reality that surrounded them. Likewise, even though Michael Jackson paraded renowned supermodels in many of his lengthy, in-depth music videos, very seldom did he maintain love affairs with conspicuous stars in reality. Across these genres and artists, a frus trating point of inquiry asks how one should negotiate the relationship between artist and artwork. I return to Baldwin once more to address this question. Later in the interview mentioned above, Baldwin explains that he is not in despair because he “cant afford it” He explains: “I can’t tell my niece, my nephew.. .you can’t tell the children there’s no hope.” Baldwin doesn’t explain what he means by “hope” or how adults already familiar with despair can combat it. Similar to what he does in his literature, Baldwin leaves us with burning questions about the way things are but fails to relieve us with answers.

James Baldwin Biography However, the way Baldwin the man separates himself from his work can inspire us. Instead of brooding, in re ality, on the elusive answers to pressing questions, Baldwin cherishes the aspects of the human experience that sustain us through hardship, oppression, and inequalities. We, too, after devoting serious attention, time, and thought to the institutional oppositions we face, can draw from the spiritual wells that lay deep in the relationships and love that make our lives invaluable. With the same poignancy with which Baldwin’s work elucidates how ideological oppressions operate against us, Baldwin the man exemplifies how to draw strength from those who are infinitely for us. Works Cited DomTheDon. “Drake Interview saying he isn’t lonely and emotional.” YouTube. 17 October 2013. Web. 26 October 2015. Straight Outta Compton. F. Gary Gray. Perf. Corey Hawkins, Jason Mitchell, O’Shea Jackson Jr. Universal Pictures. 2015. ThamesTv. “Civil Rights-James Baldwin-Interview-Mavis On Four.” YouTube. 1 Nov. 2014. Web. 26 October 2015.

biucDI’ 4’r black survival By: Angel Dye remember to keep your eyes down voice low manner calm hands visible neck still shoulders relaxed feet together mouth shut everything you say and do can and will be used against you in headlines articles reports (if you make it that far) news segments clips video photos from five years ago tweets facebook posts from previously closeted racists

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be docile be submissive belawful be robotic be what you’re told to be

invisible

or be hashtags obituaries candlelight vigils flowers and teddy bears on the side of the road t-shirt silhouettes protest chants the next reason for the movement

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be docile be submissive belawful be robotic be what you’re told to be

invisible

or be hashtags obituaries candlelight vigils flowers and teddy bears on the side of the road t-shirt silhouettes protest chants the next reason for the movement

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