BETWEEN THE LINES: Identity and Belonging 2021 Anthology by International Writing Program

Between the lines 2021

TA B L E O F Foreword Adele

Where’s Green Gone

Andrew B.

Thoughts Extended: Here They Grow Again

Ayezah

Ayman

Bailey

Andrew K.

Aneesah

Four Translations

Privledge is...

Anna

Making Peace

Anuva

streamofconsciousness

Dolly

Goodbye

Falling

Brianna

Caeleigh

Charlotte

Claire

neveah’s painting

Untitled

Sylvia, Tennessee

get. it. together.

CONTENTS 34 36

Grace

Like a Lover

Ife

The Small Necked Gift

Joanna

Kaden

Subway Station

Pieces of Writing

Kathryn

Luke

the glenview guidelines (for your average white kid)

Natalia

Shue Ying Lauren

Sophia

Insurmountable

Victory

Faculty & Staff Bios

Fruit to bear

To Farm Life

Ocean’s Call

Seasons Change, But People Don’t

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ach year, since its inception in 2008, Between the Lines (BTL) has pursued innovation and growth. This year’s program is possible because of generous support and funding from the Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art’s (DDFIA) Building Bridges Program, and the dedication of individuals and organizations that support the program’s mission: Christopher Merrill, International Writing Program (IWP) director; and all the staff of the IWP at the University of Iowa; Zeyba Rahman, senior program officer for the DDFIA Building Bridges Program; Firdaus Arastu, ReThink Media; BTL faculty: José Olivarez and Poupeh Missaghi; BTL summer assistant Sarah Adler; BTL anthology designer Georgie Fehringer; IWP editor Nataša Ďurovičová; BTL program assistant Caitlin Plathe; and BTL program coordinator Alisa Weinstein. We also give our thanks to BTL’s special seminar instructors and guests: Marwa Helal, Kiki Petrosino, Lauren Haldeman, Joumana Altallal, Razi Jafri, Justin Feltman, Henry Lien, Caroline Meek; BTL alumni Charlie Andrés (USA, BTL ’18) and Fatima Al Jarman (UAE, BTL’18); Dr. Camea Davis, Urban Word Youth Poet Laureate Network director; Alexandra Huynh (2021 National Youth Poet Laureate), Serena Yang (2021 Northeast Regional Youth Poet Laureate), Faye Harrison (2021 Midwest Regional Youth Poet Laureate), Meera Dasgupta (2020 National Youth Poet Laureate); Jan Weissmiller, Karen Nicoletti, Kathleen Johnson, Sallie Fullerton of Prairie Lights Bookstore; and finally, to all the participants of Between the Lines for making this program so extraordinary.

FOREWORD “Be resurrected, glistening in the story of you. / Be shining.” - Eve L. Ewing from Shea Butter Manifesto In 2021, for the first time in more than a decade the Between the Lines (BTL) program has been operating, we opened the application process with the announcement that it was going virtual. Although we felt justified by the outstanding creative collaborations that grew out of the preceding year’s virtual run, offered at the last minute to that newly pandemic-stricken cohort, last year’s disappointment of not being able to meet in person weighed heavily from the start, and, truth be told, never quite left us. Summer 2021 would instead be a chance to set aside the disappointment and refine our virtual toolkit: in 2021, the watchword was, let’s make virtual a virtue! Summer youth programming has been an integral part of the International Writing Program (IWP) since 2008. With the support of the Building Bridges Program funded by the Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art (DDFIA), IWP’s summer program BTL: Identity and Belonging has since 2018 been building on IWP’s core mission of global cultural outreach--but expanding it beyond geopolitics into the diverse cultural realms within the United States itself. Through creative writing with young people from a variety of cultural backgrounds, BTL joins the Building Bridges program in their mission “to support national efforts, working with U.S. Muslims, to increase mutual understanding and well-being among diverse populations for the benefit of building stronger, inclusive communities.”

On June 19 th , 2021, a select group of 23 talented young American writers, from a variety of backgrounds, signed in to our platform from their bedrooms in twenty cities in 11 US states, but also with two doing so from Dhaka, Bangladesh--surely one notable benefit of being online. As we’d hoped, for this cohort being on-line was simply the accepted, natural medium of the program. And so, they set the bar high with their expectations, ready to work hard to become better writers. They wanted to talk and listen and learn––about “the complexities of identities from a lot of different perspectives.” In short, they wanted “to be transformed.” Their main guides were going to be the two principal instructors, Poupeh Missaghi and José Olivarez. Through their artful teaching and pedagogic strategies, they showed our students ways to write in individual voices even while reflecting (on) their personal and collective histories. Challenged to think critically about social, political, and cultural structures, the students’ perspectives were broadened by studying the creative work of authors, artists, and poets such as Marwa Helal, Noor Hindi, Liana Aghajanian, Khashayar Mohammadi, Sarah Rahbar, Ghinwa Jawhari, Tish Benson, Gertrude Stein, Danez Smith, Morgan Parker, and Ocean Vuong. Imaginative activities designed to break the ice

bent the virtual residency toward becoming “almost real,” ranging as they did from orientation day bingo to chats with virtual “roommates” to recording bedtime story podcasts. Reflections on language, emotion, art, lyricism, beauty, rawness, and joy followed from playful writing prompts, and snaps in the chat. Discussions of marginalization and trauma followed poems and essays read aloud, followed warm-up free writes, followed details about home cultures. Reading and writing together, vulnerabilities exposed, inspired more sharing and created more trust between teachers and peers. The group built connections and friendships—unmuting, absorbing, relating, and rewriting, sharing moments of truth and delight. In addition to the daily writing workshops and literature classes, the students were invited to special seminar sessions: they could explore where their identity lives inside of a poem with poet Marwa Helal, and discover erasure poems with Kiki Petrosino through her book, White Blood: A Lyric of Virginia. They created digital stories inspired by the multimedia work of Lauren Haldeman, and examined visual and poetic documentary forms with Joumana Altallal and Razi Jafri. Their zine creations strengthened their graphic dimensions with alea adigweme, and they merged ideas to create fantastical story concepts with Henry Lien. They also envisioned ways to build creative

communities “Beyond BTL” with Caroline Meek and program alumni. Each second of our two weeks together was spent somewhere between the real and imaginary. And then there was Day 7––the Open Mic event, full of amazing energy and livestreamed from Zoom to the IWP Facebook page: “Listening to everyone, seeing how much work they’d put in it, how much passion they have, the encouragement in the chat.” “YALL DID AMAZINGGGGGG and are so talented.” “I love creating art with you all.” That they had now grown together to the point of regretting that they were not physically together --well, ultimately this was precisely the proof that what we had built together transcended our virtual walls. What we hope this Between the Lines: Identity and Belonging 2021 anthology accomplishes is to forever bind together the personalities, the words, and the energies of these talented young people—and perhaps also to serve as a kind of roadmap for the fantasy road trip to all the real spaces they now live in. Click on the BTL playlist for the soundtrack the students assembled to accompany them on this imagined tour.

Alisa Weinstein, IWP Youth Programs Coordinator Caitlin Plathe, Between the Lines Program Assistant

Adele

Washington WHERE’S GREEN GONE 8

HERE’S GREEN GONE? With the green bin stained in the winter sun, still hot from friction of rubber and deer-gaze fixed on the drying laundry, you have brought back a small bird from the void, feathers speckled and loose in the solar winds, grease stains the bricks and the axe falls on the maple with a hollow grunt, sparks to the grassroots red in the earth packed cold-hard under a meter of snow so pale it steals your breath, sister, and twists it into a rag of onion-husks in the shape of a young girl, hung in the blue iron basket over the cellar stairs, look into the cells and see no color but the absence of green, so where’s green gone? A man with a tattoo of Jesus and a plastic lanyard says green was never there in the first place, and maybe it wasn’t, maybe it flew south with the geese along the river and never came back, buried in rancid hare-fur with horseflies swarming its vegetative bulk, maybe it’s been carted off to a gravel-and-brambles swath of rusted rails in a shipping container decorated with block letters reading est-ce votre échantillon ? I’d always imagined you’d write me a letter someday, paper yellowing and violet-scented, and I could stuff it in a coat pocket and let it taste the wind again, douse it in salt, take it to a music fest, feed it to a crow, and then I’d write you a letter I’d never send and say it got stuck in the pine-pitch and was taken over by moths, and I’d feel your eyes fixed on the green water under the docks strung with old chains and barnacles, your sight burning the outline of a whale into the tarred wood of the pier, and maybe some lichen will grow there someday, or some small, nameless flowers, and something will take root on a mountain far away, a thin blade of animal life shearing through the ash and rubble.

Thoughts: Extended: Here They Grow Again

Andrew B. 10

Utah

Last year, when the lockdown started, one of the first things my family did was buy dozens of tiny cereal boxes. I will never forget looking at them for the first time and suddenly feeling the weight of what was happening to the world all at once. Tony the Tiger is my zeitgeist.

If I were to leave the planet tomorrow, I would bring a single pear filled with dreams, or a drop of rainwater caught off of sweet grass, or a poetic device!

2 On the day of liberation, I will wake up and see that Twitter has gone silent. I will make microwave chicken for breakfast, and watch the news. “The news,” they say, “is that we did it!” and Al Roker will tap dance. I will laugh and cry with my family, and I will text all of my friends, “we did it XD” I will say, “Liberation feels pretty cool.”

3 Is it a small apple or a regular-sized nectarine? I cannot tell. Content to perch upon my desk, and cold to the touch. It stares at me wanting nothing. Instead of looking out of place, surrounded by a single earbud, the book “300 Arguments” by Sarah Manguso, a salt lamp, and a bottle of Melatonin, it looks as if it belongs. Another trophy in a very specific and strange collection.

4 The arguments I have seen against art tend to forget they are written.

5 I am in love with teenage impulses, but it’s a long distance relationship.

6 One day future anthropologists will find the only remaining bit of culture from the 21st century to be a poem written by a middle schooler named Jacob Benning titled: “My love for you is tru-moo.”

Or something sentimental rather than convenient or materialistic. An object that I never really paid attention to before leaving home. But one that would be immediately recognizable and grab my well-deserved attention if I were to see it out of its own context. More specifically, a piece of printer paper I’m just noticing now, containing very urgent words written by my little brother “Baby Ducklings are ADORABLE!!”

8 I am trapped between two worlds, my body stretching out across the chapels where I was born and the school where I was raised.

9 I was there from the start when you were born. I saw you learn and grow and feel happy and feel sad and learn that magic eight balls don’t really tell the future, then choose to keep believing anyway. I am your theological outrage. I was with you when you saw under the floorboards of the chapels and realized they were filled with bodies. I am your responsibility and empathy and worries about what comes next. I am your oldest friend and your greatest enemy. I am the source of every good idea you’ve ever had. I am the final slice of (corporation’s) pizza in the fridge and the Marxist who just edited your sentence to remove capitalist endorsement. I am your art. I am your creativity. I am your joy and pain. I am the voice in your head that makes you wonder if it has all been done before. I am you and your God and your dying breath. Or maybe you are just going insane looking at an ink cartridge.

After Xu Zhimo NAME=GOODBYE Goodbye to the willows, goodbye to the waves, goodbye to the dream where we loaded up the boat with starlight and rowed through the duckweed beyond the elms and into the great Western sky. 康=CAM Equals a wish for health, equals an English river, equals a family name Twenty years ago we said goodbye to our native river. It wasn’t English, but Be CAM, it had said. So we paddled past the river and into the ocean (we were traveling East) and we drank our stars like a promise (we were heading to America). 桥=BRIDGE We needed a bridge to cross to cross continents. It took all the sticks of our surnames—we built a bridge out of brushstrokes. We felt nauseous or perhaps just homesick, our stomachs too full on stars stars which trickled onto our hands and back into the sky so the goodbye could fall out of our lips. 康桥=CAMBRIDGE The dreams come back at night. Sometimes we floated in a bottle. Other times we flew like birds. This time we crossed the bridge to return. It had been so very long, and we wanted to see our river. Cambridge. Cambridge. Cambridge. 康桥.康桥. 康桥.康桥. 康桥.康桥. 我们回到了那条河。可是它已经忘掉了我们。

Andrew K. Maryland

FOUR TRANSLATIONS 13

Aneesah

New Jersey

PRIVILEGE IS... And the headline read “U.S. Capitol Riot” in the description, there was a word that jumped off of the page and into my mouth when I realized the word had been too painful to swallow, it crawled down my throat anyway playing hopscotch in my stomach until I was finally able to disgorge it from my system there before me was the word protestors not thugs, criminals, or even rioters but protestors someone please hand me some scrabble letters so I can rearrange protesters into privilege You see, privilege is not knowing what it’s like to have an adrenaline rush when you hear sirens privilege is your parents telling you to come home before dark because they don’t want you out late, not because theywant to be able to hear your voice again privilege is being able to complement the word parent with an “s” I hope this isn’t easy to digest Privilege is not being treated differently because you have an actual cultural background and yes, I said actual cultural background emphasis on the word actual hold on let me rewind, slow down, and codeswitch before I become the next “angry black woman” on your social media feed who actually isn’t angry but honest

she’s blunt real genuine fed up with the world playing the quiet game because the winner is always the one who stays silent, right Privilege is getting to sleep at night and not having to worry about the interruption of death by the men in blue privilege is having a non-functioning brake light and receiving assistance but for those of us who aren’t so privileged that non-functioning brake light is a one-way ticket to the grave privilege is getting to go outside and play with a toy gun because they’re only pretend right Privilege is having the opportunity to walk outside with whatever type of clothing you choose and not being identified as sketchy later to be identified as dead privilege is telling your mother you’re going to the store to buy a snack and that you’ll be back but for those of us who aren’t so privileged, that is nothing but another broken promise Privilege is being put on death row for a crime you actually committed and no, I do not support the death penalty privilege is not having to include disclaimers Privilege is seldom attending funerals because there aren’t dead bodies dropping in your community like flies privileged is saying “I can’t breathe” and having someone listen Privilege is not having to remember a never-ending list of individuals on the list titled “Say Their Names” Privilege is disrespecting a nation and being called a protestor but for those of us who aren’t so privileged who protested peacefully against injustice we’re thugs rioters criminals disturbances to the peace another dead body to join our ancestors in the ground You know I could never quite spell the world privilege not because I’m ignorant, but because the words are structured into a concept I can’t identify with Ladies and gentlemen, privilege is getting to take everything I just said and forget it in a matter of minutes because none of what I said fits into your reality but for those of us who aren’t so privileged, we don’t have that liberty

Texas

A n n a

MAKING PEACE i. the house is differeNt-- birds are mOving into the chimNey, a family whole that loves Enough to riSk everything. They break the silence draped over every doorway. ii. a long time ago, home was looking over at my mother and her watery eyes, loVing her for all that she searches for, and feeling her smile run over my heart, cultIVated and carEful to not look too deep. the snowglobe she holds is faR from intact, but it has been lost so long. and she holds it like i meant to find it today, looks at me and at the snowglobe and back at mE again, her tears that foreshadow something neither of us are ready for. iii. home followS us, Everywhere we neeD to go. iv. using harsh Verbal discipline with your child found to be harmful. somehow i Am still Loveless, despite beautiful Efforts and hands brushing away tears. my heart is full and i have no Regrets, but the fence outside my window is rotting from all of the storms we’ve had this month. the shield above my head is trEmbling. vi. lately, home is not the people you’re with or where you take them. it’s making sure you love them in a way they know how to feel in their bones, and showing yourself compassion before anyone else can take it away, and lightning in a wine glass, and card games before midnight, and rediscovery of the person you were before. home is accessible, exactly the way you like it. vii. it is okay to be too quiet. viii. slowly slowly slowly the feeling in your hands is coming back and you know that you feel loVe but the world is reminding you how many times you can feel it in a day and quickly quickly quickly you’re embracing the silence because your head Is full and wait it’s not august anymore and someone Tells you there are goosebumps on your arms but that’s okay because you’re steadying yourself so you don’t have to be so warm all of the time and lately lately lately you stare at your favorite photographs and think, by the grace of my god i will make sure i Am safe today ix. have fun. be safe, but have fun. x. and his grin tells me that those can coexist, and his knuckles white on the steering wheel watching me walk away tell me that i shouldn’t forget it. or all of his questions that precede it under the music, are you prepared, are you ready, where is your phone, are you sure about this, who’s going, what time, how late, do you need a ride, i care about you too much to stop you but i am far too afraid to let you go it alone. xi. your voice is what i remember when i’m cold and alone, what i miss when i’m dizzy under glowing lights. the mirror in the bathroom of somebody’s house reminds me how much i look like you. i want to feel because you taught me how, and nobody Else is able to make me feel So much, and we’re finally passing forward, Together.

STREAMO FC

CIOUSNESS NS

u An

Bang desh la

i had a dream in which Beauty was the Beast. we were locked in a castle with too many staircases and someone kept trying to set us on fire. or maybe it was a room, just one, with the walls caved in: a ballroom. we danced in the ruins. someone kept trying to set us on fire.

f ickle flickering candlelight casts big shadows i don’t like to be touched. not since that night in the marketplace and r andom grabbing hands. now i see demons in everyone’s e yes.

the world is ending. stop. listen. that is the sound of something breaking. shhh. let the crows sing. but don’t feel it loudly. everyone pretends death isn’t an inevitability.

d ense cities, crooked skylines & streets; home is e asy to lose. the a ir here will kill you. t hey make it abroad and send it h ere for free

(have you noticed yet that we don’t belong here? now that i’ve seen it i can’t stop)

soft spots. i have too many. gaps in my armour. there’s one in particular that scares me: that space that opens up in my chest when you ask me how my day’s been. it’s dangerous. that smile and the way it makes my defenses slip. if you reached a little further you could steal my heart. i wouldn’t even notice. (but now that i’ve seen it i can’t stop. everywhere is full of you)

g entle things tender things tense in my hands, turn sharp u nbidden. an old question a nswered: that’s why they call it falling. r ose petals torn off (they love me/they love me not), thorns in thin skin; d on’t tell me this doesn’t hurt

morning rainbows through the windows prism say don’t forget that we don’t belong here. be•long. it won’t be long. this place wasn’t made for us to stay. i miss it already.

b ut this pen is the one i signed your birthday card with. e ndings aren’t permanent, we decided together. l eaves on my house plants, your favourite colour. leave o n a day i hope we won’t remember. n o one nothing nowhere never g uesses what i’m thinking the way you do

10.

what am i thinking i don’t i don’t know

11.

this train wreck of thought stream of consciousness tangled string of consciousness why does it lead back to you

12.

this started with a dream, didn’t it? i think you were in it

Dolly shrouded in lace and pretty things bounded by baby pinks and innocent dreams soft kisses from soft lips, stained

by strawberry-rhubarb pies and pickled ginger

cloud, not with those holy, salt-infested tears,

you are lost

you apart, sinewy flesh molded to His

watch yourself shrinking, shriveling, wither under His eyes, dolly feel your baby pinks bleed red and wide eyes but with pure, unadulterated terror. let His gaze collapse each of your synapses let Him burst your blood vessels and arteries let Him singe each of your nerve endings until carcass. Carcass Carcass? His eyes will always put you together and tear infantilized perfection. let yourself die, time after time

doh-lee.

Ayezah

Washington 21

the music rushed in as i stared at the view from halfway down.

GOODBYE

enough of this jungle of concrete, i do not like to see the rain on gulshan’s streets. crowded tea stalls- corrupt gazes and those nasty smirks. meatless bones piled on clots of gravy, resting on a tiny purple plate. my favourite meals were the ones i had with my friends. stuck at home with no places to go. mom and dad never let us go out alone. unsafe. cruel. the world had surprises to hold. a city who reeked of freedom, but her tales were not the bedtime stories i was read at night. sleepless, until the sun burnt my eyes. avoid getting lost in time. a minute and a half in the pot. the tea mother and i made. two spoons of sugar to relieve the sour. three notebooks hidden safely in my drawer, they store my bitter emotions carefully. twenty degrees - room temperature, or else the food for the soul will get stale. i keep a bottle beside my bed for the tears that cannot be shed. the people i don’t want to remember are still decorating my favourite wall. the air here has always suffocated me. i do not want to know these alleys like the back of my hand. my clutch wrinkled my blue passport. i can see above the clouds now. i keep hearing this in a song i love. never see me again

n a

s e h d a l g

n a m y

FALLING

Bailey

Minnesota

H E W I N D B L OW S M Y H A I R O U T O F I T S S A F E LY T U C K E D N E S T atop my head. I reach my hands out to hold on to something, anything, but I am still falling. Falling faster and faster and faster. All I can do is hope for someone to catch me. I’ve fallen before, but not from this high. Landing hurts. It sends a shiver through your whole body, sending that electric shock through your nerves, reaching your brain, and releasing itself in a thing called “pain”. At that point, you need someone to care for you. Need someone to heal you, look after you, save you. Of course, we all know this, but you can never really know until you experience it. “Jill, come over here!” “What do you want? I was trying to read...” “There’s a bug...I need you to kill it before I get in the shower.” “Aw, big baby. Alright fine, I’ll kill it. But you owe me for bothering me over something as silly as this.” Sometimes, it’s the littlest things that can send you off the edge. One conversation, one laugh, one tear. It’s shocking how the smallest things are sometimes the most important. Even as I fall, the humiliation is the thing that I know will hurt the most when I land. All these insignificant things...they build up and push and push until you can’t take it anymore. “I wonder what our future would be like...if we got married or anything.” “Well, I imagine we would have kids. We both love them...and we’d have to have a good backyard wherever we live.”

“Of course. And we would need to hire someone to teach you how to cook...” “I can cook plenty well!” “Okay, okay, just joking! But it would be nice to be able to have a date night, maybe once a month to get away from the kids.” “That I agree with.” Sometimes, it’s the big things. The plans, the hopes, and dreams. The things that fill you until you can’t be filled anymore. The things that make you want to explode. “Hey, Jill? Come tell me if I look alright!” “Hey, handsome. You look fantastic...tonight is going to be amazing.” Sometimes it’s things that you would never expect to make you fall. Things that you’ve dealt with before, things you understand. But for some reason, this time is different. There’s something new and exciting and terrifying. I can barely breathe, and the world seems to be against me. “Did you do it? Did you cheat on me with that-that...Just tell me!” “Jill, why would you think that? You know she’s just a friend. There will never be anyone but you.” “I don’t know if I believe you.” The terror that comes is immense and distracting and all-encompassing. Nothing can stop it, and it’s impossible to ignore. Falling faster than ever always leads to landing on your face. “At the tone, please record your message, when you’re finished recording you may hang up or press 1 for more options...” “Jill, you have to believe me, I would never cheat on you. You’re the love of my life...please call me back. I miss you.” People try to tell you that you’re wrong, but following your gut is one of the most important things you can do in life. Even if you are wrong. “Hi, is this Jill? I’m your boyfriend’s friend...you know, the one you think he cheated on you with? I know you probably won’t believe me, but please, call him back. He’s heartbroken. He won’t leave the house, he barely eats, I don’t think he’s showered in days...he needs you.” But falling is worth it, especially when someone catches you at the end. “Will you marry me, Jill?”

California

B r i a n n a

26 PHOTO BY MANDDY WYCKENS HTTPS://WWW.BEHANCE.NET/GALLERY/54543781/FALLING-GIRLS

neveah’s painting i believe i met a prophet in the four walls of the hospital room, crying out fervent orisons and draped with peach fuzz clay and molded at the callous hands of god. i told my mother, grasping at her bruised wrists, that if i am to be a writer, i too will write her tenderly in scripture, she laughed an airy sound of chimes, a gospel of protection. and the catholic promises of godmothers marked my skin & carved out my body. slender fingers and a desire that left it nothing but hollow. my achilles heel bled, a church glass quietness cutting skin with pools of hymns lain below. but i nestled her in my arms & whispered by the cracks of my lips of virtue and revolution and liberty, shameful of the nickels of hope that spilled out of my ruined pockets. the prophet, still crying and babbling unconcealed prayers, bore at my soiled ghosts with bright-eyed lullabies and palms burying half-hidden scars. woeful wounds on my skin and confessional hymns stuck in my throat. no more did i feel a vessel & out of place.

UNTITLED

IST SPRAYED LIGHTLY OFF the water down the coast like the sweat seeping through my temples. When I pass the orchard, I am reminded of your temporary wordless obsession with beekeeping that was almost strong enough to buy us an apiary for the backyard. I keep the picture book, the one with tiny happy bees that sing and laugh, in the bottom drawer of my desk. The drive was quiet and lingering and at times the congestion in my forehead gave me no choice but to pull over on the side of the road. I massaged the canvas of skin above my nose, underneath my right eyebrow. Every time I tried to laugh or cry, the movement transformed into a violent, unrelenting cough that made me want to feel nothing at all. When I got there – what I suppose I should call home – she wrapped her arms around me, unafraid of contracting what brought me there.

We weren’t sure how contagious it was. That was the warmth I needed three months ago when I was alone and broken and cold. Now I sweat through my clothes, though I only wear what covers nearly all of my limbs. I remember once saying that I’d rather be too hot than cold, and no one else agreed with me. I think I was thirteen then, when the world was so big but no bigger than my magnified life. Strange it is to feel like a child when you’ve had one. To have my mother kiss my forehead the way I should yours. There is nothing quite like motherly love but I’m unsure if I get to say I still have mine. Is it retainable, redeemable? It’s not quite regression but I worry that it might be, and scan parenting advice blogs on the Internet. I still have twelve of my favorites bookmarked on my phone, and I don’t even consider removing them. I know I will survive this the way you didn’t, because I am not a small child. My immune system sturdy, my body bruised and scraped and dented. My insides feel the way they did when I was seventeen and heartbroken, when I was twenty and lost. Arguably, I am weaker now than you were. So maybe I will not. In some ways I am reluctant to let it go. I want to feel better but I also want to hold on to the last thing you gave me. I sip the tea and feel nothing but heat drip down my crowded throat. Before, I did not know the privilege of taste. I did not know the privilege of a lot of things.

Caeleigh

Maryland 29

SYLVIA, TENNESEE

Charlotte

Iowa 31

GET. IT. TOGETHER.

Claire New Jersey

i. they told me I had nice teeth. nice eyes, a decent face, but the fatal flaw: you’re too dark. you’re not pale enough, not white like print paper. Sorry. i tanned in the sun, threw sunhats and glasses to the ground smeared off smeared on sunscreen from my face and ran it under cool water until my hands were no longer a creamy mess. ii. to achieve the desired condition first identify: dry skin. wet skin. sandy and grainy like tree bark. porous like the bumps of tiny hills. next, find the perfect condiments to accentuate skin flavor. o you will look like a pearl you will become the moon drinking in the tides and illuminating luminescence iii. to achieve the desired condition. eat veggies and fruits and whatnot. do not eat the byproduct of flour and eggs do not eat the byproduct of cane sugar do not eat custard or cake or lick scraps of frosting from your fingers do not eat that bag of chips you’ve been eyeing on the counter. but don’t stress, relax, breathe, do yoga, meditate. exercise exercise exercise. see, easy. iv. I lapse in. Picture this: one hand in a bowl of potato chips the other hand grabbing for a glass of soda my mouth chewing buttery popcorn the mechanisms of my brain whirring what will i eat

next? i lapse out. Picture this: papers flying everywhere me in the midst of it all, one hand on a piano keyboard practicing scales, a Liszt sonetto. the other hand scribbling in textbooks my mouth open to practice a tune the mechanisms in my brain whirring to process the roots and bases of French imparfait. v. interlude: a leaf a leave. a leaf you left me with leaving me to crumple and wrinkle into dust. A leaf is but a leaf until you let it be and let it fly and see— it flies like a drifting balloon except the leaf doesn’t go *pop* and burst into a million shards the leaf will just twirl down as the wind calms and settle somewhere far from home. a leaf will settle down and not remember where it came from and be content until it leaves again. vi. i stand in the corner of blue and purple lights, a fog of mist, a disco ball on the ceiling gym dancing above the DJ. girls in floral dresses prance the floor: hair primped and poofy pruned to perfection for pretty eyes to see. boys in khaki shorts and dress shirts huddled in the middle of the dance floor: slicked hair, one corner of the mouth tilted the other still and flat grinning at some stupid joke. i wear a blazer. my mom’s work pants, some ass-kicking black faux-leather boots. remind me why i decided to dress like a commercial accountant again? i smile, all sweet and saccharine maybe somehow someone will see, cease for a second, seize me by both hands say, let’s dance. i smile, devilish and devious. maybe someone will devise a device to dare me to dare, deftly take my hand and dance. i stand in the corner of the room. arms crossed looking at the dresses the slicked hair now the ceiling, the ramps and large heavy beams. count sheep, count stars. smile. smile. smile!!!!

a party with translucent people. people made of frosted glass. joyous people, dancing people. holding pearlescent glasses and clean clear teeth. drunk off frozen water and clear cold streams. hors d’oeuvres of bees, meals of love and laughter, eaten voraciously. irrational swallows, like birds. sipping my tepid blocks of water and decrying my love. it tastes of He and sugared cherries- maraschino decorations. and it tastes like home. like the wooden table and leather couches. it eats like a monkey like a dragon like a snake like a golden pig like a goat, but not a horse. it drinks like a rat like a rat like a rat. but it tastes like a tiger of salty and striped.

L I K E A LOV E R L I K E Grace A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R New York L I K E A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R L I K E A LOV E R

Our father’s gift was a shiny silence. Colorless, it stole sunlight and visitors’ eyes. The weight of two lives on its neck, our insulting wooden shelf became its home. One hour, we slapped each of its two cheeks, half expecting them to redden. It backfired. Our fingers reddened. Blood sang in our nails. Seamless white grains spat at us in mockery. Neck broken, we swept the two lives, the broken glass teeth. When our parents came home, the glass teeth betrayed us. They bit our mother’s toes. We chose a quick lie. Mama, the wind’s hands broke the hourglass not ours. We are not murderers. Father smirked. Mama hissed. What is this what is this what is this on your fingers, you bloody liars. She caned us and we no more received small-necked gifts afterwards. We learnt to count our hours in other ways

Ife

Maryland

THE SMALL NECKED GIFT 37

New Jersey

J o a n n a

SUBWAY STATION

LINING OF SUGAR CRYSTALS ENVELOPES my mouth. The long, braided pastry in my hand falling apart at the seams. I eat quickly to avoid any loss of sweet dough. I clutch at my mom’s arm – my onearmed eating endeavor probably the cause of my struggles. Someone’s shoulder brushes mine. Another. Then another. None of those are my dad, so I move closer to the comforting warmth surrounding me. She tells me that she needs something from her bag and I try to resist her hand pulling out of mine – my resistance fails. I refuse to look at any of the shops surrounding us, refuse to be lured in by their bright lights and clothes and shoes and foods and ... A silver jumble catches my eye, rotating my neck towards it, as if this inanimate mass had my head on a string. Come here, it says. It’s only a couple feet away, it says. Keychains and earrings and necklaces and ... An unreadable price card looms above the rack from which they hang. Around me, labels and signs spin – each word would take me five minutes to piece together if I stopped to try. I don’t. My right leg takes a step towards the hypnotic shine but my left hand keeps an iron grip on familiarity. My brain is cracked down the middle – my left side wins and the trance, the spell is broken. Underneath me, the ground vibrates, getting stronger and more violent with each passing moment – I hear harmoniously harsh jangling from behind. Ahead, a long, yellow line snakes across the platform. Ah – I know what that is. In my stomach, the bread feels acidic and sickly sweet.

T H E I S O L AT E D T O M AT O The tomato is cut in half. It’s desperate to find its other whole. But it doesn’t know it was consumed by me; it’s gasping for tiny sips of air and a lifetime of freedom. It has no range of movement nor says in the matter, it’s stuffed in a tied plastic clear bag, where it sees it a small world. Its neighbors. Eggs, cheese, soda, and more. Soon the tomato will understand why it’s in the plastic bag.

THE PERCEPT IO N OF THE E Y E

My door is always open. It’s open for you. You go to Max’s house. You go to Daniel’s and Sarah’s house. But they’re not “in the mood to talk.” You enter my space. You tell me, “I came to your place because I’m bored.” You vent. I listen. I give you words that massage your boredom. Then you leave. T H E P OW E R O F P OW E R I guess I’m dull. I lack vibrant colors unlike Sarah, Daniel, and Max. Men, Women, and Children are meant You tell me, “We just don’t click.” to live mundane lives. They are full of color that extends They should remember candy skies hands with the neighbors next door. and portraits shape like chins. My color is depressing for your eyes Hands belong on surfaces that don’t scream or but I’m not meant to be seen by you. don’t feel uncomfortable by the touch of one’s hand. Mouths should tell jokes not plight. Bodies should have the right to say no just like mouths Bodies shouldn’t be abused for such a strong, vulnerable, and remarkable person. Listen to the back of your voice nagging at you Not your fantasies. WHO AM I ME My name is Kaden (Caden, Kaiden, Caiden, Cadain, Kayden, Cayden). It’s an Arabic name meaning friend and companion; it can also mean fighter. Each letter of my name contains tiny fragments that when put together forges cosmos that last for a lifetime. My first name and last name compliment each other as if they were a married couple. I love my name but whenever someone is named Kaden and they spell it with i or y, it makes my brain cells have migraines, and if it’s spelled with a C, I pass out. I can’t see my name being spelled differently because I’m attached to it. I carry my name in my pocket, sometimes pulling it out, to remind myself, who I am.

American but not fully. Kenyan but we’re not on speaking terms. How can I fully be me if the other part of me is hidden in the shadows? The shadows force me into the confinement of questioning my identity. Being the only first-generation kid on my father’s side but saying those two words are like mixing racism and a black person together. I feel guilty and unworthy of saying that word to anyone. I’m not ashamed nor embarrassed. How can I use a word if I don’t feel any type of connection to it? Do I need trauma in order to use it? A part of myself is unrecognizable. Am I really Kenyan?

P IE

CES O F W

d a

Maryland

T IN

MY LANE

My life is like a street. There are moments where my path is clear and I can speed to my limit. No expectations nor restrictions placed upon my lane. But other moments it’s cluttered with cars. Loud music. Annoying drivers and slow pedestrians. Everything slows me down and forces me to sit and wait for a miracle to rain upon me. I stare into the red light waiting to see the green aura appear before my eyes. Giving me permission to continue my journey.

Kathryn

Illinois 42

THE GLENVIEW GUIDELINES (FOR YOUR AVERAGE WHITE KID)

in elementary school when the only money that matters to them is monopoly or when the colors they get to see are just pink and blue and green and orange instead of black and white and brown and yellow or when they ask classmates if they wear jeans with holes in them because they’re poor or why they’re that skinny or that fat or if they like to eat dog and cat if you’re not white and blond, none of this applies. in middle school when you’re not smart enough, you’re an r-word when you’re too smart, you’re a nerd and when you’re both, you’re weird when your mother has an accent that isn’t european, just know that you’ll hear the voices mimicking her for weeks after her visit. don’t forget if you don’t pick up a juul or a vape at age 12, you’re stupid and if you don’t wear uggs and you wear the “fuggs” from costco, you’re poor if you’re white and blond, none of this applies. in high school you’ll take ap environmental science and talk about the dying earth while you wear lululemon leggings and drink from a metal straw. you must have a white middle name or the kids will snicker when they mispronounce your name at graduation. you will plan to go to college for the parties and not for the education, and if you go to a state school, it’s probably because you’re poor or you aren’t smart enough to leave illinois. you must drive a jeep, preferably white, even if you’ve never gone off roads before. if you drive a jeep, you need either a louis vuitton or a gucci keychain attached to the keys otherwise it doesn’t even count. if you wear doc martens, you must wear skinny jeans with them because you don’t want to look too emo. remember, you have to look exactly like everyone else. at your time here, you must make at least one racist joke at a party, get called out in front of the school, and face no consequences. unless you play a good sport like lacrosse or football or if you’re on the hottest team (girl’s varsity volleyball), you don’t matter. these are the glenview guidelines, and yes, they always have been dumb.

p.s., if you’re not white and blond, none of this applies.

Luke

Maryland

SEASONS CHANGE, BUT PEOPLE DON’T 44

EEING HIM AGAIN MADE ME REALIZE, for the first time in my life, that i am not a person who is prone to change.

i feel stuck in time, occasionally. it is as if i am the fixed point in someone else’s swirling sea, watching everyone around me give up their old burdens and grudges while i keep hold of mine with grasping fingers. eight months had passed since i saw him last, and i thought, with absolute clarityhe expects to find me changed, and he will be disappointed. see, i loved him. i loved him with a loyalty and a single-minded devotion that terrified my friends and delighted my enemies (they knew, as i did, as those friends did, that he could destroy me in ways that they never could, for it is one thing to trust someone with your life, and quite another to trust them with your heart). i loved him as if he were some sort of pagan god, with everything in me. he was my god, and my love was my sacrifice. he was something greater than i could ever be, and i was happy to recognize it. when he saw me, he looked at me with such blatant fondness, and i may have looked behind me in case he was smiling at someone else. and then i realized that he wasn’t, that it was me who made him look like that, and it felt righteous. it felt powerful, to know that i had the same effect on him that he did on me. because we loved and fought and tore everything apart in our wake. we left the people we had been before broken and rotting, we razed the world to the ground behind us as we laughed. we destroyed each other in countless ways, and we did it for love. all of it, for love. i laughed and ran to him. what else could i do? i loved him eight months ago, and i never stopped.

Natalia

New York 46

An apple tree after the picking season Planted in the damned soil of eve’s fertile screams Juicing apple once hung a blossoming virgin ready to cream Frothing undulation like my apple bottom jeans womanhood is round and sweet with red skin that beams ready to be plucked by a gentleman’s hand that is not so gentle ripped and devoured juice sucked dry core thrown below my feet and watch him leave fat and satisfied sticky hands slicked with the pure inside now yellowing and bitten by assumed row of rotten teeth planted to be picked and then be discarded bring your wicker baskets and fill it to the brim Inspect my skin for blemishes thumb at my deformities pick my apple seeds and spread them like Johnny

FRUIT TO BEAR

preach of virtuous chastity a missionary we are an angry orchard a patriotic pie the fruits of my labour willing came down the shine of my peel a tacit response encourages the hand tug and pull until only my branches show then call me worn and used but we are all bare at the end of picking season and their stomachs filled

U S E D T O D R E A M O F D I RT ROA D S A N D T U M B L E W E E D S . Every city kid, we all had rural dreams. Wouldn’t that be nice, working on a farm watching the cattle graze in the mid-afternoon sun. I’d have a couple horses and two cats I’d breed and collect a litter a season. The thing about city boys is we dream about this life for an instant and then dismiss it as something that just ain’t so, so we dream instead about moving to L.A. and making it big. The latter almost never worked out. At twenty-seven I swore I was done, phoned a friend in Pennsylvania and said, “I can’t do this anymore,” so Rand set up a room at his family’s farmhouse, said I was welcome to come on up. I packed for a retreat, brought my swimming trunks in case I wanted to swim in that big lake I was certain they had. They did not. “But you have ducks,” I said. “We have ducks,” Rand repeated, and pointed to an inflatable kiddie pool occupied with two of the birds doing a distasteful dance. I politely averted my gaze. Unwilling to relinquish my summer farm dream, I asked to be shown the horses, of which there turned out to be none, because no, Dave, this isn’t a horse farm, but let me show you the cows. The cows were visibly intimidated by my stature. Rand was 5’8, his father absent, and his mother barely over 5’4. I stood out like a very pale sore thumb, at 6’1 and not a single freckle on my skin. The animals grunted and backed up against the wooden fence as I approached. “Stay outside the enclosure,” Rand said. “I’ll refill their water.” As he jogged away, I turned to lock eyes with a cow whose gaze informed me it had just identified me as its greatest nemesis. At around 6 P.M., I began thinking of dinner. I’d like to give a toast to my buddy Dave, Rand would say. To farm life, I would chime in, and the family, bemused by my good humor, would chuckle and we’d have a warm casserole with a side of bread and butter. Instead, a gaggle of blonde children, Rand’s sisters, all about eight or nine years old, emerged from the farmhouse to converge on my position. “Are you the new help,” asked the most red-faced one, more of a statement than a question. Her hands went to her hips, assuming the most leader-like position. Beady eyes squinted at me from about half my height. “Um,” I said. Rand had abandoned me to tend to an injured goat. I was fending for myself in unfamiliar territory. I continued, “Uh.” “Follow me,” instructed the girl, turning to march towards a shed. The gang and I each ended up with a pitchfork in hand, and I marveled at how their small bodies could stand the tottering, unbalanced weight of the instrument. “What’s your name,” said the red-faced girl. It was clear she found no use for the information I offered as she continued to bellow, You, at me while I forked feces from hay. She offered shouts of encouragement the way a high school P.E. coach berated the underweight student. You, put your back into it. You, stop swinging around that pitchfork like a sissy. Two excruciating hours later, I found myself in my room on the second floor having eaten a balanced dinner consisting of bread and egg. The sinews of my back felt like they had been shredded by a horrible violin player, and I could feel the mound of a blister beginning to form at the bridge of my nose. To farm life, I toasted silently, then decided I’d book the first flight to L.A. tomorrow.

Shue Ying Lauren

Maryland

TO FARM LIFE 49

INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE Sophia INSURMOUNTABLE Georgia INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE INSURMOUNTABLE

we walked, fingers interlaced, into the Aldi that faced West. sunbeams like liquid gold streamed onto the brick walls. i ran to the shopping carts, looking for lost quarters, perhaps someone left theirs detached from the conga line, or maybe their pockets still felt full without a silver coin. i had squealed with excitement. there were so many, littered on the floor, in cracks on the pavement, in forgotten metal carts. i had picked them up to show you, examined the way the light reflected off of each fractal of fortune. i felt so infinite. we left, and you each took one of my hands and lifted me up every few steps. it felt like flying. we moved. nightly cascades of rushed, clamorous mandarin and wet pillowcases whirl pooled and down poured and danced . where did it go wrong? which part of this tapestry did we fortuitously tear? the kids at the new school with the strange walls and no windows asked me to talk in Mandarin, but all i could hear is the nightly symphony of hurt. there were daisies on the other side of the playground fence, but my arms were too fat to squeeze through the chain-link. i grimace before shoving them through. im awarded with a crimson forearm and a fistful of flowers, and i had relished in my success, eyes sparkling, corners of my lips turning up. it was magical until everyone took notice and forced me into surrender. they took my trophies and replaced them with tears. seems like everyone does that around here. all i want is to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet ‘cause i haven’t moved in years. i’ve stayed here, bathing in cliffside pools of my calamitous love and insurmountable grief

OCEAN’S CALL

on a bed of grainy sand interlaced with plastic wrappers, i lay. crystalline tears falling down my sullen cheeks. withered with age upon the sandy terrain as the ocean laps my feet. once, a long time ago, she moved with the wind, dancing freely, everflowing with each step, mirthful as she dressed the world. the ocean was once hailed, an entity loved by all. the stories of old, those sweet odes told the tales of her once potent power. the bright blue ocean, once vibrant, now withered. her pearly white seas brimming once with life and hope, dead. today another goes extinct, a life, a community that once flourished. their once bright shining light, snuffed, extinguished forever. never to be seen or heard from again until eternity. dead, dying, dead, dead. that golden liquid, the nectar that was once pure, our sweet water, barren. and yet she survives. here i witness the long stifled emergence of a forthcoming change. as both young and old bind together as one, linked to the very core. their common goal? to answer the ocean’s calls. herein just a single word, a small or large action can bring forth change. the beginning of a new world, the start of a new chapter. the sound of a heart beating an ode rhythmically to a fresh start. the genesis of those long gone, the wind carrying the ashes of those left behind. the commencement of a new dawn as life is brought into the world. flowers blossom with newfound bliss as the world blooms anew. a new day breaks forth as thoughts overflow. the ever-renewing of one’s mind, sharpening and refining its knowledge. bringing forward and exchanging ideas is part of human nature, a means to an end, a never-ending cycle of thoughts and information; the beginning of the end.

y r o t c

Georgia 53

PHOTO BY MERCEDES ZAPATA

José Olivarez is the son of Mexican immigrants. His debut book of poems, Citizen Illegal, was a finalist for the PEN/ Jean Stein Award and a winner of the 2018 Chicago Review of Books Poetry Prize. It was named a top book of 2018 by The Adroit Journal, NPR, and the New York Public Library. Along with Felicia Chavez and Willie Perdomo, he co-edited the poetry anthology, The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNEXT.

BTL FACULTY

Poupeh Missaghi is a writer, a translator both into and out of Persian, an editor, and an educator. She holds a PhD in English and creative writing from the University of Denver, an MA in creative writing from Johns Hopkins University, and an MA in translation studies. Her debut novel trans(re)lating house one was published by Coffee House Press in February 2020. Her nonfiction, fiction, and translations have appeared in numerous journals, and she has several books of translation published in Iran. I’ll Be Strong for You, her translation of Iranian author Nasim Marashi’s novel, is forthcoming in spring 2021. As an editor, she worked for many years with Asymptote and is coeditor of Matters of Feminist Practice from Belladonna* Collaborative. She is currently a visiting assistant professor at the Department of Writing at the Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, a faculty mentor at the low-residency MFA of Pacific Northwest College of Art, Portland, as well as a writing consultant at Baruch College, CUNY, NY.

BTL FACULTY

ALISA WEINSTEIN

received a BFA in Drama and MA in Educational Theatre from New York University, and a PhD in Anthropology from Syracuse University; she also studied at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, and conducted dissertation research in India on a FulbrightNehru scholarship. Among her other writing, she authored scripts for India’s Sesame Street, Galli Galli Sim Sim, and is currently at work on an ethnography of tailors working in Jaipur, India. A co-founder of Home Ec. Workshop in Iowa City, she often teaches knitting and sewing to crafters of all

YOUTH PROGRAMS COORDINATOR

CAITLIN PLATHE received her BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of Iowa. An alumna of IWP’s Between the Lines program, she has held several assistantship positions at IWP for the last four years. She is also the author of I Am No Plath, a volume of poems.

PROGRAM ASSISTANT

SARAH ADLER

received a BA in English from the University of California, Berkeley, and is currently pursuing her MFA in the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Her work explores a variety of topics, including identity-making on the Internet, the role of contemporary art in society, and gendered modes of interpersonal communication.

BTL SUMMER ASSISTANT

GEORGIE FEHRINGER received a BA in Creative Writing from The Evergreen State College. She is an MFA candidate and Iowa Arts Fellow at the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program. Her writing is experimental poetic prose with a focus on physical form; it has appeared or is forthcoming from The Black Warrior Review, TIMBER, and Entropy Magazine. She is Co-Creator and lead editor at Pixel and Fragment press and has a love for all things book binding letterpress and design.

BTL ANTHOLOGY EDITOR

BETWEEN THE LINES: Identity and Belonging 2021 Anthology

Articles inside

Ife

Kathryn

Faculty & Staff Bios

Grace

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