Sterling Notes Issue 5: The Black Love Zine

THE BLACK LOVE ISSUE

“I begin with love, hoping to end there.

I don’t want to leave a messy corpse.”

-Jericho Brown, Duplex (I Begin with Love)

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

There’s a whole lot of out-right love happening here at Howard. This issue, however, presents the love hidden in the cracks of our infrastructure–in the folds of our bodies. The theme of Black Love should be something that is so obvious and suited to us. For me it wasn’t–not after reading every submission. There are a few things that the Sterling Notes’ Black Love Zine is not: it is not simply words on a page; it is not a completely romantical thing; it is not a how-to guide; it is not a blueprint for Black Love. Writers and artists came together to say, “hey, this is how we love.” And we must thank them for lending us their memories, but this is also a time to reminisce on our own stories. My mother doesn’t say, “I love you” too often. Instead, she says, “see you later,” and I say it right back. This is our sacred promise and this is how we love. How do you love?

The editors of Sterling Notes' very first zine, our Black Love zine, is an ambitious group. I was skeptical if we could pull off two issues in one school year, but here we are, with one down and one to go. To be in a room full of creative minds going over beautiful pieces about Black Love was such a fulfilling experience. Thank you to the amazing editors who passionately and successfully created this. Thank you to the Howard professors who this would not be possible without. Finally, thank you to every artist who submitted and to the contributors of the Black Love Zine.

-Takier George, Editor-in-Chief

SOGNI D’ORO

By Alexandra Zeppeiro

Rising and falling

Like a leaf being carried by the wind

His chest

Low rumblings arise

Twitches of the muscles

Coughs and mumbles under his breath

Sleep is guaranteed

Sogni d’oro

collision

By Nyla A. Jones

let me kiss the galaxies that splatter your cheeks my petals caressing the tip of your nose, to then bloom into the waiting cavern of your mouth

let the hardened peaks of the mountains of my chest orbit the heavy hills of yours that drape across your celestial frame as i ride atop you like wind across your highland

let my earth collide upon you, moon setting your lunar waters aflame with my anxious lust and your avoidant moon

SYMPHONY

By Nyla K. Jones

You crash against me

Cymbals to quiet music

Jarring in its way

Yet sits properly in song

Loudly pressing in my head

Your deep voice whispers

Rhythmically in my ears

Like a bass line note

A constant to life’s chaos

My music depends on you

There’s a fragile touch

We’re hand-in-hand, skin-to-skin

Fingers creep softly

Tapping like piano keys

I want to hear that again

BLACK LOVE

By Gena Willis

YOU

By Elizabeth Julius

Despite the darkness we’ve endured

You still shine

You still walk in faith Even when it looks like crawling

You’re still steadfast on the path you’re taking Even when you’re paving it

ANATOMY OF BLACK FRIENDSHIP

By Zoe Cummings

Adele wails through the car radio, as I speed down Mitchell Avenue. Today, despite it being 80 degrees and the AC doing that thing that it does because the car is almost older than me I ride with the windows up, hoping that it offers another layer of protection to the onlookers who will certainly raise their eyebrows at my wailing rendition of “One and Only.” I am on my way to Mel’s house, to cry about a breakup that has not yet happened, but is coming, because it is the end of the summer, and I am leaving for college in 12 days.

I did the dumb thing. I got into a relationship the summer before I left for a college 500 miles away with a boy who used to be my middle school bully. I sat in his car in the AMC parking lot and listened as he told me how much he cared about me, and looked into his eyes and saw how much he meant it. He had flowers, roses, which I loved then, and now cannot stand the sickly sweet smell of.

Maybe the flower fumes clouded my judgment, or maybe I was as clearheaded as I’ve ever been, wanting so badly to experience the love that I had read about in borrowed books from the Evanston library that featured girls that never looked like me, and I said yes knowing that three months later I would be speeding on Mitchell avenue, listening to Adele, on my way to Melanie’s house, to cry about a breakup that had not yet happened, because I leave for college in 12 days.

Melanie opens the door looking as miserable as I feel, and wordlessly steps out onto the stoop into my open arms. We perform the choreographed dance of heartache and walk to the kitchen, open the double door of her freezer to pull out our comfort ice cream: coffee for her, and fudge for me. We have not spoken since I got out of the car, and do not speak until we settle in the sunroom.

So tell me what happened.

Mel begins to talk about Liam, who is tall, brunette, and bad at baseball, and I can’t help but remember a time when I hated her.

In sophomore year, we fought viciously over a boy who did not think of either of us particularly kindly, and were granted access to every impulsively mean thought that the other conjured up thanks to 2019 spam culture. I ranted to my friends, that she was, me just taller, and prayed on her downfall on Sundays at church when the pastor asked us to touch and agree against poverty and war.

Junior year brought us covid, racism, and maturity. I sat by Mel at a protest, and she pressed up the M on my Black Lives Matter sign before it could flutter to the ground. When we came back to school after 8 months of staring at a glowing computer screen, she sat on the same bench as my friends, close enough to join the conversation if we extended the invitation, but far enough for us to pointedly ignore her presence. She ran next to me at cheer tryouts, we texted each other congrats when we found out that we made it.

We spent that summer driving each other around, And laughing in her basement, which became a holy place.

Now, after an entire senior year's worth of memories, and a summer that gave us both the endings and beginnings of the rest of our lives, all of that time, and all of those boys who did not ask to be cast in the rom-com production that we directed in our heads landed us here. I spent years chasing my own Quincy, just to be left with a half-full fudge ice cream, melted by the sun blasting through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a startling realization that I did not spend my summer learning about love from a boy who did not tip at restaurants or open car doors.

I learned from my best friend, from a Black Woman, what it is to be loved.

One day over the summer, we went to our local YMCA. It was a sight: two youngish Black girls splashing around in the deep end, imploring strangers to judge our race across the pool and marveling at how quickly the chlorine dried out our hair. We did not get out until we were wrinkly and tanner than we had been all summer. She taught me how to dive that day but also every other day of my life. She taught me how to make a monument of myself. Mel is the kind of girl who celebrates her birthday for an entire month. She speaks of her success like it is a birthright, and never, ever, shrinks herself to make room for other people, and yet she made room for me, not by shrinking, but by expanding, we make room for each other.

In the sunroom, after we had recounted the events of the night before, and it became clear that those relationships were ending, but also this proximity of living minutes away from a girl who has changed me, was ending, we held hands and cried.

After a semester that left me with very little, I returned to Mel’s basement. We talked, sometimes about those boys, but mostly about the plunge into adulthood that has rendered us changed. I told her about failure, friends, and tests from God, and she told me about tap shoes and sisterhood and dancing in dark rooms. I cannot help but remember a time when I hated her, and laugh. I wish that I could tell sophomore year that there will be no one who teaches you about love more than Melanie. Our friendship is the most loving thing I have ever known.

THE CHARIOTEER

By Juan Benn Jr.

“Don’t move,” I whispered.

I had never seen a boy shine like he did at that moment. We were driving over a bridge, and the entire left side of his body was illuminated by moonlight. As he sat behind the wheel, the white-yellowish tone of the moon’s embrace warmed his skin, which was usually brown and dark. Though, that night it was brighter than ever before.

“Alright,” he laughed, unsure of my request. He looked like a rare and exotic creature one that had never been captured by human eyes, and all I wanted to do was sit there and take note of his undisturbed beauty.

“Where are we going?” I asked eventually.

“How about some patience,” he said jokingly. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Then he rested his right hand on my left thigh. His eyes remained focused on the road, and he continued driving.

We made our way to the other side of the bridge, which closed the gap between the land divided by the river. I had lived in this town all my life, but only crossed the river sparingly. It always appeared as this mysterious natural barrier I was never meant to cross.

We paused at the stop light, and when I looked up, the single dot of red found itself amongst a galaxy of red stars. For a second, they appeared to bind and form a constellation. Perhaps, it was Auriga. It seemed like it was waiting for us, when the light turned green; However, the amalgamation in the sky remained, and we drove up the hill in its direction.

“We’re here!” he sung to me at the top. He smiled so widely and with pleasure, that I couldn’t help but look down, giggle, and smile, too. When I raised my head, my eyes landed on his. Though they were large and bright, his gaze was soft and exuded a sense of security. Sureness. Presence. He’s so free, I thought to myself. He could probably fly. “Come on,” he gently commanded. The December air was icy and crisp, and I immediately recoiled when it touched my face as I exited the car. We were standing in an empty parking lot. The two of us--the only bodies. Luster in the shape of squares and long rectangles appeared in the distance, loosely sketching the outline of our small town’s downtown skyline. Then, as if interpreting the bareness of our surroundings as an invitation to release, he started dancing. It began with a light sway of the torso and was followed by a smooth swirl of the hips; But truthfully, I knew it was his dubstep heartbeat that started it all. I’m not sure if he knew I could hear it pulsing. I’m not sure if he heard it himself, though he probably didn’t care. He came up behind me, and two hands touched the small of my back, making their way down to my hips. I felt his chin press affectionately against my neck, and the warmth of his control began to melt my inhibitions. The wind whistled, but music wasn’t necessary. Our breaths had fallen into place, and everything was in tune.

Up here, the moonlight was replaced with a red refulgence. The same constellation that possessed me earlier, seduced us to its position. We relaxed our embrace but stayed connected.

“The charioteer,” I said to him, looking towards the sky. “Do you see it?” I reached up and pointed to the five stars that made up the man’s torso. Above that, was a trio of stars in the shape of a triangle, which was his helmet.

He looked up, and the corners of his mouth rose and dug craters in his cheeks. Then he returned his gaze in my direction. There are those eyes again.

“The Greeks,” I started. “They believed Erichthonius was rejected by his father, Hephaestus, the Greek god of craftsmen and fire. Then, Athena took in the lost soul and taught him how to tame horses. In time, he learned how to command a chariot.”

“You look good in red,” he responded. I thought it was out of nowhere, until I noticed the red haze had mixed with my brown skin and applied a crimson filter. I grabbed his hand, and we interlaced our fingers. In front of us and across the river, I saw my past. A twinkling fell from the sky.

What made me so afraid to face the distance?

And suddenly, the ground was no longer beneath my feet. Gravity became obsolete.

Perhaps, I did not know how to carry myself. Our bodies twisted in the blackness of the night sky. I was waiting for someone to carry me. Then, we soared.

BLACK LOVE POEM #1

By Blake Spencer

I consider thinking. with my mind, a slow dance with my thoughts Black tuxedos, loafers, and ballroom chandeliers that makes the room fitting for reflection

I dance the night away.

Thoughts that act as complimentary appetizers to the entree

A marble floor that serves as the bedrock to my black and white thinking I often slip.

I’ve never been the best on my feet when it comes to dancing I trip over myself, fumble, fall, I struggle with maintaining balance In this limbo between that ground and the air that I now occupy, I can only predict what’s obvious to come.

Before my body makes contact with that bedrock, I feel warmth. As if this warmth peeled the reflections from the chandelier, I saw the night sky.

The stars are bright and budding, as if I could grab them and place them into a bouquet.

The breeze under me lifts my body from limbo, as I stare into your eyes. Tears start to form in mines like wet willows on blades of grass, traveling down the side of the blade

In this moment, time seems to be a construct built against me

If I could freeze this moment, and formulate every corner of this earth into our ballroom, as we dance and step back and forth throughout those blades of grass, formerly named marble floor and let the sun shine on us and us only, as we take in the reflection of ourselves in our eyes, my reflection, my chandelier, on the surface of our pond Time would no longer be an issue. We danced through this world. A slow dance meant for us.

BLACK LOVE ON THE TRAIN FROM (TO) WASHINGTON

By nnam

I’m obsessed with the spaces in between The long pause that means maybe, Not quite no and definitely yes. Yes! yes, yes!

Type what you mean I can, I do, I Will.

Time is so kind to be moving backwards against the chime and giving me a few more minutes with you to ride on that metal bar between the train cars. A little ill by now, motion sick with giddy laughter, I cannot accept the white space as the biggest thrill when we are right here!

When are we right and mostly, Why are we here?

We often feel like our power is lost, And yet we can turn tides so

Are these waves are desiring me, too?

I am tired and tired

No current rests and I think I will still love you.

DO YOU REMEMBER, RETTA?

BY Faith Harper

No matter what I do or how hard I push, I can not get my mother to journal. I began to believe that maybe her childhood was not as memorable as I was trying to make it out to be, but I had a feeling that she had a story to tell. She probably just couldn’t find the words.

Every year is the same in the Harper household: we spend Thanksgiving with my dad’s side and Christmas with my mom’s side. Both holiday gatherings were filled with rambunctious laughter and a surprise family guest in a stroller, however, Christmas with my mom’s family was something you never wanted to miss.

Up until about six years ago, dinner always took place at my aunt’s condo in an area with nicer roads, greener grass, and catholic schools on every street corner. I knew the almost half an hour drive was worth it because my aunt’s place had three things that my place did not: internet, a cat, and my mother’s secrets. We were often the first round of guests to show up so my aunt would put my sister and I to work in the kitchen while coaxing my mother to enjoy a glass of red wine, attempting to convince her that a couple of sips were good for her heart. My mother eventually gave in after the rest of her siblings showed up alongside their children.

I was finally free to play Disney Channel games on my sister’s industrial computer and watch my cousin unfairly win a game of Madden against my brother. While on my tenth trip to the kitchen to dip yet another strawberry in sugar to devour, a roar of guffawing came from the living room. I just had to peek my head around the corner.

One of my uncles was coughing hysterically with a bowl of chili in his hands (auntie made the chili spicier every year and you ate it at your own risk). My oldest cousin rubbed his back while the rest of the room of adults held their stomachs from intense and uncontrollable laughter. Auntie was able to get a wine glass in every person’s hand in that room and due to my young age I did not understand what it looked like when alcohol kicked in. Random conversations sparked and I noticed that my mother’s glass appeared almost the same as it had when auntie handed it to her. Nonetheless, she still smiled and giggled as foolishly and loosely as the people around her did.

“Retta, remember when you snuck out the house to see Earth, Wind and Fire in Vegas? Ooo, you got the whoopin’ of the century!” My other uncle, who sported a different colored tracksuit every Christmas (that year was green), uncovered many stories about my mother’s life of unforgettable memories. One of how she’d gotten her purple converse stolen at the skating rink. Another of how she met my father. I even had a chance to hear in depth tellings of her joyrides with her brothers and church friends, and inevitably getting caught every time.

I often wondered if the reason my mother never talked about her growing up was because those moments of being a black girl and being verbally harassed with racist comments at fast food restaurants were easier to forget. With Christmas, I finally get a glimpse into her childhood with stories of what she loved surrounded by the people who loved her. Her silence seems the most practical because when you really love something it feels better to sit with a full glass of wine and bask in those visual mementos with family. My mother’s story has yet to be documented by her, but every year through spicy chili and spilled alcohol I get to see it before my own eyes.

MY EVERLASTING RED

By Ashari Allen

I hold our love in the petals of my rose

Some may call it cliché

All great love stories are fairytales

Our fairytale wasn’t mentioned in the books

Because with you, my pens stood still

My thoughts were rampant with metaphors and exaggerations of our love story

But my lips were shut

I no longer had to write about my dreams and my heartbreak

I no longer searched for the missing pages to my poems that somehow reminded me that hope was just around the corner

Because I had already found it

My thread, my everlasting red

That gushed pools of crimson rubies

My lips stood still when my mind told me to write my seasonal journey into this new dimension where I deserved love And received it

Because this is new. New territory I thought was forbidden to enter

Once you do there is no way out, no way back only a way down

I was wrong because you were my way up

A light shining upon my face with words of encouragement, reassurance, and love

You fill wounds I thought I had fixed but in reality, were floods of open tears my eyes couldn’t erase

You hold me so tight, my inner child began to grow

With you, I am never lost

Because behind you are leaves of everlasting red

A journey of my intertwined twigs of pain reclaiming a home of Love

By Sigrid Perkinson

When I think of black love, I'm reminiscent of a time period I was never a part of. A time period where love was more than an empty word. More than a few months and a lesson learned, their love seemed eternal.

The love I’m referring to would be broadcasted on TV shows, sung on the radio and seen in music videos, this love would be able to touch you deep into your soul; and these things are how I grew old.

Surrounded by inspiration, black love being the muse, this is where I learned how to move.

What was acted or sang reflected a different time in life. I assumed the love stories shown on TV were taken from real stories and real strife.

Falling in love with the concept of the “Black Love” that I witnessed,

I dreamt of the type of love they acted out and sang about. Taking the good with the bad, knowing it was part of the process, I truly became obsessed, with black love.

Black lovers knew their love would transcend their lifetimes and they would find each other in their next.

Soulmates from head to toe, and the love they share is so pure, you would never dream of letting them go. Because at one point, they were everything you ever dreamed about. All you ever wished for. And everything you ever longed for.

This type of love I have mainly witnessed on TV. But my hopes are that TV reflects reality, a 90’s love that seems to be deceased. But I know that somewhere, for some people, it's thriving.

Now, I've only ever been in love once. But I’ve been the receiver of love so many more times than what I can count. When I think of black love, I’m reminded that it is something I will never be without. It is more than an empty word, And sometimes it does take lessons learned to figure out. I’ve never worried about being loved and I know I’ll never have to, because black love is what you make it, Black love is all around you.

So I know it’s attainable, despite this generation's antics. But I also know that black love can be so much more than romantic.

be safe.

By Joseph Sturgeon

every time i leave out the apartment, my folks tell me, “be safe.”

they say the same thing to my brother, my sister and my sibling. be safe because it’s dangerous outside be safe, it’s a cold world be safe because people are unpredictable be safe, this is america be safe because you’re black be safe because you’re a black boy be safe because you’re a black girl be safe because you’re a black child

you could be walking down the street. but fate knows no distance. be safe because i love you.

BLACK ACTS OF SERVICE

By Victoria Campbell

A WOMAN’S DEVOTION

By Rosie Claire Jefferson

I will love you In this life And the next As You are softness. Your neck Smells of Beautiful Stained glass windows, And when we kiss The warmth

Of your femininity Protects me

From all that is worth Being feared. The breath Of your livelihood

Expands my lungs, And your touch Is timeless, And tender, And intentional. You teach me Of the moon, And the stars, And all that remains Beneath. I lose myself

In your devotion, And to be found Is to be imprisoned. I knew no affection

Before youOnly solitude.

You are quite simply All that is good, my beloved, You make me whole.

MY JUDE

By Jalyn Cameron

My forehead slick with coconut oil and streams of water, got me shining like a lightbulb. At least, that’s what my older sister, Jude, tells me in between the crackle of her bubble gum. Humming, she takes a towel soft with age and wipes my forehead dry. “Bright as one too” she smiles, glancing down at me almost conspiratorially, “And don’t you ever forget it, Jamie.” She says. I grin ear to ear.

I love Jude’s smile. I love the quietness of it, how her pearly white teeth brings out the depths of her brown skin. How the magic of her smile rests in her dark eyes. Jude’s irises the color of rich soil after a spring shower winks and glints under the light of the setting sun and when she speaks it’s as if she’s sharing with me a secret the rest of the world will never know.

My Jude is sixteen and everything I wanna be when I grow up. She smacks Juicy Fruit and blows big, fat yellow bubbles that explode like mini firecrackers. Nana always tells her to stop in her honeyed, southern twang that claims our daddy’s side of the family. The slow talking melody that Jude and I dip into from time to time. But nevertheless, Jude doesn’t listen to Nana. She doesn’t listen to anybody. When aunties swat at her, exclaiming that she ain’t ladylike. When they tug at the length of her skirts, scowling, blaming her momma for bringing her up so loose when Daddy raised her right. Jude pays no mind. She smacks and pops on anyway. When I asked her what Nana meant by ladylike, why the aunties pick on her so much Jude leaned down and whispered in my ear. Her sugary breath tickled my skin as she sighed. She said she didn’t know either, that old folk just be talking to talk. Then, she blew a bubble so big and so bright it looked just like the sun.

Jude pulls out a clanking aluminum tin that used to hold some fancy cookies into her lap. The lettering has aged away, and a color almost like the shade of rain sticks behind. Two years ago, our Daddy saw me throw the tin away after I wolfed down the last shortbread cookie. He plucked it straight from the trash can, washed it out, and plopped the still a lil bit wet container right into my hands. He said we always gotta give things and people a second life no matter what.

I gave the old cookie tin to Jude and told her what Daddy said. She laughed and said Daddy always talked a lil crazy, but I think she secretly liked the idea. She started tossing hair ties, brushes, and gel in the tin and that’s what she rummages through now. Her messily painted hot pink nails, dance around loose barrettes and sparkly beads. Her wrists jangle, holding bracelets she made from weaving together colorful strings and the tabs of coca cola cans. Finally, she grabs a brown wide-tooth comb, a spray bottle, and motions for me to sit down.

I plop down on the floor, smushing my butt on the cushion she laid out, resting my back against the bottom of the couch. Jude swings her legs on either side of me and leans down to plant a wet, sticky kiss on my cheek. I shriek and squirm but I’m smiling. She wipes the swirl of spit, lip gloss, and water dripping from my freshly washed hair from my skin, laughing.

My older sister owns more lip gloss than anyone I know. Daddy likes to say she probably got more than Auntie’s beauty supply store down the block. And he’s right. Jude goes through about a tube a week and exclusively uses the windows of parked cars to apply her lip gloss. Once, I asked her why she never used those lil mirrors that flip open like phones. I even told her my momma said she had an extra one I could give her. But Jude preferred car windows. Said they always showed just enough.

Sometimes, she’d squeeze a lil dot of shimmery clear gloss on my finger and I’d smear it on my lips precisely. Exactly how she applies it. I find it funny, cause with that lil dot I’d be transformed. I was no longer scrawny Jamie; I was Jude. I swayed my hips, belted songs. I wrapped everyone in sight into my arms, planting mushy kisses on their cheeks dramatically and made jewelry out of anything I could find. It was beautiful; I was beautiful, but the thing about those 99 cent lip glosses is that they wore off quick. Within the hour, I’d be back to plain ol Jamie.

Jude hated when I acted like her, and she’d swear not to give me no more lip gloss. She thought I was mocking her, making fun of her movements, her voice. And for the next few hours she would behave like a milder version of herself. Every time, she’d do that I’d feel sick. I never knew how to tell my sister I’d never make fun of her, I’d never her mock her. I just wanted to be her.

As my Jude parts my damp hair, raking the comb from the ends of my curls to my scalp I mash the button on the T.V remote. When I flash by MTV Jude tells me to keep it there and the sound of her humming along to a new pop song fills the small living room. I sway my shoulders, lazily mimicking the moves from the music video and Jude to groans at me, flicking me gently with her fingers. “Be still Jamie,” she says, but I feel her movements slow and know her eyes are glued to the screen. Soon she dances right along to the music too.

My Jude knows every song that plays in our daddy’s car but she likes Lauryn Hill the most. Last Christmas, Daddy gave Jude his old record player. That thing looked like it barely worked and Jude had to dig through a foot of dust to get it to work, but the way Jude endlessly giggled as she brought her record collection down from her room you would have thought she got the shiniest thing from the store. Now, there’s never a moment when music doesn’t waft through the house. Doesn’t stick to the walls and linger in the hallways.

When Jude puts on Lauryn Hill, she is the happiest. And I always find myself climbing the steps to her room to the sound of her rich voice. Whenever I enter her room I am greeted with warm arms and my feet lifting from the ground. And Jude spins me to the music until I am sick and dizzy and begging for her to spin me around again just one more time. And she does. She always does.

After detangling, Jude styles my hair quickly. Her lean fingers are fast and knowing after twisting my curls since I was a baby. When she finishes, she lays down my edges, and clips some of my twists together with a barrette. She beams at me, smoothing down my hair with her hands. She smiles again and I look at her and wonder. I wonder how my sister who smacks gum loudly, who dances with no shame, and never ever makes herself small has such a timid smile. And I wonder briefly if we should switch, if God messed up and my toothy, consuming smile is really hers and her lil one should be mine.

“You got hair just like your momma’s,” Jude’s eyes narrow and she playfully tugs a twist. “Gimmie some.” I laugh, but I would. If Jude was really serious, I would. I’d give her anything. I’d give her my hair, all my bubble gum and whatever she’d ask of me. Because my Jude would do the same.

for the love of GoGo

By Brooklyn King (BK)

oh GoGo

the booms and ba's we love, the groove we can't get enough of somebody once called it 'pots n pans music' to talk down ‘bout you, but we ignore it.

oh GoGo

you are the pots, may even be the pans you the congos & cowbells in hand our Black toes in sand. Our ancestors’ culture, straight from the motherland; the heartbeat that never stops.

oh GoGo

when heard there's instant love in the body & joy upon many faces nothing could ever erase this except, maybe the racists but

because of you, this will always be one of my favorite places.

oh GoGo

some don't know you, don’t know of your mythical powers of connection from past to present day. the way you make hips sway or how you make people beat they damn feet away hey!

oh GoGo

Chocolate City will always remember you & Pretty Girl County, too so please keep doing what you do bringing the love from each hood, street & crew cus damn

we love that funky GoGo

Sterling Notes is the literary arts journal of The Sterling Allen Brown English Society based out of Howard University in Washington D.C. This publication brings together creative and intellectual voices from the Howard University community and beyond in order to give the reader a glimpse into the varied and beautiful work is done at The Mecca as well as in other spaces where Black thought and creativity thrive.

Cover art by L. Yakeh Rider