The Ana Issue #1 by The Ana

THE ANA

ISSUE I

THE ANA \T͟ HƏ\·\ˈĀ-NƏ\ PRONOUNCED: AH-NUH (NOUN) 1. a collection of miscellaneous information about a particular subject, person, place, or thing. 2. The Ana is a quarterly magazine hell-bent on redefining art and literature. We act and publish in line with the notion that everyone’s life is literature and everyone deserves access to art.

While all rights revert to contributors, The Ana would like to be noted as the first place of publication.

Cover design by Hannah Keith Typesetting and design by Hannah Keith & London Pinkney Set in Georgia () and Futura ()

EDITOR’S NOTE Hello All, Welcome to the first issue of The Ana! We publish in line with the notion that everyone’s life is literature and everyone deserves access to art. We strive to be a safe space where no artists feels as if they nor their work is being exploited. We look forward to interacting with our local community and communities that are unfairly on the outskirts of the traditional publishing world as the magazine continues to grow. Being a person with synesthesia, this first issue reminds me of the color red– a color of new beginnings, of luck, of love. All of these are emotions I associate with the publication of this first issue. I’d like to thank the contributors for trusting us–especially those of you who have been with us years ago when this magazine was just an idea. I hope we can be a good home for your work. I’d like to thank the friends who’ve heard me drone on about a magazine that seemed as if it were never going to be made. And I’d like thank the editors – I love y’all. Enjoy the first issue and may there be many more! Much love, London Pinkney EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

THE ANA

ISSUE # 1 FEBURARY 2020

FICTION 1

She Shouldn’t Have Said God’s Name in the Bathroom | MARIA BELAYADI

Socialcide | KAYT CHRISTENSEN

Father | TREVAUGHN MALIK ROACH-CARTER

Okay | KENDRA NAMENIL

Body Heat | KATRINA BENEDICTO

POETRY 2

Turtles & Trees | ISAAK LUSIC

The Problem That Has No Name, Especially When You Aren’t Paying Attention –|

ELIZABETH ROSAS 9

Eurydice Cried | MAX KENNEDY

Suspension | SAMMIE KIM

Porridge | SAMMIE KIM

Fingernail Moon | HUNTER THOMAS

How Does One Find Oneself in a Room Without a View | SHIRLEY JONES-LUKE

Birth | SHIRLEY JONES-LUKE

Soul Shout: A Poetic Release of The New Black Slave | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

Soul Food Request | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

Whispers | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

FEATURE: 41

Fat Femmes, Rise Up!: Interview with Sen M.

She Shouldn’t Have Said God’s Name in the Bathroom fiction by Maria Belayadi

The girl held her stomach as the bile rose up her throat. She no longer could hide from her truth as she sped across the speckled tiles. Each step was cold against the soles of her feet. Hunched over last night’s dinner, she watched the green stuff swirl around the toilet before being flushed down along with her purity. She whispered the same words from the Holy Book that her mother always recited when she was nervous. She was told to never say God’s name in the bathroom because that’s where the Devil stays. Maybe that’s where she belongs to. After all, she knew it was a sin to buy the new lace underwear the day before she went to the boy’s house. My parents will disown me, she thought as she put her knees to her chest and counted the little bathroom tiles that made up each big square tile. Tears no longer urged their way out. She pushed herself off the ground after 114 tiles. Maybe she should pray. But what good would prayer do now? Maybe she could pray for someone to let her live with them while the damned grew inside her belly. She remembered the last girl who sinned like this—she left the country. But the boy who helped her complete the sin is married with two kids in the next neighborhood over. The girl lay in bed rubbing her flat belly. She weighed out the level of each sin and came to the conclusion that a baby that would be ostracized for something out of its control shouldn’t be born. But killing a baby is a sin too. She wondered what constitutes a sin and why some of them didn’t apply to boys. Or adults. She remembered reading a verse about backbiting. Too many people came to mind. Herself included. She went over the conversation in her head that she would have with her mother. No matter how she phrased it, what words she used, or the timing of the tears, she knew the outcome was the same. She really shouldn’t have said God’s name in the bathroom.

Turtles & Trees poetry by Isaak Lusic I. Honey drops of sunlight dot throughout onto The elder turtles sunbathing on top Of deceased tree branches, towering Above the water by centimeters, Overlooking the young ones floating On the milky green river, With creamy lucent ripples, Slowly, effortlessly, pushing them. These golems of the river stare back at anything That dares challenge their self confidence, Something I need to learn from them. A little one lazily swims in the river, Abandoning any effort of control, as the ripples Sway, spin, stir him ‘round and ‘round down the river, accepting his fate. Something I need to learn. “I’ve abandoned all hope of becoming the next James Schuyler” as I take a swig of whiskey. The burning sensation scouring down, following tears, Kicking leaves and social etiquette along the trail besides the river; “But it's okay,” I mutter, “I never really thought I’d be anything anyway.”

Eyes of sympathy respond otherwise, as their Throats are unable to answer back, Though walking together, we all seclude Ourselves inside of our insecurities, protected by our self-doubt. Yet Jack kept smiling, puppy-eyed, Unaware of crimson streaks running down his nostril. Drops fell, sorrow as well, “We’re all sad, but we are all here for each other,” he says. Assaulted by allergies, he embraces me, attempting to wrestle negativities out of both of us. Something that I need to learn from him. II. Brown decayed branches are desolately Peppered throughout this land of swampy silence. Mournful chirps in the distance From some solemn resident Pervades the silence. Willows reach their appendages down to ponderous puddles, Entangling themselves in their Narcissistic attempt. — No emotion, acceptance; God doesn’t exist, but then again I barely do. (I can even begin to remember the last time I looked at a mirror.) This decomposition positions itself in only others, not extending beyond its realm. I guess everything has its place... III. Currents can cross any direction,

Even go against itself, but No matter what, the river flows the same. All destinations, directions, destinies meet At the end of this river. Should I follow suit? Kayaks, birds, leaves, lovers, and fish all follow this Styxian river, Though green suggests life, poison also Wears this deceptive decor. How Are so many blindly following it? IV. Nests— Nests everywhere! There’s a home, there’s A house, Another on top, Ooooooh, Even a double decker, Over there! There’s real estate on Every

branch! Birds Jumping

Around

All sorts Of

Ways, Debating on which is the best spot. Even the birds can’t commit, Why should we? Maybe, That spot was recommended, Maybe It was A fixer upper.

Hell

They may have done it for the hell of it.

One for the kid, The mistress, the pet, And another solely for jealousy. Whether ten, Twenty,

fifty, or a Thousand, it doesn’t matter!

They need to fill the void Of family life, Of stability, Of Other bullshit we tell ourselves. Can you really blame them— I tried to take a tour in one of these ostentatious nests, but I broke the branch. My being can’t handle such luxury, I guess I’ll live amongst the turtles since they take their homes as they are And don’t Change the nature of it since that would change themselves. Oh, I guess that’s something I need to learn from Or something... V. Apartment towers, modern obelisks, now surround me, escape the danger By retreating within them. This giant will suffice, A grocery store will have what I need. I should eat, But hunger hasn’t greeted me today. Should I Still expect him? Stares, everywhere I turn, more stares Confront me. Is it me? No, Maybe, Look at the rice, Don't stare too long, you freak. Thirst. How about a beer?

No,

You’re already fucked up, you fuck-up. Just get some lemonade. Wait In line, don’t stare at the stares they don't like It, you, whatever isn’t them. Open it, Drink, don’t down it too fast, Done. Damnit. Don’t know where Jack is, Oh well, Look for a bathroom,

Where is it...

I want to go back to the turtles and trees, At least it was cute When they stared at me. Where is that bathroom? Oh. At the front. Waste of time... (I know I am) Get out of this capitalist cavern, possessing corporate creations. Free At Last.

Where

Do I go now? My head is spinning and spinning like a turtle floating down a river.

The Problem That Has No Name, Especially When You Aren’t Paying Attention– poetry by Elizabeth Rosas Location: Fresno, California “You don’t need all that,” pointing to my big red lips. Thrown off, I hand him his quick pick. “Smile!”

Smile?

The door ding donged again, he walks into the 100 degree heat. Sauntering, proud. Fedora tilted. Sunglasses big. Fighting with rolled quarters. He thought He just saved me from being known as the corner store whore. ding dong. “Change for the bus,” slapping a ten on the formica you shorted me ten but you gave me a ten no, I gave you a twenty… was there a gun in his pocket?

Here’s your change for a twenty. Smile.

Penthouse to my left, hidden images of naked white women, young boys and old men mill about. Marlboros behind the register

safe

while a six pack on Saturday night runs out the door.

ding dong. I open my mouth, then close it, stop! thief! (in my head) Mops, piss and Pinesol, me in the mirror, I look at my lips. I’m pretty. He’s right, I don’t need it. Long’s Drugs 99 cent tube of frosty pink. Doris Day would approve. ding dong. Big pink smile good afternoon, Sir.

Eurydice Cried poetry by Max Kennedy Two weeks sooner than later the forces of death spiraled into perpetual vengeance against you. On reading this note, you thought of a snake-- and how lovely it must be to contain all the power you’d need to defend yourself in a single tooth. Eurydice did not think as such. Downpour. Into green waters the mist lays waste to your eyes. Your fingers cannot stop clicking at the joint. Did they always move like that? Fury and fire filled your nail beds as if lava would seep out and burn a hole in your boat. You need to get out. Which way was up? Out Up Out You scale the walls. Sweet music fills your ears, his melodies take you somewhere you were scared to go. Something is coming and part of you hopes that it won’t stop. Cronus is coming to gobble you up if he can get the chance. Silence will not help you anymore. Climate comes before you blocking your path of ascent. You look behind you. You can’t see. Something does not feel right, tonight. “Hades forgive me for I have sinned,” you pray, out loud. Can you feel it? The rumbling in your empty heart sucks the color from your lips. You hadn’t thought whether or not you would need color where you were going. Beauty was no longer a way of commerce. You hear sweet drops of jazz and notes of fig and honey touch your tongue. Honey so sweet should kill you by now. You hadn’t been killed before. This time you have. You’re down. He’s tapping his feet to music only the two of you hear. Eurydice is following you behind at a slow pace. You are digging up the ground beneath you with your nails alone. She sucks the dirt from underneath hers. He is still coming. Run far from here, dear Eurydice. Please take me with you.

EURYDICE CRIED.

Socialcide fiction by Kayt Christensen

Dr. Janice Coolmun strode into the room with an air of confidence only a narcissist could possess. She was the best kind, though. The kind of narcissist that knew she was one, and wore it like a badge of honor. Her assistant, Dee, shuffled behind her and tucked a stray price tag into the collar of her designer blazer so that it could be returned later. Janice threw a sideways smile my way as she slid into the dip in her patent leather sofa. I ironed out the creases in my linen pants with hot and sweaty palms as Dee reminded her of my file. Hearing quantified specifics recited aloud caused my knuckles to crack. Then Dee left. There was only me, and Janice, and the fading green dot above her head. She snapped her fingers once in my direction and waved her hand slightly to get my attention. “Charlotte, good afternoon,” she said. I reminded myself to breathe as she smoothed fly away hairs in her compact mirror. She sat up a little straighter, ran her tongue over each tooth, and smiled again while snapping the mirror shut. “How are you doing today?” I waited until her eyeline shifted from above my head, down to my eyes. I heard a faint click behind me, steadied my voice, and began. “Well, I got another call from the station to come down and tell them what I could, again. They still don’t understand why Joan would mention—” “Charlotte, let’s start again at the beginning of your and Joan’s friendship before we get into the details of last week, shall we?” I held a breath for ten, nine, eight, to steady my heart-rate and nodded at her. She moved to her left slightly, sat straight, and smiled for me to start again.

“We met in a Sharity group three years ago. We had both been discovered as Rela-Fakes online, so we were grouped together with several women of the same offense. Going around the circle, she mentioned Sean.” “I know this is the highlight reel, but remind me again, who is Sean to you both exactly?” She pretended to write something down on a pad of paper, connecting imaginary dots in my file, but I could see her pen was still capped. My knuckles cracked under sweaty fingers, and I sat my tailbone as far back in the seat as possible to straighten my spine. “Sean was the man that both of us had been in Rela-Fakes with, but we didn’t know that. We were discovered when they searched his tagged posts, and saw both of us with him in separate occasions.” “Ah, yes. And, how did you come to meet Sean?” “He worked with my dad’s construction company and was looking to get into a relationship to gain a higher combined membership.” She took a sip of tea from her marble-colored mug, wiped the lipstick from it, and set it down on the glass coffee table in front of us. I waited for her to settle and ask the next question. A microphone the size of a peanut dangled three feet above the table, and I watched it sway slightly with the air conditioning. “How would you describe your relationship with Sean, Joan aside? Was it ever a real relationship?” “It was at first,” I tucked hair behind my ear and Dr. Coolmun moved to her left. “We were together nine times out of ten, and the one time we weren’t, we were still in constant contact.” She smiled at this, like it warmed her heart. “But I noticed that my photo captions were always longer, and more personalized than his. He stopped sharing his location. I knew something was wrong when he changed his password so that I couldn’t post for him anymore.” Her lips formed a tight line, disapproving, and she nodded for me to speed through the unpleasant parts. “Arguments over where to eat and what to wear out got louder, and longer. He didn’t like that I wouldn’t borrow his jacket in pictures. He didn’t like me being in my own home, and incessantly sent me pictures from his own bed for me to post. One time, I missed color-correcting a yellow splotch on my neck, and he—” The overhead lights

changed from warm to cool tones, and the metallic sound of technology whirred out of the air. “Charlotte,” Dr. Coolmun got up from her seat on the couch and walked over to squat beside me. Her hand clamped down on top of my own atop my knee. It was both comforting and warning, tethering me to my seat and preventing me from escape. “You’re doing great. Try to relax a little, don’t look like I’m holding you here against your will.” She let out a laugh and cocked her head to the side. “Now, we’re going to be showing Joan’s video in the next few minutes. I know it might be difficult for you to watch, but I’m going to need you to really pay attention to it. Let some tears flow if they come, whatever feels natural. Don’t hold back with the emotion, really.” I widened my eyes to keep them from watering and bit the inside of my cheeks. She smiled, patted my hand one last time, and walked back over to her seat on the couch. The lights turned the walls from blue to yellow again, and I heard frequencies begin to rattle off the walls as they warmed the room. “Dee, roll it!” She yelled slightly behind her, and she began to laugh in such a way that made it feel like her and the rest of the world were cracking inside jokes I wasn’t privy to. “Ah, well, it sounds like you and Sean might not have been the best match, but you did have a few good times.” I sat with my tailbone flush against my chair backing. “Now that your past with him is out in the open, you won’t have to have anymore RelaFake posts! You can find someone truly suited for you.” I smiled, nodding in agreement with her. “I can only imagine that Joan had the same past with Sean, but of course I won’t speak too much on her behalf. Now, tell us a bit about how your relationship with Joan went. We didn’t get to see much of it online, did we?” “No, we weren’t public friends. Sharity didn’t think it was wise for us to announce to everyone where we were and what we were working on within ourselves at the time. It might cause social damage and lower our membership status, but we were close. How can you not be when you’ve lived so many of the same experiences?” She smiled, and I almost thought it was genuine. Maybe in different circumstances we’d be friends, swapping stories over mugs full of wine rather than stale coffee. I made a mental note to look up her profile later and scroll for a few hours.

“We followed each other in private, and shared profiles. I noticed that Sean took her to our Wednesday night restaurant on Tuesday’s, and it made sense then how he already knew what the weekly specials were. It was nice to be able to talk to another me, in a way.” “And when Sean left, she helped you, didn’t she? Tell me more about what kind of person Joan was.” I thought about the scented garbage bags lying under my kitchen sink that were left over from one of the last times she’d helped clean me up, over a year ago. She insisted on scented, she thought that even trash could be “gussied up.” I thought it was an unnecessary extra ten dollars, but I wasn’t going to send her back to the store to exchange them. I still have two left in the roll. I thought of the Lucky Charms I still buy on Thursday’s just to remind myself they existed between the both of us once, that they still had our laughter captured somewhere in the box. “Charlotte?” Some memories I could afford to keep special. “Oh, Joan was great. She helped take care of me when I was down to posting month old pictures once a week. She cleaned out my house, from front to back, while I sat in front of the television watching cooking shows. I remember she took all of Sean’s clothes, even the shirt of his I was wearing, and threw it out in the neighbor’s garbage so that I wouldn’t be tempted to rifle through it to dig them out. That was the kind of friend —person—she was. Always thinking two steps ahead.” “How long were you two close for? This sounds like a decade-long friendship compressed into such a short amount of time.” “Well, she upgraded to Platinum about fourteen months after we met each other.” Dr. Coolmun’s cool façade waivered slightly at this, and I felt the playing field between us level a bit. She could only afford Gold membership, one tier higher than mine. “That’s when she started to distance herself.” “Tell me more about all of that.” She took a sip of tea to loosen her joints a bit. “Joan always had nice stuff, her father’s the creator of LookShare, so she could afford to. She was odd though, sometimes when we would be shopping, she’d break a zipper on a shoe, or rub a bit of foundation on a shirt while trying it on, just to get a

discount she didn’t need. Then she’d take things home and have them fixed up, good as new.” I pulled at a few eyelashes when thinking of this, the thrill of those few moments still riddled me with nerves. “I noticed a few weeks before she upgraded, she stopped bothering with that. She’d grab items off the rack and buy them as they were, no modification. She started posting more, and a week before she went Platinum she took me out to lunch. We would usually eat tuna sandwiches and cheap champagne I could afford at my place while watching crime shows, so it was a nice change of pace. But she showed up in heels and a dress that belonged somewhere on the coast of Italy. There was a man with her, Alfred, in the back of her car. He was her photographer for the day, and he always made sure to keep me out of her shot. I don’t think she touched anything she ordered.” Janice smiled warmly at my self-inflicted internal pain now as she prodded deeper. “How did things go from there?” “She started going to brunch and socials with other Platinum members. She went from posting five times a week to twice daily, then she added in daily vlogs. She just exploded.” My nails were beginning to dig into the fabric of my jeans, and I made a note to get them filed when my session was over. “Then she was offered Diamond membership, free of charge.” Dr. Coolmun’s nose wrinkled. “That’s when she finally blocked me.” “Diamond’s can only be seen with like members though, you know that.” I nodded. “So, tell me, why does it still hurt?” “I think it hurt me because I had to go through the hassle of seeing her through my friend’s and family’s profiles to keep up with her life, other than my own. I wasn’t just not her friend anymore. It’s like she saw me as an enemy.” Lights shifted, cameras hidden in plants clicked off, and the microphone above the coffee table stilled lifelessly above us. Janice took a metal bottle out from under the couch and took a few swigs while I rolled my neck from side to side. I popped a lemon drop in my mouth to try to get my salivary glands working. Rehashing everything made me feel like I’d been talking for twenty years. “Alright, we’re launching into the video next. Really sell it here.”

My head rolled down to stretch my neck, “Thanks, Dr. Coolmun.” A shudder ran through me as the room sprang back to life, and goosebumps littered my arms. “So, how did you find out about Joan and Alfred last week?” The question came wafting through the air to me as I sat back farther in my chair, sliding my hands beneath me so they wouldn’t be inclined to pick at each other. “I was at Sean’s house, actually.” She looked at me for a moment, causing me to pause while this information could sink in. “I was just looking for the key he had to my apartment, when I noticed his phone was unlocked. A notification from her page popped up, and I clicked on it. It was the video.” “Now, I understand this video was only live for nine minutes before it was taken down, obviously violating Social Media Procedure laws. We’ve gotten the O.K. from the local police to show the video here again, for educational purposes. Would you be alright with viewing it again now?” Her smile twitched in such a way that I knew there was only one answer to this question. “Yes,” I said, and the lights dimmed. The hair on my arms felt as though it were about to jump out of their follicles. There was Joan, telling us she was going away. There was Joan, pulling ChapStick out of Alfred’s pants. There was Joan, lying next to Alfred’s sleeping body. There was Joan, kissing him. There was Joan, pulling open a bedside drawer. There was Joan, putting on a pair of my underwear I thought I’d lost in the laundry. There was Joan, “I should’ve stayed with you, Charlotte.” There was Joan, drinking soda from Alfred’s cup. No. There was Joan, drinking antifreeze from Alfred’s cup. There was Joan walking toward her dog. There was Joan walking towards me. There was Joan falling. There was Joan, dead.

I wasn’t sure if I had begun to cry or not, but the lights had come back up in the room. The green light was glowing above Dr. Coolmun’s head and I stared into it as the television to our right with Joan’s body hung on it was switched off. She lifted a tissue to her dry eyes in pantomime and added in an airy sniff for good measure. The door chimed one-two-three times. “Charlotte, unfortunately we’ve run out of time for today.” Something told me she wasn’t all that sad about not being able to delve into the emotional duress she’d just caused me to endure. The tissue vanished from her face, and was replaced with the same monotonous smile she’d been flashing my way the past hour. She shifted to look over my right shoulder. “Thanks for listening in. Charlotte will be back in my office next week to talk more about Joan Peerman. Come back then to see what Charlotte’s said to the Police on this matter, only in Dr. Coolmun’s Room. Call (949)-555-5214 to make your appointment today.” The lights shifted from warm to cool tones as Dr. Coolmun slipped off her shoes and rubbed the balls of her feet. I was her last client for the day, and I gathered myself in a coherent manner before rising to leave. Dee met me on the way out. “Great show today, Charlotte. You really drew me in. We still have a copy of the deleted video and I went ahead and sent it to your email. Watch it again before you come in for your next session so we can really see how it affected you on screen, and try to take notes after the meeting with the investigators so you don’t forget anything. You’re giving us great content. Dr. Coolmun will be at Platinum in no time with this case. Who knows, maybe you’ll be able to level up alongside her!” She ticked off each note she had for me on a clipboard, and I stopped her before she could rush into the room to talk to Janice. “Thanks, Dee. How much do I owe this week?” I began to dig my wallet out of my purse when she held a hand up. “Nothing. People are really tuning into this live after Joan’s Socialcide last week. Her death created a total pandemic of them across the world, and people want to know about the girl that started it all. She’s a revolutionary! Wild stuff, isn’t it? Anyways, your next few sessions will probably be free as long as you milk it. See you next time!” She bobbled into the room and left me standing in the hallway.

An email notification popped up on my screen, and I slipped a pair of earbuds in as I pressed play, hitting repeat on the video. I hung onto every word, hoping it would pay the bills.

Suspension poetry by Sammie Kim

My father bites into a hard-boiled egg, ripping yolk from white he speaks, choppy and unpracticed: You won’t know what’s coming until it hits you. Your vulnerability is like blood in the water. Find strength in a caged bird, he says, plasticine, parakeet cheeks pink. The bird may beg for an open door, but remember, only you know that sleet cuts and sunshine burns. My feet swing toward a crate, hooks snag words in my throat, scratching my voice into a non-answer. As we sit equally unequal, I remind myself no cage is a champion of Istus— we rest above the darkness and below the stars.

Porridge poetry by Sammie Kim

My mother took a spoon and parted the middle of a sunset sea nestled in the heat of a pot twice boiled overâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a recipe from a tongue long ignored in this houseÂ of Four walls, one roof, and five mouths. I savored the sweetness taken from gourd to pot to bowl to me. Perhaps Autumn was not a time for kindness. Mercy was a notion taught, not learned like XenophobiaÂ wrapped in crayons and filler paper My mother prayed for stronger daughters to precede glass jaws. Take the first hit, give the last punch, she told me, shaking sugar into her sunset sea, she sighed I was never extended the courtesy of a second tongue: my mother left hers at the airport, remnants lingering from a time of hemp sheets and winter persimmons. Now there is only sugared slurs and feigned confusion.

Fingernail Moon poetry by Hunter Thomas

People say a crescent moon is like a fingernail. I think they must mean: a Thumbnail, Like a reminder of where you are, an image to ground you While surfing the tides. Landmark directions, no map. I wish it WAS a thumbnail though, the In Real Life ones, the kind you can bite or pick at when you’re nervous. Wouldn’t that be nice? A modular moon, that won’t stare you in the face, laugh at your paper mache crown. -Something you could squeeze out of the sky if you got the right angle- scatter its bits all over the bathroom mirror until you can’t see, so you can finally take that photorealistic photo now. Every day is picture day after all. What if you could just shoot the moon? -Show it who’s boss, let the Sun take the fallbut I know it will be back tomorrow, Good Ol’ Reliable Moon If I had a moon of my own, a moon like this I’d never forget when it was important and never be reminded when it wasn’t. We’d make a pact, me and the moon I would slice my hand open, stick it in a crater,

and we would be family. Then the moon would know why I called so late just to check if everything is okay. Hear a voice and know I’m not stuck without something to hold on to. That moon would pull me back, my sweet fingernail moon could get it, And it just would.

Father fiction by TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter

He’s your father, just tell him. I kept telling myself that. Over and over. But some things are easier said than done. I thought I would be able to do it. The plan was to just show up and say what needed to be said. Once the information was out there, we could both move on. Whatever moving on would look like. I also kept asking myself if he would even want to know. The man behind the counter arranged a display of cupcakes with a light and fluffy chocolate mousse frosting on top. He looked up at me with a puzzling look. “What did you say your name was?” “Tristin,” I answered. I was already lying. That wasn’t a good start. “I’m John.” He shook my hand. I was worried he’d feel my fingers tremble beneath his. “Are you looking for anything specific?” “I’m not sure yet.” “Red velvet is my favorite. You can never go wrong with that cream cheese frosting.” The shop was pretty much empty. The only people were him and me. Separated by the counter. I could hear movement in the kitchen behind him, but I didn’t count whoever that was. We were alone. This would be a good time to tell him. I just had to say it. Say the words. “Do you make them?” Damn it. “No, I just help out up front,” he said. “It’s a family business, but not all of us have the baking gene.” I was never good at baking either. “That’s nice,” I said. He had given me an opening. Family. “Are you from around here?,” I asked. Or just passing through?” He adjusted the position of some of the cupcakes behind the glass. The red velvets.

“Passing through. I suddenly had a craving for something sweet.” He released a booming laugh that shook his stomach. “Sometimes I think random cravings are the only thing keeping us in business,” he said. There were pictures on the walls. I guess small town bakeries could decorate with a personal touch. It wasn’t like back home, where every store and shop lacked any sense of individuality. You wouldn’t see these photos on the walls of any other shop. John standing with a little girl, a lake behind them and a string of captured fish between them. John with the same girl and a woman, all wearing red onesies, sitting in front of a Christmas tree. John and the woman standing beside the girl, who was a little older now, wearing a cap and gown. The life of John was told in these photographs. It wasn’t just his life, though. It was their life too. The woman and the girl didn’t have names. Not yet. It was probably better that way. “The chocolate-peanut butter are pretty good,” he offered. “She doesn’t make those a lot, people usually swarm the place when they hear she’s whipped up a batch.” “She?” “Wife,” he said. Of course. “Did you guys start this together?” I knew the answer already. “Nah, my parents started this business back in the day,” he said. “The two of us just try to keep it afloat.” “It looks like the place is doing well,” I told him. He seemed happy. The people in the photos seemed happy. What would happen if I were thrown into the mix? “People seem to like the strawberry, too,” he said. The plump pink cakes demanded attention. They shamelessly attracted the eye and visually put every other cake to shame. If only I was that bold. The man behind the counter looked at me as the words I needed to say got trapped in a hard lump at the back of my throat. I could do this. I could force the words free and tell him what I knew. It was what I came for, I couldn’t leave without doing it. I didn’t know what to expect. Would he want to get to know me as much as I wanted to get to know him? Would he embrace me as a

son and ask me to join in the family business? That’s not where I expected my life to go, but I wouldn’t turn my back on an unexpected path. Negative outcomes of me telling the truth started to flood my mind. What if he didn’t believe me? Could I prove it to him? What if he were to get mad, accuse me of trying to uproot his life, and tell me to leave and never come back? The thought of going back to my life, knowing he was out here but unable to know him, was unimaginable. How could I turn away now? I was pissed that I was put into this situation in the first place. I never asked for this. My life was fine before. I never felt like I was missing anything with my mom. She used to tell me bedtime stories every night as a kid, all from her imagination, about a pair of siblings who investigate and solve supernatural mysteries, without their parents knowing. She had taken me on a random adventure Fort Bragg once. We drove hours, out of the blue, just to see one of those glass beaches. The prismatic collection of sea glass meeting the ocean waves was beautiful, but the most memorable thing from that trip was spending two hours lost and laughing together on the road, trying to find our way. Whenever I had once of my anxiety attacks, she’d sit up all night with me playing UNO and watching old horror movies with me, until I fell asleep. And only after I fell asleep, she would allow herself to fall asleep. After I came out to her, she immediately joined PFLAG and helped organized our local PRIDE. She showed up to that event, marching right beside me in a rainbow sundress. We had a good life. I never needed a father until she told me I had one. I was minding my own damn business when my mother showed up on my doorstep in tears. I’m not sure what brought it on but she had made a decision to tell me the truth. She told me his name and the little bit she could remember from their whole month of dating. She was the one who encouraged me to find him. I spent five hours googling the bits of info I had until I had found the person who was, without a doubt, my father. I was about ready to give up until I saw a picture on a small newspaper’s website. It was a portfolio of a high schools past home coming kings and queens. A “where are they

now” type of deal. A photo that I would have sworn was me if it wasn’t dated five years before I was born. It was next to a photo of John, a year ago. The article talked about how he went to business school to own and operate the bakery which was a gem in his little town. It gave me his name, his location, and the college he went to. The same college my mom went to. They graduated just a few months before I was born. My mom didn’t stop me when I got into the car to drive out of State to investigate in person.

At this point, it kind of felt like her being truthful was worse than keeping the secret.

She had laid this out on me, way too late to fix anything but I still had to go. If I had to shoulder the burden of knowing, so should he.

“Have you decided on one?” his eyes had a tinge of worry in them. I could only

imagine what horrid, anxiety ridden expression I had on my face. “Actually—” Another photo came into view behind him. He was slightly younger, holding a newborn. An uninterrupted moment of joy. “I’ll have a red velvet,” I said. “Good choice.”

How Does One Find Oneself in a Room Without a View Poetry by Shirley Jones-Luke

An odd number, my mother, middle child of nine When she birthed me, I was the first of two My brother arrived three years later. A scar across my mother's belly reminded us we were not easily born. Roaches & rats scuttling across worn floors & through cracks in doors told us our lives would not be easy. I was the look. My brother was the leap. Mother was the before. We were mischievous & stubborn. Destruction followed us. A glare from our mother only temporarily set us straight before we tore through our home again, yelling & laughing & arguing & fighting & pushing & shoving & throwing & crying & fuming in our rooms. Our bodies grew like the switches in our backyard. The ones our mother used to burn our backsides without leaving a mark. We fed on youth & exploration. Our stomachs knew hunger but also determination. Poverty would not be our keeper.

I was the reader. My brother was the warrior. Our home was our castle & the backyard our kingdom where we worshipped a rose bush, the centerpiece of the yard. We played with stray cats gone wild & listened at night when they fought the feral dogs. As adults, we cared for our mother with visits & medicine & prayer & laughter & worry & doctors & surgeries & healing & remission & reoccurrence & hospital & hospice & our mom chose death over facing months of pain in a place not her home These are now our toughest days. ones where we are without our mother. We face each day empty with only memories to lean on. Our mom was a rock that split our hearts & drifted away, leaving us holding on to each other.

Birth fiction by Shirley Jones-Luke

On this

morning, a sun-filled

day of

renewal, I wish

life to be simple

& unfettered

a way of

existing, but I'm

celebrating

who I am,

my being

in everything & everyone

knows, I'm

complex, ever-

changing

persona, who is

into something

beyond what

other than

needed, for

what I was

has transformed & I was

created for

more than mere existence

Okay fiction by Kendra Namenil

Grass smells different in the morning than in the afternoon. Alexandra lay with her back to the sun and her feet flipped up, the slight flare to her jeans catching on the wind. Before her was a necklace and the warm, vaguely damp grass. She played the necklace over in her hands and closed her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to, but she’d said okay. She’d said okay and she’d kept saying that everything was okay. Alexandra closed her eyes and felt the familiar edge of silver under her fingertips. This was real. This was something she could grasp and hold and bite if she so directed. This moment was safe.

A large dog trundled over to investigate her as she lay mostly still, a well-chewed

green frisbee dangling from its mouth and moving as it adjusted its grip excitedly. Reaching up, Alexandra scratched the dog under its jowls and smiled at the waving tail as it marked the contented departure of the dog through the overgrown green grass. The field needed to be mowed, though it was not so bad. Four or six inches made very little difference. Seven inches, though, that was too much. He’d been so gentle. Alexandra plucked a blade of grass from the wet turf and looked at it. The light caught the green in interesting ways, refracting into an almost pink rainbow. Fascinating, she mused, how a thing who could look so different up close. Fresh grass was supposed to be green, not so close to iridescent that it couldn’t possibly be real. When she had cried, he’d stopped and asked if she was okay. She said yes, and he stopped. He stayed close for awhile, just holding her in place and making soft shushing sounds. When she had calmed a little, he’d kissed the top of her head and left her there. A yellow light in the kitchen had come on and she’d heard popping and shuffling. A few

minutes later, there had been pizza rolls and popcorn and her shirt were smoothed back in place. Above her, a bumblebee hummed as it moved from one clump of clover to another, drifting to the left as it chased the firmly planted but gently waving flowers. She smiled and looked up. Across the way, a soccer ball danced across the field, several girls in bright pink and white chasing it while a matching set of french braids and ponytails dressed in sky blue charged from the other direction. They would meet in the middle and send the ball toward one goal or another, depending on which foot made first and strongest contact. Her stomach hurt a little. Well, not her stomach. Lower. She’d tried eating macaroni and sourdough toast for breakfast, but the ache didn’t go away. It was like when she put in a tampon but different— both worse and not nearly so bad. Her phone, discarded a few feet away from where she’d abandoned it to think, chimed once. He’d informed her that he had tickets to the basketball game. She usually didn’t do sports and wasn’t certain what teams were playing. Probably no one she knew. But he’d invited her. There was nothing else to do tonight and people would talk if she didn’t go. Plus, he already had the tickets. Alexandra picked up the phone and dragged it across the turf as she propped herself up on an elbow. She gazed at the screen for a long, long time. Still there? He never used acronyms. They has only been texting for a week. Earlier today, she waited in the cafeteria for all the guys to leer and make their stupid comments and for all the girls to look jealous. She could have hated him, then. Instead, all was well. Katy had asked if she’d had fun yesterday, but there had been nothing suggestive about the way she’d asked, even if Alexandra knew she’d been a bit defensive. She gazed at the phone and considered writing yep, followed by the send key. A large minivan opened up, revealing an ice-chest of juice drinks and pre-packaged cheese. Probably a few apples. The sorts of innocuous things that meant a mom was dedicated to her daughter and to the team by extension. The kind of attention that was great now and would be stifling later. Alexandra wondered what it would be like to feel so stifled. She’d be just as unable to talk about last night if she was, she mused, though for entirely different reasons.

He had stopped well before. He had… and now he wanted to watch the game with her. And he hadn’t told a soul. And he had an extra ticket if she wanted to bring a friend. A third wheel. And it hadn’t felt as good as the movies said. And the popcorn had gotten stuck in her teeth and the blankets had been wet after. The phone chimed again and Alexandra realized she’d been staring at the bee for a long time now. Her skin might even be a little bit burned. It felt nice, and maybe, when it peeled, she’d be clean again. Are we good? Another chime. Say something. I’m getting worried. She rolled over and tossed the phone in the air. It came down to the side and she extended her hand to catch it. Another toss. Another catch. Another toss. This time she caught it with her left hand. The tosses were growing wild. She tossed it more gently and it landed between her shoulder and her head, a little away from her neck. Fishing for it awkwardly, she sat up and watched the large golden-yellow dog lope toward where the frisbee had hit the grass. The dog scratched at it, trying to get an edge so it would flip up and he could lift it. Again, the phone chimed. We okay? That word again. She hated it. She hated that she’d said it. She hated that she’d kept saying it. She hated that he’d stopped and she hated that he cared so much it hurt to look at him. She hated it and she hated him. Look, I didn’t know. There are things I would have done. We don’t have to do that again. Ever, if that’s what you want. I like and respect you enough to want to be your friend, anyway. A long text, this time. She could picture him with his finger-length hair and his dark blue eyes and his chestnut skin and his high cheeks and beautiful, kissable lips. His smell lingered on her shirt. She hadn’t washed that, yet. Maybe that was the problem. He’d looked so concerned, so worried that it had seemed his pain and not a reflection of her own when his gaze had reached her eyes. She watched one of the pale blue shirts shoulder-check one of the pink and white shirts. The other girl flew. Although it’s obvious she wasn’t hurt, she played up her skinned knee as the ref blew the whistle and friend from the sidelines helped her walk from the field.

How he must be panicking, now. Alexandra knew that she was one of the pretty and smart girls. Not the queen bee and not one of the wasps that defended her, but popular enough to be an Oscar-winning victim. She’d not meant to say everything was fine. She’d not meant to do a lot of things, least of all follow the kid back to his house with the busted front lock and the thousands of carpet-stains. Once it was happening, she’d not meant to cry. Once she’d stopped crying, she’d not meant to feel worthless. Once he’d wrapped his arms around her, she’d not meant to feel like she’d hurt him. Another chime. She held her phone up and squinted against the brightness of the sun. Do you respect me enough to be honest? Ugh. Why wasn’t he just leaving her alone? She texted back the word Busy and tossed the phone a little ways off in the grass, laying back down again. Her skin felt tight, as if it really were burned. Didn’t matter. The heat was nice. She closed her eyes. Off in the field, the girls high-five each other in the lineup. There would be pizza and soda tonight and juice boxes in the here and now. Even the losers had grins on their faces. Everyone was a winner. The dog’s excited footfall as it trotted after its frisbee again mixed with the music of another lazy bee. Alexandra’s phone dinged then chimed. Rolling over, she picked up the device, noting her mom’s picture in the corner. Working late. Leftovers in the fridge. Okay? Gave the tickets away. See you tomorrow in class. Okay? Well, there was that word again. She hated herself for saying it then and she hated herself for writing it now. There was no other phrase to use, though. At home, she would heat up leftover sloppy joe mix in the microwave and put it on fresh buns from the toaster onto a plate. She could, if she wanted, make something fresh and original before slaving over the dishes. She might even have enough petty cash to go out, or even call in sick and take some time away. These were things she theoretically could do, though she knew she would not. Instead, she gave the only answer that was acceptable. She gave the only answer she could. She looked at her mom’s text and flipped to the other. On both, she wrote the same. Okay

Soul Shout: A Poetic Release of The New Black Slave poetry by R. Shawntez Jackson

My soul is screaming And I’m acting as if I can’t feel me in distress I’ve gotta tattletale on me A Fountain of healing runs through me But it’s secret. And secrets kill. I’ve gotta tattletale on me now – In order to survive so someone else can survive the shame. My little Black Gay church boy life still in formation got to close to the sun and got burned I was “this close” to being the black gay man I wanted to be When I got the news flash “You can’t escape being a statistic no matter how fast you run.” Three obscure letters and a + sign Damn! My joy & dreams halted like a movie directed by a pedophile air got thin feelings left and my mind went dark So I started rehearsing death See, gay boys are dramatic about everything, even death

I did this grand thing – just stuck, not answering my phone, lying on the floor, not eating, not wanting to breathe... It didn’t work! My grandmamma is a praying woman. I tried to sex it away, Hunting a nutt hard enough to heave the depression out Until a sweet little so and so with good ass pulled a bait and switch “That wasn’t weed in that pipe!” And I started floating I wouldn’t stay grounded for nothing It made the presence of the pain seem a continent away I was jus drifting, “I got lifted oh, I get lifted Yeah!” toward an early all access pearly gate pass As a crackhead? But I wanted my heart to explode like a nuke ‘cause I was too tired of living with who no one would love now, me as I was. But I told you My mamma & grandmamma can pray. Awwe shit, two or three gathered together… for ten years I floated light as a feather and stiff as a board until the light of the Universe showed me another possibility, a diamond like brilliance deeper than the aching could burrow But some things take longer to shake loose in transition, Reinvention doesn’t happen overnight, and confidence doesn’t always represent a self-secure soul so I battle until I get there to keep my feet on the ground choosing to wage war on myself

some battles I win some battles I lose but I don’t stop fighting and now I’ve learned to take the aftershocks away from the earthquake I’m tattle telling on my own self – kicking my own ass to castrate the shame, To stand naked in the coliseum To be the African David, a symbol of God’s perfection And anoint someone’s soul with an oil of self-forgiveness To release the notions of okay and alright and BE GREATFUL for what exists when the soul isn’t shouting from the pain of not being heard and the neglect of not speaking the end of the thing into existence. ASHÉ

Soul Food Request poetry by R. Shawntez Jackson

Cook with me making the simmer slow Stirring the triumphant recipe Made of historic Black love. Cook with me On a community stove Sharing the inception the aroma the herbs the list the language the portions the motions/ the lingering the attentions. Collar-bones and Green Beans Biscuits, Cornbread and CAKES Sock-it-to-me, then leave me on velvet floors Idus by the meet in the middle. We roasting and basting and marinating In good juice - that POT liquor fatback good-good that can cure any broken heart. Cook with me

and let's make somebody slap they mamma from the divine product of partnership and communion, communications and the factors of the feast. Cook with more than just heat, Take off the top and let's boil over the containment and our containers. Soul Food! Cook with me In your own way Making more than a meal outta our passions.

Whispers poetry by R. Shawntez Jackson your words drop into my spirit like raindrops falling into my inner ear hard, I can feel you closer than breath itself reminding wind over my heart like truth serum of who I am at my best. I can't help but smile from the warmth of your visit. Transcendence in hindsight is glorious.

Body Heat fiction by Katrina Benedicto

Her lolo chose to stop dialysis today. Until then he’s been too cold cause all his blood’s in tubes. Now he’s warmer, dying faster. Tonight, she is ectothermic. Yaniel had heat. Yaniel with lashes like a billy goat marionette. He pulls her past the heads doing lines and the swaying drunks and into the bathroom. When the lock clicks “occupied” her hand reaches for the fleshy bit behind her armpit. It stings. It was the secret, special place Ma pinched when she was little whenever she tried to wriggle out of embracing or kissing a relative in family parties. After every gathering, Ma’d bitch on the drive home about having a disrespectful daughter. But he’d hug me too long I don’t wanna kiss their cheek I don’t like it Ma’d breathe so hot that the car windows would fog up. “I can’t feel,” she said, gnawing her bottom lip, working her teeth with manic speed. “Can you feel?” she bites his lips but he winces and blinks hard, making his goat lashes watery. She goes on, feeling for skin, pushing him against the wall, holding his wrists up so that she can press her nipples against his cold palms. The only sensation she felt was the sting behind her armpit, and it was growing, wrapping around her like a hot metal equator under her shirt. Yaniel gags like he’s trying to keep down vomit as she cups his limp dick. “Sorrysaw reesarry,” he says. “I’m sorry.” She zips him up, careful not to snag his foreskin. The tendrils of her nerves surface to her face again. She can taste blood from her biting, maybe even Yaniel’s.

Then, the sharp pain behind her arm flattens to the dull thrum of a bruise. It spreads. She becomes the bruise. It feels identical to the first time she felt it. It was her lolo’s sixty-fifth birthday. She sits on his lap, hooks her legs over his bony knees. Everyone in the living room stares at her. The corduroy of his pants hasn’t even imprinted the red ridges on the skin of her underthigh before he shoves her off. “You’re eleven. You can’t do that no more,” her lolo mutters into her ear, “we talked about this.” They never had.

Fat Femmes, Rise Up!: Interview with Sen M. Sen M. is an artist & activist based in Oakland, California. Oakland is Ohlone Land This interview as conducted May 2018. As of August 2020 Sen M. no longer identifies as a femme. London Pinkney: How are you?

Sen M.I’m good, I’m good. I’m happy tp do this with you. And I’m happy to have it as a nice break from my day.

LP: Great. So, for the people, tell me a little about yourself.

SM: Ok— my name is Yesenia, but I usually go by Sen. My artist name is Queen Sen Sen. My pronouns are they/she. Twenty-three years old. Student here at SF State. I’m studying Africana Studies and hoping this is my last semester, or at least last year here. LP: I hope you make it! You’re an amazing student and brilliant person, from everything I’ve witness since I’ve met you.

SM: Thank you, thank you! But I’m an artist, a visual artist, a poet. I’m an artivist. An activist, I guess. And a nonconforming person.

LP: So you called yourself an artivist—how would you define that?

SM: So I define artivist as someone who uses their art and their art platforms for activist issues. They start the conversation or make a statement about certain political issues that are going on. Me particularly, I feel like a lot of my political statements I

make through art center around fat positivity, around fat bodies, around transgender and nonconforming bodies. I also focus a lot of my art on justice for Black transgender women and for Black women, as well. I strongly believe in paying Black femmes. All the time. For everything!

LP: Link up those PayPal accounts!

SM: Right, right!

LP: No, I feel you. I was actually going to mention that what I love about your art is the voluptuousness of all the figures you paint. The vibrant colors. It’s very much a celebration. Do you critically think about how you’re going to portray these figures?

SM: Always. I love using bright colors. I love celebration. I love celebrating fat bodies. And I feel like fat bodies are not celebrated enough. And if they are, they are limited to which and who can celebrate their body. And how. You know, that is something I’ve always been concerned by, especially when having a fat body and struggling with that. Now I’ve grown up and I love my body and I can express and myself. So I think It’s really important because we see an increase of fat positivity on social media—if you look for it. I think a lot of my concerns are who are celebrating it and why. And some of the things I haven’t noticed in creating my art is that I want to be noticed as a fat person creating fat art. And breaking the narrative that there are thin-bodied artist who are creating voluminous bodies and profiting from that, while never having to deal with the stigma of being unhealthy or being obese or not knowing how to work out correctly at the gym or living with the stigma that you are easier to sleep with just because you have a more voluptuous body that society has not created space for. So for me and my art, whenever I’m thinking about what art I should create I think about the celebration of fat bodies as a fat person.

LP: That’s really great because it’s so important in this day and age to have the people who are being affect speak for themselves.

SM: Yeah, I think it’s super important. And this goes for everyone. We can all agree that we want our own voice. We want to lift our own voices and not have someone else speak on the microphone for us. And so it’s very powerful for me when I am able to connect with other fat bodies—beautiful fat bodies—that feel touched though my art and express how it has helped them through their own self-love, which is something I found a lot of solace in when I began creating art. The healing work is important. Like how am I going to create this waist? No, I’m not going to use a thin line. Lemme get some waves in here, lemme get some curves in it. And that has been super healing for me because when I look in the mirror I don’t think about the weight I have to lose. I standing there like ‘ Look at all this beautiful skin! Look at all this meat on my body! I have so much more to hug and enjoy!’ So it’s definitely a beautiful thing to share my art as a celebration. That’s something art should be—a celebration of something. It should be a celebration of what you want to share with another person. As artist we learn our art is ourselves. And we become our own muses. And then we begin to celebrate ourselves. And the art becomes more bold and beautiful.

LP: Oh my goodness. When did you start on this journey? Because I definitely relate o your art as a curvier woman and as a Black woman. It’s difficult dealing with body image: am I too sexy? Am I sexy enough for a partner to find me attractive? When did you first become cognizant of the powers that be and the way they affect larger Black femmes and Black women?

SM: I noticed it at a young age. And when I create art, I think about what my younger self wants and needs. So searching within myself I’m like, ‘ I know you’re in there, where are you? Where are you hiding? I need to talk real quick! I need some inspiration, girl. Come out!’ And I realized all these thing I was angry about, being bulled for my body, not getting the support I was from family and friends and not being accepted by society

really pushed me to create art for myself. So when I started drawing, I drew body figures. And now I receive support from my are community who push me to share my work. I feel so emotional and psychically liberated now that I love myself I don’t care if toxic masculinity and other hate is around the corner. Its been a very beautiful process for me to get here and be comfortable with sharing my work. I’m not longer silent. I’m here. And I’m going to be seen. I can’t hide all this!

LP: Oh, y’all finna see this!

SM: What am I gonna hide it behind? I gotta bless the children with all of this!

LP: That’s so great! You mentioned your artist community. And I’ve seen a lot posts about your community on Instagram. So you’re all based in Oakland, and I don’t want to say your group is strictly transgender-centric, but you’re all gender-nonconforming, yes?

SM: It’s a group pf friends of mine. And we support one another’s art. And the people who have encouraged me are people who have shown me a new way to love. They have influence a lot of my art. It is very powerful to have people to support you no matter what. And they have taught me the beauty of being vulnerable. And they are all my queer and gender-nonconforming people who love me unconditionally and inspire me to keep going. It was actually my best friend Devin, who was a student at SFSU, who introduced me to linocut. We used to have art dates every month where we would create art while drinking wine.

LP: That’s the only way you can do art.

WHERE THE ART GOES

QSS: Right, right! And so we would test techies with each other. And it’s funny because when you’re doing linocut carvings you’re dealing with sharp knives and cork. So when I first did it I ended up cutting myself and I was like ‘Ow!’ And it was probably within the first five minutes of starting. I just ended up pouring myself another glass of wine and I kept going. And that became the birth of me falling in love with block prints and linocuts. I understood that there is laughter behind that small pain. There is healing after that small pain. And that’s what I learn from my community and art. I am heavily grateful to have both in my life.

LP: With self-love and community a person can do anything.

SM: Exactly.

LP: So, have you done work with other mediums before?

SM: Prior to learning linocut, I was very familiar to acrylic, pencil and pen drawings. This year I’m really focused on digital art. Shout out to my art community—Trin. They gave me a Digital drawing pad for free. That has been super fun for me to explore. This has taken my art to the next level.

LP: No more accidentally cutting yourself anymore, huh?

SM: I’m safe now!

LP: That’s all we want, Sen! And going back to artivism—I think that’s such a unique term. Artists role in activism is still so unappreciated. Now that you got the digital pad, where do you see your artisivism going from here? Are you still focused on the same issues, or does this allow you to branch out?

SM: I’m still focused on fighting against fat-phobia, fighting against anti-Blackness, misogyny. But right now, want to form a portfolio that shows I am giving life to people who do not feel heard in their everyday life. I think it’s so important to celebrate one another right now. We need to celebrate Black femmes. And I want to use my art as a platform that says ‘Yeah, everything is fucked up right now, but we know someone who loves us. We know someone who loves us. Hella hard.’ And that small reminder can make a huge difference.

LP: And as you mentioned at the beginning of the interview, you think it’s important to pay Black femmes. How can we go about supporting them? As a closing message—how can we pay them?

SM: Find their Venmo, PayPal. If you want a DJ, performers, or artist hire them. I can name a few in the Bay Area: Lil Miss Bikini Bottom—who is Devia Spain— The Chubby Goddess, Tasiana. There’s Jemini. You can check my page. Most of my followers are Black femmes.

LP: Groovy! Thank you so much, Sen. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. You are an amazing artist.

SM: You’re amazing, too!

LP: See, this is Black people supporting Black people. Black women supporting Black femmes!

SM: Always!Â

Sen M. is an anxious, fat, multidimensional, non binary babe. Artist.Â For more of their work follow them @sencreatesart on Instagram. To purchase their work visit artbyqueensensen.bigcartel.com.

CONTRIBUTORS KATRINA BENEDICTO tells stories to cultivate her own voice and to find solidarity. Writing and reading fiction helps her understand the normalized inhumanity in the world that she strives to resist. She lives in San Francisco. MARIA BELAYADI is a writer. In 2019 she earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her work centers around reframing the political and social identities of the communities she holds dear.

KAYT CHRISTENSEN is a 22 year old writer from sunny Southern California, though her work won’t always leave you feeling all sunshine and rainbows. When she isn’t reading and writing, you can find her burning candles, binge watching reality TV, and drinking wine. She has a book of poetry out titled Inevitable Ignition, and you can find her on Twitter and Instagram via the handle @kaytchristensen. MAX KENNEDY is a recent graduate of SFSU’s Creative Writing department. He has been published in a few print and online magazines, such as Xpress Magazine, As Of Late, and Society of Sound Magazine. Since moving back to Los Angeles, he has begun working in the beauty industry at a PR agency. He also loves figs! SHIRLEY JONES-LUKE is a poet and a writer. Ms. Luke lives in Boston, Mass. Shirley has an MFA from Emerson College.

Her work focuses on trauma. She has participated at

workshops at Breadloaf, VONA and Tin House. Shirley is currently working on a manuscript of her poems. SAMMIE KIM is a fourth year undergrad at San Francisco State University. She enjoys illustrating, reading, and plant-care. She has been published in Seen and Heard and Transfer.

ISAAK LUSIC is a graduate of California State Long Beach with a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature: his biggest accomplishment so far in his life. Whether reading or writing poetry, he is a Romantic in all the definitions and he hopes to find peace in this world full of chaos. His preferred drink is one shared with colleagues, while his favorite activities include reading, writing, and drinking (in no particular order). KENDRA NAMEDNIL was born in the heart of coastal Humboldt County, California, amid starving artists, breathtaking vistas, and humidity that rarely dropped below eighty-five percent. She has two younger brothers, a mother who works both with special needs children and as a sign language instructor, and a father who works year-round for Cal fire. She grew up loving nature and listening quietly to the stories unfolding around her. Presently, she lives with her long-time love in San Francisco and tutors English at San Francisco State University. Her fantasy novel Borehole Bazar was recently published.

TREVAUGHN MALIK ROACH-CARTER is a writer born and raised in Modesto, California. He attended San Francisco State University, obtaining a B.A. in Creative Writing with a minor in Education. He is obtaining a Master of Fine Arts in Creative writing. An excerpt of his short story “Where the Heart is” is published in Ramblr Literary Magazine, winning runner-up for the Ramblr Fiction award. His poem “Entitled” is published in Tayo Literary Magazine’s special issue: SOFT.

HUNTER THOMAS is a writer, who lives, works, and plays in San Francisco. He holds a BA from SFSU and currently works with City Lights Publishers. His words attempt to interrogate memory, technology, mass consumption, and living in the big flat now. He also co-runs an ever-evolving reading series called Parallel. He sincerely hopes you’re having a wonderful day.

The Ana Issue #1

Articles inside

Turtles & Trees | Issak Lusic