Amendment Literary and Art Journal 2014/15 by VCU Student Media Center

e e MISSION

2. a socially progressive student-run organization that advocates for social change through artistic expression, as well as provides a platform for marginalized voices in the artistic & literary community.

3. what you’re holding in your hands. \ -men(d)-m nt\

1.nounan annual literary journal that seeks to promote discussion on issues of equality, class, race, gender, sexuality, ability, and identity.

AMENDMENT

STAFF CHIEF EXECUTIVE EDITOR Kaylin Kaupish EXECUTIVE EDITOR Maya White-Lurie STAFF EDITORS Kathleen Brien Chrissy Epperson Wanda RachelJasmineMaheenCyrusKathrynLaurenBrittneyHannahNeveliousHernandezJordanLickeyMaddoxMcClellanNovelliNuvalShahidThompsonVisser COVER ARTIST Kathleen Brien GRAPHIC DESIGNER Raquela Hamman PRODUCTION MANAGER Mark Jeffries STUDENT MEDIA DIRECTOR Greg Weatherford

ExecutiveMayaworld.White-LurieEditor

Thank you to every person who submitted writing and art to usnever stop creating and fighting oppression. I stand with you in every way Thankpossible.youto our faculty advisor, Liz Canfield, for giving us guidance and the freedom to create as we chose. Many thanks to the staff members of the Student Media Center who have supporting our efforts especially Lauren Katchuk who we will miss now that she has another job, Greg Weatherford for challenging us to do more, and Mark Jeffries who always approaches our projects with enthusiasm.

The journal you’re holding would have been impossible without the hard work of so many people, but I will try to be brief so you can get to the journal itself.

Personally, I would have been lost without Kaylin Kaupish, our Chief Executive Editor and my dear friend, because she is the one who did many of the day-to-day tasks that comprise most of running the journal. This edition exists because of her constant efforts.

Amendment’s dedicated staff members have worked to make this journal, our zine, and every event possible. For their time and energy they deserve so much more than the occasional snacks brought to meetings and I cannot thank them enough for sharing their thoughts and experiences with me. In particular, Kaylin and I are happy to pass the journal to Brittney Maddox who will lead with the same compassion and bravery she brings to her poetry.

The four years I’ve spent on Amendment have been more enlightening, challenging, and joyful that I could have anticipated. I am so grateful for my time here and know that my experience at VCU was made infinitely better because of Amendment. Thank you to all the editors that came before me, and I have the utmost faith that all those that come after will continue our tradition of using art to create a better

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

“I already have them all,” she said, smiling at me. “I love them. This journal is amazing. It changed my life. Really. I just wanted to tell you that.”

I joined Amendment during my first week of my freshman year at VCU. I was quieter then, I think; something life at VCU, and particularly working for this journal, will expel out of you. I timidly walked around the Student Media Center with only one thing on my mind: I wanted to join a literary journal. After mingling with other freshman (including meeting the lovely Maya White-Lurie who would later become my co-executive editor and partner in crime), I finally met David, the head of Amendment. After hearing his speech about what the journal was trying to do, I was hooked. I signed the email list and never looked back. From that day on, Amendment was in my blood. I stayed on as an editor with Amendment for three years, and then during my senior year I took the position of lead executive editor. My first order of business as the new head was to plan and participate in the SOVO Fair. I had never been able to do the SOVO Fair before because of classes, so I had no idea what to expect. We got a lot of interest that day, but whether it was all out of serious interest or just the candy we were giving out, I will never know. But that didn’t matter. As I handed out free journals to people passing by, a girl caught sight of one and ran up to us, her eyes wide and excited. “This is Amendment!” she exclaimed. “Yes, it is,” I responded. “Would you like a copy?”

EDITORIAL NOTE

One thing that might strike you, as you hold this literary journal in your hand, is how small it is. I am not only talking just about its size, but also its presence within the world. Billions of words are published every year, and right now you are holding some of them. But that does not make them any less important. Sure, this journal may never receive any kind of impressive recognition, but the words within it are still beautiful, profound, and often times they stir an emotion within people that surprises them. I know I was impacted by these authors, poets, and artists and the stories that they told. It took three years of working for this journal to see that impact on someone else, but it was worth it.

Without another word, the girl walked away. I stood there, spellbound and still holding the Amendment that I had offered to her. The journal suddenly felt a lot bigger in my hands. As executive editor, there are so many people to thank for making this journal a success. First of all, Maya. Of course. She joined Amendment with me on the first day and I couldn’t have done this without her helping me. She was always there to pick up slack where I couldn’t grab it. She is an amazing friend and an amazing writer. Keep this journal, people. When she gets famous, you’ll want it.

A huge thank you goes out to our wonderful staff for coming to meetings, reading pages and pages of submissions, and for always stepping up when we need some woman/man-power. A special shout out to Brittney Maddox for her help all through this past year. She will actually be taking over as the new executive editor, so keep an eye out for her. Another shout out to Kathleen Brien, who did the cover art for this little book you are holding. She has been with Amendment for so long and has always brightened up meetings with her provocative Adoodles.finalthank

you goes out to our support team. Without you, we would have fallen. Thank you to Greg Weatherford, our wonderful advisor; Lauren Katchuk, our master of dollars; Mark Jeffries and Raquela Hamman, our genius designers. Also thank you to the brilliant Craig Zirpolo for creating Progressions, the new chapbook baby of Amendment and The Horn RVA. Thank you to our previous executive editors who have passed the torch from the past: David Osnoe, Mari Pack, Lashelle Johnson, and Greg Alexander. And a huge thanks to Liz Canfield, the original creator and mother of Amendment. And a final thank you to our readers. May this little book grow bigger as you read it.

Kaylin Kaupish Chief Executive Editor

WRITING Trick or TreaT - Brittney Maddox · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 1 inTerracial Queen and king - Nevelious Jordan · · · · · · · · 3 a louisiana summer - Caroline Rodrigue · · · · · · · · · · · · 5 inca sTone - Michael Waite · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 6 i Work - Ashley Dean · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 7 chuck Berry - Will Nelson · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 9 endorphins Blindside you - Sylvia Jones · · · · · · · · · · · 10 Walking While Female aT one a m. - Maya White-Lurie · · · · 12 To kill a BuTTercup - Katie Burnett · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 14 exhiBiT x - Camila Alfonzo Meza · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 15 ART deTermined - Jasmine Thompson · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 19 Bigger on The inside - Taylor Dunivan · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 20 alone Widda Bird + a Boddle - Cameron Spratley · · · · · · · 21 The heTerosex dellusion - Steven Thomas Bock · · · · · · · · 22 sloW hours - Sandra Whittington · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 23 rimBamBiTo - Costantino Toth · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 24 push doWnhill - Costantino Toth · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 24 Three hiTchhikers - Costantino Toth · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 24 preTTy in pink - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 25 slice 1 - Phen Bowman · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 26 slice 2 - Phen Bowman · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 26 slice 5 - Phen Bowman · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 26 FLASH FICTION WINNERS Body modiFicaTion - Alex Carrigan · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 29 Topic: drugs - Ash Griffith · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 30 Womanhood is… - Courtney Wheeler · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 31 Topic: my privilege - Aila Castane · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 32 Topic: gun conTrol - Brittney Maddox · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 33 The sTory oF Jessica’s FaT - Elly Call · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 34

CONTENTS

WRITING CONTEST SECTION

The FirsT deBaTe (FicTion 1st place) - Alex Carrigan · · · · · · · · · · · 37 our unBorn child (FicTion 2nd place) - Tavia LaShae’ Gilliam · · · · · 40 redeFiniTion (nonFicTion 1st place) - Ashley McCoy · · · · · · · · · · · 43 privilege check (nonFicTion 2nd place) - Gabrielle Schatz · · · · · · · 46 The liTTle i’ve learned (poeTry 1st place) - Saidu Tejan-Thomas, Jr. 49 WiTh This poWer no one can Take (poeTry 2nd place) - Bayan Atari 51 ART couple - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 55 TWo-Toned FuTure - Jasmine Thompson · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 56 someTimes i can’T keep my head TogeTher - Peighton Young · · · · · 57 dying From The inside - Peighton Young · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 58 shock Therapy - Sandra Whittington · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 59 invisiBle - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 60 aspergers, alzheimers, demenTia, eTc. - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · 61 TrypophoBia - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 61 depression and anxieTy - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 61 dermaTillomania - Kathleen Brien · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 61 WRITING losing my virginiTy over a period oF Four monThs - Anonymous · · · 65 pieces - Brittney Maddox · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 70 his sugar plum lips - Gabbie Robinson · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 72 ali al asghar - Steven Thomas Bock · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 73 Bus ride To nazca - Michael Waite · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 75 losT aT sea - Chrissy Epperson · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 76 Tar’s Fans - Nevelious Jordan · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 78 The conTempT i Bare For WaiTing TaBles - Kathryn Novelli · · · · · · 80 colorism - Shay Patrick · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · 84 shooTing The messenger - Joshua Braunstein · · · · · · · · · · · · · 86

AMENDMENT

WRITING

We answered with silence sugar free

You are afraid that if you do not answer them that the joke will be on you

At close to 2 in the morning

The devil will lash out Call you a bitch with his licorice whip tongue in the night sky

Trick or Treat by Brittney Maddox

It was around 1:45 am when they emerged from the shadows

HeOr will stand in your way vying for your sweet attention until you Throw away your mask and reveal you aren’t that sweet Pepper spray will not be enough Or he assaults you with pitchfork punches, scarring your psyche, leaving you with the neck bites of paranoia

The three males agitated, did not pop rock pop off on us that night. There was that possibility however. My sour patch story sounds familiar as it should You will hear this poem, read this poem Say the answer to my problem is to not to go alone at night, wear another outfit or costume

Under the guise of angels Who have hidden their devil’s horns

The hair on the back of your neck will stand stiff like cemetery gates

We just wanted to make it home after the costume party

We didn’t want any treats from those tricks

When you are female And a group of males approaches you

Sensing our fear They addressed us sweetie with their diabetic tongues and molasses like smiles They waited for our response

Three young adult males stood before us My friends and I kept quiet to ourselves

Avoid candy corn grin men who will abduct you yet stick close to your male “friends” that wear capes of misogyny. For they will shield you from rape culture they are nice guys as long as your skirt is not short, your bra is not showing, as you look good and play the part of an angel

You are taught to not to look like a woman who eats candy apples in the garden of good and evil When will we stop teaching boys and girls that what a female chooses to wear is an indicator of her character and how you should address her Her hemline does not scream “beg for it” her neckline does not cry out “consent” her ensemble does not ask you permission to approach her I want to dispose of the phrase “boys will be boys” like wrappers on the day after Halloween.

When you reach a certain age you are taught to stay in after dark

I am tired of wearing my mask and living in fear I am fearful of my male peers, fearful they have hidden motives That night I feared for the girls who were alone, under the Whoinfluencewas watching them? Who lurked in the shadows? Who treated them with respect, or did they get tricked?

You are taught to stay in a group wherever you go avoid alleys, clubs, and anywhere after 9pm

But every day is Halloween when you are a woman, you are unsure of who is wearing a mask

There’s something about the skin contrast When we make love, it’s like a color splash

every racial antic Prejudice has their views going frantic They stop and stare In certain restaurants, they question why we’re there But we don’t care You and I smile, knowing some people will never understand it But they will respect us because we demand it Five years pass

And there’s something about the way our little boy feels when he realizes he looks different... Not quite like everyone else in his class

We explain to him the beauty of mixed culture and to never listen to the words of an ugly vulture Because in life’s jungle...

He’s a white tiger with black stripes and blue eyes that will guide him through the darkest nights And so the caramel-colored boy holds his head to the highest heights

forever young

A flash of vibrant black and white lights that crash... Together, once our bodies connect Your pink lips grip the base of me It’s a perfect fit They lock on and pull me in like, “There’s no escaping me” It feels like this is where I was meant to be YouMentally...andIbecome

Queen and King by Nevelious Jordan

Panting heavily as we create our first daughter or son I am embraced by your tongue

3 Interracial

While I penetrate you with every inch, one by one Nine months later... There’s something about the way people stare at us when we take our child to the doctor Like a They’reshockerinpanicReadytodemonstrate

Honored, he starts educating himself on noble black men like Martin Luther King and civil rights

That same pride is intensified when he’s told of his mother’s diverse European bloodline Her German, Hungarian, and Irish genes make him one of a kind His questions of identity are left behind

Having grown into a studious young man, he is set to excel in Yale with an immaculate mind He is the proud legacy that will keep us alive when we die

When I think about the troubles we have been through, it is not hard to remember the reason why Twenty years go by and there’s still something about the light from the sky

We have raised a great young man, you and I

When it hits your diamond wedding ring, I know that you are my queen and I am your king

I didn’t tell them about how Chet, the town bully and sweetheart all rolled into one, had made me come out here. He brought some of his big friends, and they kept lighting matches and putting them out by pinching them with their thumbs. Chet made me climb up to the bell tower with him, and he stuck his hand up my skirt. I didn’t like it. I was too ashamed to tell. I was screaming at him to let go of me, and his friends heard, so he stopped and turned to yell at them to shut up, and I ran. They threw fiery matches at me as I ran into the center of the town, heading for the sanctuary of my home. I told mama I had gone to the church to pray and made her promise she wouldn’t tell Papa that I snuck out again. I didn’t tell her that this time it wasn’t by choice. They found Chet out, anyway. Turns out one of his friends was the Priest’s son and he felt so guilty that he told his father. They’re all spending time in jail. Chet wrote me a letter, telling me that he knew dark sins lived inside of him, and that he wanted me to visit so that he could cleanse his soul and gain closure. I didn’t visit. It is time for me to do my own cleansing of the bad.

A Louisiana Summer by Caroline Rodrigues

The last church I set foot in burned to the ground. The metal cross on the steeple turned a hot poker-red. When it fell with a soft thud onto the church lawn it singed the fresh green and yellow grass in the charred black shape of a cross. My brother pinched my cheeks and said it was my fault because the Devil was raging inside of me, but that couldn’t be true, because Mama and I shower our Mother Mary statue with flower blossoms and petals and say our prayers three times a day. Mother says this will wash the sin right out of me. I keep my nail polish hidden under my pearl-white church gloves. When we pray, mama keeps her eyes closed, so I peek one eye open and admire the Harlem Red color that Anna’s mother painted on for me. She winked when she did it, saying “If your mother asks, it wasn’t me.” She understands.

When the police questioned me about the church, they asked me what my favorite color was. I thought I was tricking them by answering red, because it wasn’t my favorite color, even though I adored it on my nails. It was the first untrue answer I could think of. But they thought that liking red gave me motive.

All I saw was a void, chaotic, teeming with life, Unable to make sense of history or plan for the foreboding future. And as an atom in that languid body, I hardly saw the cancer more than the businessmen a few floors below me. There was something in the Inca stone, a jigsaw of genius and Thatdetermination,questioned the validity of human progress, The presence of a soul in my nation’s cities. Yet there was a moment in the ruins of Pisac, When I was sure that the sound of a mere wooden flute, Floating across the jagged, ancient valley below, was not music

Inca Stone by Michael Waite

But a transmission from long ago, and yet somehow meant for Thoseme. gentle, timeless notes told me that despite all the wars Waged over pigment and politics, despite my inability to shake The label of “tourist,” it was insane to define myself by the body of Thatlandbirthed me, closed off from its brothers by an imaginary line.

So what if there are monoliths where I am from That stretch as high as a man’s eyes can gaze?

If God could see us now he would laugh at our pride

In such obscenities, full of offices and unseen consequences. I myself have perched atop a few of these towers, Without feeling a single spark of mystery or magic.

The Antidote for Civilization12 So I can spend my life away in hundred dollar bills.

I Work by Ashley Dean ISmile

planet was turned into a product, reality Reassuringly WhenExpensive13our philosophy of I Think Therefore IBM14 rendered us Whycaptivewe’re all so willing to Just Do it15, and struggle to pay to live On a planet that we were born to live on.

WatchI you Eat Mor Chikin2 while your shirt buttons Snap, Crackle, ApparentlyPop3 there’s not Always Room For /your/ Jell-O™ But this is capitalism so You better Have It Your Way4 before your neighbor does first. KnowI it’s your duty as a Capitalist Tool5 to retain and refrain from Sochange,WeTry Harder6, spend after-shift hours cleaning your plates Your gluttonous waste Can no longer fit inside the prescribed Levi’s™ Jeans, American DreamsICan’tseem to reach from the bottom of this corporate ladder. But The Citi Never Sleeps7 and the guy next to me Keeps Going and Going and…8 Acquiring minds want to know; ‘Are You In Good Hands?’9 And Wherever You Go the Network Follows10 — tell me, How Do You Spell Relief?11 ISee your need to validate your sense of self-worth, material things; a nation of want

WonderIHowour

While, below you, I work all day to pay my way to higher education

my most concealing smile as you tell me I fucked up Brought you PepsiCo™ instead of Coca-Cola® and that Your subtle American palate Can Taste The Rainbow1 in the cocaine catch phrase of the latter.

8 Brands (Previous Page) 1. Skittles, 1994 2. Chick-Fil-A, 1995 3. Kellog’s Rice Krispies, 1932 4. Burger King, 1973 5. Forbes, 1966 6. Avis Rent A Car, 1962 7. Citibank, 1977 8. Energizer, early 1990’s 9. Allstate, 1956 10. Vodaphone, 2003 11. Rolaids, 1970’s 12. Club Med, 1982 13. Stella Artois, 1981 14. IBM, 1988 15. Nike, 1988

At the local whites-only diner Our America was Still a misinformed young Caughtadult in bed With the likes of Jim Crow

Chuck Berry by Will Nelson Dressed in a slim tuxedo He stands center stage His semi-hollow body Guitar glimmers The Maplemaroondrum set Sits in his shadow Away from the crowd Chuck bears no resemblance To analogous pale faces Without even a speck Of any coloration They call his name in joy But he cannot share A meal with any of them

Masked the bigotry Of a nation that plagued Those on the outside Chuck Berry’s audience May not have heard his plight But they always tuned in To his steel-stringed Gibson Vinyl records spinning At homes or in clubs Led to children of all colors Learning under the same room Blues from A Folk music from Appalachia Created a love child named Rock and Roll Chuck Berry’s Music Blurs the boundary Between black and white Fitting it all onto A single spectrum of grey.

An abusive affair with Nooses that hung on trees In the 50’s white picket fences

question I might’ve gotten wrong. Rubrics don’t appeal they apply to tenacity “What Life in the Real World distractionsCosts”are sacraments, us fiscal non believers woulda shoulda coulda summer cynics, our grip got mistaken as a Anotherpunchline.arbitrary echo a long ass recovery, left eye idiom. feeling overzealous about erroneous shit. for inquires stolen sake. An ex sending snapchats from a hinged threshold. Homes not handcuffs never not never before the split. By noons encore I’ll be callus again, more nymph, guest & host. Grief settles in with costumes and props, my kryptonite is a telepathic winged squirrel in Monroe Park, a former universe, we arrive with as many losses as Rosettagains.stone stifled. Retrospectively speaking her tone reminds me of a whining road. And no there are no detours to places worth going back to. Sundays are for belongings not baggage; cerebral matters We ain’t attempting to build a home, a curbed tolerance for obsidian exteriors. Enough glass to be professional radioheads. Be ashamed to outnumber the hustle, be mountain proud . Kodak is bankrupt and smarts are unnamed worldly objects.

endorphins blindside you by Sylvia Jones

It’s no small club. nearly opposable, we tread at even arms length distance a strategy, blackboard bourbon. I wish this wasn’t as important as seeing the Hot Seats. home wreckers or word count requirements, both teaching us how to chicken out.

Your bronze petal unravels me into grey scale search engines, carnivalesque rearview mirrors. where & why wild cash advances. Appearance savvy , no magic donor recipients, 1,680,000 results, our annual end of August regret ruffled self fulfilling prophecies. Synesthesia prone. Fraught interaction, it’s nice to have autonomy & angst. Toilet paper

Anotherconvenience.answertoanother

Achokehold.hibiscusbouquet

Shockoe articulate banter, this is not two weeks notice or anyone’s Ifault.condone drinking and stay for the sport, like all other selfdestructive habits. No one our age wants to be brave, that’s what the Keurig is for. Pitch less and deface more propaganda. Afro beta to do lists items. We don’t speak about money, or the places we avoid. We treat our failures like minor gods.

Our ulterior low-income gay4jesus GoodMorningAmerica

A brick wall antebellum, hyper aware 1st world. It catches on and suddenly it’s not cool anymore. Better off as algorithm hype. west nile loud nitrous mafia nervous Jim Crow anti affirmative action If I had it my way the equator would be old news by now. Good luck persistence is arbitrary and will catch you off cue soapbox heights, hominid slang.

redemption attempt, the only job we wake up for is counterfeita guerrilla power play humor. Our humdrum middle-class annihilated selves. Narrow hearted, railed against whatever else we had lying around. Unswept remorse cheap champion debris, a kinetic potency for Rivercity revivals. the sound of having one exit. Like learning how to speak and when to listen.

Two people stand in my path about a block down, leaning close in discussion. A short, dark-haired girl, no more than twenty years old, is talking and waving her hands. They flutter like birds around the boy’s face. He looks about the same age but is a head taller than her. His hands at his sides, his shoulders set in tight right angles. They’re arguing.

I remove my hands from my pockets. My boot heels click against the concrete, echoing slightly on the loose sections of the sidewalk. I don’t pay much attention to the uneven patches any more. They’ve been like this for years. The city is slow to fix parts of town unfrequented by working professionals or tourists.

I glance behind me. It’s empty except for a crumpled Natural Light can and some cigarette butts. I don’t expect anyone to follow me, but I always check. I keep my head up and listen. I always scan streets and alleys before crossing them. Not intensively-just a flick of my eyes to see what little I can of what lies in the darkness. I keep my pace brisk, but not frantic, to make it clear I have somewhere to be just as I was taught.

I walk down Harrison Street, heading home from Brandon’s house. He told me to be careful because I’m alone. I shove my hands in my pockets as I cross over Grove, right by that small triangle park. I step up on to the curb and let my footfalls hit their rhythm. It’s not as if I expect Brandon to walk me home or anything. I always make it there, but some small Southern part of me wishes he would at least offer. To be polite and all.

Walking while Female at One A.M.

A man comes down the sidewalk heading my direction. I record his features: round face, small eyes, pointed nose. His shoulders are thin in his grey hoodie. He’s a bit taller than me but small for a man. I can take him if I have to. I totally could. I square my chin, prepared to look him in the eye, let him know I’m not scared of him, but he passes without glancing my way. I exhale and turn left on Franklin, just three blocks to go.

by Maya White-Lurie

Mom and Dad always say that walking alone at night is like painting a big red target on the back of my dress. I’ll never tell them that I drag out the paint all the time. I’m surprised I haven’t stained all my clothes. But it’s just a few blocks, nothing really, ten minutes, fifteen at most. If I told them, they’d worry constantly about the men lurking in bushes to ambush me. They think all the shady guys are stalking pretty young girls like me.

13 I could cross the street to avoid them, but I live on this side. If I cross it now, it would only draw their attention to me. People are always like this in the city, doing private stuff in public. And I can pass them without alerting their attention. It’s too late to move to the other side anyway. The girl raises her voice and pushes on the boy’s shoulder with the flat of her hand, causing him to bob slightly. His curly hair bounces with the impacts. “Fuck. You.” She beats his chest with the side of her fist, punctuating each word with a hollow thud. “Fuck. You. Fuck. You fuck you. Fuck youfuckyoufuckyou!”

painfully.“Stop.You’re

He absorbs the blows in silence, his body flinching at her touch. Then he grabs her thin wrists but does not push her away. He holds her there, his arms still bent. She struggles half-heartedly but not always like this when you drink,” he says, “I didn’t do“Yesanything.”youdid.

They sense my presence when I am a few yards away. The girl glances at me briefly, but does not stop wriggling or cursing the boy. The scent of beer wafts from their mouths but their speech is notTheslurred.girl’s voice grows louder. “You worthless motherfucker, you can’t do anything right.” He releases a wavering sigh. “Please.” “Cocksucker. Deadbeat motherfucker. You can’t do anything right!” Her laughter sounds like balloons popping. “Nothing!” His resigned face says he’s heard these words before. He stares at his shoes and loosens his grip. The boy turns as the girl wrenches her wrists free. “I’m sorry,” he says to me. “I’m so sorry.” I want to tell him that I’m sorry too. I’m sorry for both of them. I’m sorry I saw anything. I don’t know what I can do. She won’t hurt him, she won’t, not really. She isn’t strong. The cops won’t care. They’ll just say it’s a private matter.

Yes you did!”

I’ve only got a second as I pass, and I don’t know what to say. He’s looking at me. He’s waiting for a response. I shrug, palms facing up as if the right words could just fall into them, and pick up my pace until I get home.

For my son, so he may bloom as he pleases. by Katie Burnett

Have you ever seen a Buttercup who is basking in the sun? Just being Young? Yellow petals barely showing, peek through the haven of a green nest. Waiting for the right time, to Butrelease.yoururgetowatchHer bloom, and place Her in a room, makes your hands reach out to thepluckbeautiful unbloomed Buttercup.Rightfrom His place in the Youearth.take Him out of His dirt— and hold Him in your enormous hands, planning your intervention. Your craving for what has always been— a flower open, yellow, and creepsbright through your fingers, taking what is not yours in the name of constancy. Your human tendency to advise Nature, tell her how she should be— to place Her in a vase, in the center of a room and surely die— it’s what you want, It’s why you cry. So, taking your hands, you AstotryingthegentlybegindestroyingpetalsoftheButtercup,yourbestmakeHimopenup.theButtercupbeginstodie,youfeelashamed;youdon’tknowwhyyoucouldn’tjustleaveHer,Him,Nature,tobloom.

Have you ever seen a WhoButtercup?hasn’t yet opened up, and had the chance to stretch into a bold, new,unique,buttery bloom?

To Kill a Buttercup

I have seen war across some people’s wrists.

And I can agree that this is war, but war can also be quiet. War can be as quiet as a miscarriage. Or the therapy sessions afterwards, which is quieter even. It can be as silent as a gas leak. They asked me in sixth grade what war meant to me and I told them about the Holocaust, I told them about the Jews.

War is what happens over telephone wires when a son tells his mother he is gay and her white flag of surrender is the phone going dead.

War is what happens when it rains so hard blades of grass bend over defeated.

I have seen it in bones trying to revolt from the flesh.

I was taught that war was loud. It was supposed to be bombs and a dictator’s speech and the sound of an entire race being crossed off one by one, like the days of a calendar.

I learned in school that war is what happens when nations disagree, but the textbooks never told me that war is also what happens when parents disagree, and when children throw insults harder than they hit baseballs and when I cannot force myself out of bed in the morning because there is a voice in my head that tells me I might win the battle, but I will not win the — War is what happens when teachers call on students who don’t have the answers and they are left fighting their father once he sees their report card.

I have seen war burst into being the moment girls think they’re too old to hold hands and again some years later when they’re too young to do more than that, but charge forwards regardlessonlytoend up with semen exploding inside them like shrapnel.

I have seen it in eyes like double whiskey shots that are drunk off self-hatred.

Exhibit X by Camila Alfonzo Meza

ARTWORK

19 Determined Jasmine Thompson

20 Bigger on the Inside Taylor Dunivan

Alone Widda Bird + Cameron Spratley

a Boddle

22 The Heterosex Delusion Steven Bock

Slow Hours Whittington

Sandra

ThreePushRimbambitoDownhillHitchhikers Costantino

Toth

Pretty in Pink Kathleen Brien

26 Slice 1 - Slice 2 - Slice 5 Phen Bowman

FICTIONFLASHEVENTWINNERS

I didn’t tell them about women that have their bodies claimed like new worlds, or men who punch walls and wear their bruised likeknuckleshonour badges for all the tears they haven’t cried because they were raised to be soldiers and soldiers do not cry.

I didn’t mention any of these things because I was taught that war was big. It was something that happened between countriesandithappened with armies and guns and nuclear weapons.

I didn’t tell them about the boy across the road from me whose father used his forearms as ashtrays and whose eyes were the American flag: star-spangled.

If I was a Disney Princess, I’d use those animals differently. I’d sing a sweet tune and bring them to me. Those mice and birds know how to work, So how about thy make me the most beautiful princess ever? After knocking me out, they’d get to work, Scurry across my naked body. They’d sing a song as they cut into my flesh. Cutting the extra fat, they would move in tune, Turning me into a real beauty. They’re good with threads and needles, So they can pull my skin tight.

They’d remove all that fat, a meal for their work, Then their work would be done. I’d wake up a real princess, With the right body and face. A true figure of grace, with bloody mice and Birds to do my busy work.

by Alex Carrigan

FIRST PLACE Body Modification

“I got Columbian Blend, Kava, Dark Roast. Watch need? Whatcha need, kid?”

“Need a fix, kid?” “Yeah, how’s you know?”

“Can I have a Java Chip Frappacino with a muffin?”

“I“Oh“Toasted?”yeah.”seeyou’re a high dollar customer. Alright, $5. Here, here. Now scram!” Moss ripped it from him and ran with his fix into the night.

SECOND PLACE Drugs by Ash Griffith “Psst.... Hey! Hey kid, c’mere.” A man dressed in a thick trench coat with a hood called to Moss from a very narrow, dark alleyway. Moss pointed to himself, confused. The man roughly waived him over. Moss took a dumb chance and ran to him.

THIRD PLACE

Womanhood is... by Courtney Wheeler It wasn’t my first period It wasn’t my first bra It wasn’t the loss of my virginity It was the moment I said “no.”

FIRST PLACE My Privilege by Aila Castane Is it because the skin I’m in Is so threatening that you seek refuge behind a bullet? GO. AHEAD. AND. PULL. IT. Because 6 feet under, I’ll still be the same hue. And though I will no longer be me, You will still have the privilege of being you.

SECOND PLACE Gun Control by Brittney Maddox White guns stand their ground on black children’s bodies Florida is the amusement park for white supremacy

“She has boobs,” said one man to another. Jessica, indeed, had Shethem.sort of became her boobs in fact, and in some ways this was alright because of getting laid, mostly, though Jessica wasn’t her boobs; she was just fat.

“No! No!” wailed her family, “no, you’re not fat because if you were you would be socially unacceptable and linked with the mentally disabled and since, dear God, we don’t want you to be that so NO no don’t say that!” So it came to be that Jessica wasn’t smart nor funny nor good nor bad nor Jessica nor woman. Jessica was fat.

THIRD PLACE The Story of Jessica’s Fat by Elly Call Jessica was fat. And they saw that she was fat. And she was. “Oh dear,” whispered the skinny bitches, “it’s because of her job, her work, her sleep – sleep is so important, you know?”

CONTESTWRITINGWINNERS

In an instant, Adam and Eve were blinded. There was a bright light from the sky, followed by a parting of the clouds and a large gust of wind. Adam dropped the twice-bitten fruit on the ground. He pulled Eve close as the figure of God appeared in the clouds. For the first time in their lives, Adam and Eve felt fear. “ADAM AND EVE!” the voice of God boomed from the clouds, “YOU HAVE BROKEN MY RULES, AND FOR THAT YOU MUST BE PUNISHED. I HEREBY BANISH THE TWO OF YOU FROM MY GARDEN. YOU WILL NEVER RETURN TO MY PARADISE. OH, AND YOU WON’T GET YOUR SECURITY DEPOSIT BACK.” Adam and Eve shivered before the voice of their creator. His voice was powerful and authoritative. Eve began to shake, but Adam held her closer. “Now, wait a minute,” Adam responded. “How is this in any way our“AREfault?”YOU SERIOUS?”

“BECAUSE YOU BROKE MY RULES. DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT?” God asked. “Yeah, I understand it, but only that I’ve eaten the damn fruit.” Eve looked at Adam in confusion. “Babe, what are you doing?” she“Justasked.trust me on this,” he said. “I think I can do this.” Adam let of Eve and stepped forward. “Here’s how I see it,” he began. “You created us in this garden, asked us to name all the creatures in here, and told us not to eat from that one particular tree.”

“I’M SURE I MADE THAT CLEAR.” “Yeah, very clear,” Adam said. “It’s hard to not hear you when you shout all the time. Well, here’s the problem, Dad: you made us really stupid. Are you surprised that we broke your rule?”

FICTION FIRST PLACE The First Debate by Alex Carrigan

“Yes, I am,” Adam said. “Why do we have to get kicked out of the garden for this?”

“ENOUGH! THIS IS NOT MY FAULT! I MADE IT VERY CLEAR NOW THIS GARDEN WORKS, YOU DIDN’T OBEY ME, AND NOW YOU GOT TO GO. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES TO PACK BEFORE I KICK YOU OUT. I THOUGHT I WAS PRETTY REASONABLE WITH MY REQUESTS, BUT CLEARLY I CREATED A BUNCH OF SMART ALECS, SO GET OUT.”

38 God nodded. “UH, YES. I EVEN POINTED THE EXACT TREE OUR TO YOU AND TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM IT. WHAT DON’T YOU GET?”

“AND JUST WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”

“Yes,” Adam said, “but you put delicious looking fruit on it, and expected us not to eat it. To echo my wife, we had no concept of right and wrong before now, and we were rally stupid andEvepersuadable.”putherhand on Adam’s shoulder. “You know, I think there might be a problem with the boss, not the workers.”

“Yeah, he’s got a point. I mean, how were we supposed to understand right and wrong when we had free reign of this garden?” she asked her father. “I mean, you’ve been pretty absent except for when you decide to get authoritative.”

“Well,” Eve continued, “I only ate the fruit because I was dumb enough to believe a talking serpent. Why would you even let that thing in here? Why is there only one intelligent animal in here and it happens to be the one who can plot?”

“Besides, why even put that stupid tree in the garden in the first place?” Adam asked. “IT WAS TO TEACH YOU TO OBEY MY COMMANDS AND NOT TAKE MY GIFTS FOR GRANTED.”

“Reasonable?” Adam asked. “How is it not reasonable to listen to our points? ‘Because I said so’ doesn’t seem like a fair response.”

“What I don’t get is how you expected us to understand cause and effect when we named the animals based on the first sounds we could think of that came out of our mouths, “ Adam responded.Evenodded in agreement and moved forward.

“Yeah, why couldn’t you keep the snake out?” Adam asked.

“Yeah, and we know what ‘hypothetical’ means,” Eve responded. “LOOK. YOU’VE LOST. YOU CAN’T WEASEL YOUR WAY OUT OF THIS. JUST LEAVE ALREADY. I SAID SO, AND NOW I’M GOING TO HAVE ANGELS PREVENT YOU FROM COMING BACK IN. HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?”

A PURELY HYPOTHETICAL SCENARIO.”

“You know what, why bother staying here?” Eve asked Adam. “It isn’t worth living here if our landlord is a dick.” “Yeah, screw this.” “FINE. GET OUT. HAVE A NICE LIFE IN THE WASTELAND OUTSIDE THE GARDEN. HOPE YOU KNOW HOW TO SEW CLOTHING, YOU NUDIST RULE BREAKERS.”Goddisappeared behind the clouds, and everything was silent. Adam began to walk away when Eve knelt to the ground. She picked up the fruit and held it in her hands. “What are you doing?” Adam asked her. “I figured it would be good to plant these seeds. We might have to grow our own food now, and it would be good to spread this knowledge around.”

“Nice,” Adam added. “But what if he does flood the earth like he mentioned?”Evetossedthe fruit in her hand and smiled at her husband. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m pretty certain most types of fruit can float.”

39 “Besides,” Eve added, “weren’t you just the other day talking about flooding the planet if things got too hectic? How’s that ‘reasonable?’”“THATWAS

People often ask me if I ran. Of course I ran. I had just gotten my freedom back, and I wasn’t about to let it go easily.

After about a quarter of a mile, I heard the faint police sirens headed towards my house. I kept running. There was nothing but woods. I began to grow tired after another mile so I stopped and sat against the nearest tree. After a few minutes of catching my breath, I felt my eyes growing heavy.

Just as I was beginning to dose off, I heard a noise. I paused. There it was again. “Who’s there?” I called out. No answer. I peeked around the tree and saw a wolf devouring an injured deer. The wolf’s fur was black as my hair and its eyes were just as brown. It’s funny because yesterday I would’ve only been able to feel sorry for the poor deer, but that night, I was cheering for the wolf. I mean, that deer probably deserved it right? Just like my husband deserved what I had done to him. The sound of the deer’s insides between the wolf’s teeth sent a shiver down my spine. I watched the deer take its last breath as it stared into my eyes, or rather into my soul. I felt a tear run down my cheek. It must have been really windy that night or something. I quickly wiped the salty drop away. I was running for my freedom. No weakness allowed.

Our Unborn Child by Tavia LaShae’ Gilliam

The thick smell of blood strangled me as I stopped to catch my breath. My eyes scrolled down to the ground, and there he was—at my feet—breathless. I looked at my right hand and loosened my grip. The harsh sound of a knife pierced my ear as it hit the floor beneath my feet. A feeling of cold relief fell over my body. I didn’t have any regrets. This was his fault. He did this to himself. He had it coming.

You probably think I’m crazy don’t you? But if these cuts, bruises, and scars could talk, then I’m sure they would disagree. I murdered my husband, but the man that I married died long ago.In two months, my husband and I would’ve celebrated our four-year anniversary. He was a grade school teacher. He loved kids. He always talked about how he never wanted a job that

40 FICTION SECOND PLACE

The day I told him that I was ready to start a family was the day I made him the happiest man in the world. Three years ago, I got pregnant with what would have been our first child. Six weeks later, I had a miscarriage. We were devastated. The doctors said that I wouldn’t be able to carry children. My husband became furious. He didn’t speak to me for weeks after blaming me for killing his child. When I’d enter a room, he’d curse me. When I’d speak to him, he’d threaten me. I became hesitant. I became insecure. I became weak.

I had almost forgotten where I was. My lips were cracked, my nose frozen, and my skin tight. All I could see was the smoke from my breath. I heard another sound. I turned back to the deer. The wolf was gone. I stood up and looked around. There it was“Police!again.Put your hands where I can see them!”

I realized that he had probably already seen the blood splatters on my hands, shirt, and face. That was it. Like I said before, I had just gotten my freedom back and I wasn’t going to give it all up that easily. So, I did what any murderer would have done. I turned and I ran. A bullet sliced my shoulder, and I fell to the ground. The last thing I remember was hearing the officer call for an ambulance.

My husband didn’t hit me because of the cliché reasons such as not having his dinner ready on time or not answering my phone when he called. No, he hit me whenever he’d think about what our child could have been. He slapped me for the times he couldn’t take our son to baseball practice. He pushed me for our daughter’s dance recitals that he never got to attend. He hit me because he loved them, and I was the only thing keeping them from him. But he failed to see my pain. I cried just as much, but there was nothing I could do. He changed. I didn’t know that man I stabbed seventeen times. My husband had died with our unborn child. If I ever get caught then they’d just have to call me guilty. No apologies. No regrets. No weakness.

41 would keep him from his own children. Being a schoolteacher meant that he would be home by 3:30 on weekdays and have the weekends and summers off. Children loved him. His smile alone would turn their bad days good, their good days great, and their great days unforgettable.

The next day, I woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed. A doctor entered the room and asked how I was feeling. I told him that I was fine. He looked at me and said, “Well, I sure hope so! I wish would have been able to tell you this under better circumstances, but it seems that you’re expecting.”

I looked at him in disbelief. He also said that I had been pregnant for a little over 13 weeks so I would not have to worry about suffering another miscarriage. I leaned back and released a long sigh. All I could do was smile. I wasn’t happy that I was pregnant, but I was happy my husband would never get the pleasure of meeting our unborn child.

2. Any act of sexual intercourse that is forced upon a person. It’s not a very pleasant word. It tends to have a negative effect on whoever hears it. Reads it. There is so much power in that tiny word. You go, “Oh.” That’s right; rape exists. It exists and its existence makes you uncomfortable. That little fourletter word. Yes, that one. The mere idea is enough to make one shudder. There is so much power in that word. Don’t get me wrong. It should make you shudder. Hell, it should make everyone angry. And I’m not talking the “cat knocked over a glass of water and it broke” angry. No no no. Your blood should seethe at the mere thought, the mere inkling that something like rape exists. Maybe then no one would struggle through the shit-storm of regaining power that comes after it. I was raped. No, it wasn’t violent. Physically. The kind of violence that shows like Law and Order: SVU like to attach to rape was thankfully absent from my experience. Neither of us was drunk. Neither of us was on drugs. He didn’t beat me into submission. We didn’t hit each other (that night). And here’s the kicker: he was my boyfriend. We were high school sweet-hearts—met at 15, dated for three turbulent years. We both were “troubled teenagers.” I wore baggy black clothes and discovered the miraculously fitting gift of not being able to tan. I never took care of myself: greasy hair, untrimmed eyebrows, junk food, B.O.—all there. He was socially withdrawn, ADD, awkward, and had a terrible and sometimes violent home life. Bam! Angsty teen romance. Before it got not funny. Before he started hitting me. Before I started hitting him right the hell back. Before he raped me while I cried softly to the sky I couldn’t see.

Blood-boiling.

Redefinition

by Ashley McCoy

NONFICTION FIRST PLACE

Rape: [reyp] 1. The unlawful compelling of a person through physical force or duress to have sexual intercourse.

There’s always that feeling, a feeling like you’re forgetting something but not really forgetting. It sits on your chest and hides in the shadows in the corners of your vision. Whoever you were before, you are no longer. It wasn’t your choice. It took you and hammered you out into a new shape so fast that you don’t have time to gather your grip. Chances are you start to act, talk, in ways that you never did before. I started drinking. Doing every drug I could get my hands on. Having sex with anyone and everyone, but only hanging around for one night. Skipped classes. Skipped work. Cried myself to sleep without knowing why. Ignored everything. It took me a long while to get a handle on what happened. I was doing my best not to think about it. After a push (Chlamydia), I decided to pull myself together. I tried to. I started going to therapy, where I discovered I get to carry around PTSD as a result for the rest of my life. I had to struggle hard to gain some semblance of control over who I was. That’s what rape does—it takes away from you. Society likes to think that as long as the rape wasn’t “violent,” the person is fine. Physical violence isn’t the only violence. Rape is emotionally violent. It makes you question the base of your very soul. It gets in your head. Stays there. I have flashbacks of the emotions I had when it happened. It made it hard to keep a boyfriend. It ruined what was a good

44 What society and popular culture (see above: Law and Order) tend to forget is that for a lot of people, rape isn’t violent in the classical sense of the word. It most likely isn’t a stranger who does the raping. That leaves victims to wonder. Questions bubble forth. Was it rape? He’s my boyfriend, right? I didn’t want it, but… Stop. The fact that you have to ask yourself is an indication. I didn’t ask that question until much to late. The misconceptions that society places on rape kept me going. I hate it. I hate it because I’m almost certain that it keeps people from coming forward, from reaching out to others who might help them process their inner turmoil. That’s what everyone gets wrong: everyone seems to think that rape is something that’s physical. That’s where the danger is—your body. If only it were that simple. It’s what it does to your mind. What it does to you. Your “self.” It changes you. Twists you. Perverts you into something you’re not, that you weren’t. You begin to question yourself.

45 relationship. I couldn’t argue with someone I was involved with without panicking and cowering in a corner, shutting down and crying hysterically. It has all the power over you. Over yourself. Over your feelings. That’s what it comes down to. When a person is raped, they lose power over themselves. That is what sinks in and sticks. It’s terrifying. That’s what I struggled with. I had to gain back my sense of power over myself, a thing that most people never have to lose. It comes back. You make it come back. You fight. You fucking fight with every ounce of spirit left in your body to come back out on top. You don’t ever, ever give up. You. Are. You. You always have been and you always will beautifully be you. Nothing and no one can take that away from you. Oh, they can try. But you can’t let them. You take that awful, disgusting little word and you hammer it. You shape it into what you want it to be. Rape can’t own you. That’s not who you are. Rape can’t tell you who to be. Only you are allowed to redefine yourself. You get to own “rape.” You get to take it, overcome it, and make it your bitch.

46 NONFICTION SECOND PLACE

Before studying feminism through my major in Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies, I knew about feminism as it pertained to politics and the social climate though I seldom thought about it intersectionally.

Privilege Check by Gabrielle Schatz

I waited in the cell for the 17 other women to arrive, but they never did. It didn’t take long—I kicked, screamed, cursed, called out, I counted yellowed bricks on the cell walls, I made patterns with the markings on the floor, the scratches on the walls.

I was singled out. They asked my name and where I was born—Israel—and if I had scars or tattoos. Anxious to get off the bus, I answered. The officers didn’t ask anyone else, and I figured someone had called on my behalf. When we were unloaded, I was brought before the magistrate first. I cooperated. Before I knew it, I was taken inside city lock up. I was finger printed, strip searched (where my Diva Cut was thrown into the trash), mug-shot, and taken to a cell.

In March 2012, I was arrested. Along with 30 others, I was arrested on the steps of the Virginia capitol for protesting the Republican anti-choice legislation. Knowing I was a feminist was never a question to me, and when police and armed guard swarmed the capital to further undermine women, instinct kicked in. I wasn’t going to move off those steps. I wasn’t going to let two rich, white men stop me from non-violently defending female reproductive autonomy, or at least I though I wasn’t. I was arrested with the others who refused to move off the steps. We were split up by sex and forced onto white school buses, one designated men and the other women. We were taken to the 9th Street jail, where the men on of the first bus were immediately unloaded. Our bus had to wait, as if to be further punished for speaking out. The women were left on the bus without our water or a break for 8 hours. When it got bad, some of us peed at the back of the bus. They left our constricting zip-tie cuffs on until our hands went purple. Eventually, officers came on the bus.

47 Eventually, someone opened the metals shutter on the little window of the cell door. My heart rose. I asked why I was in the cell and why no one was joining me and when I’d be released. The male guard looked at me and without saying anything, closed the shutter. I was left in there for the rest of the night. At some point, I laid on the bench to try to sleep. Time stopped existing and it was just me, my solitude, and my ennui.

So many people, so many women, are behind bars for nonviolent crimes. They are victims of the War on Drugs, the War on Poverty, and the Race War in the United States. As unfortunate an experience as it was for me, being a white, educated woman, I was privileged to get a taste of the system without having to be immersed in it.

When I think back at my old stubborn self, I see where I was unaware of what I was so bashful toward. I can see why I didn’t feel like I had to check my privilege because I thought I was not the problem: I was not the oppressor—I was merely someone who didn’t have it so bad. But I realize now that I don’t need to be getting defensive; that’s not what privilege is. Checking your privilege refers to an understanding of one’s place in society based on race, gender, sexuality, and/or socioeconomic standing. It’s

At some point, a guard woke me. He pulled me up and I was taken to the nurse. When I got there, she had some rubbery jail food and water for me. Delirious, I was escorted before another officer for release. I asked the final guard I’d encountered why I had been held in a cell, why I’d been taken from the other women and where everyone else was. She informed me I had been singled out because I was foreign-born. I was uncuffed and released through the back of the building with an older Hispanic man. He didn’t speak English, but we mimed our disbelief before going our separate ways. I remember his face vividly. I empathize with him and as far as I could tell, he empathizedCheckingback.my privilege came from a situation that is not really that out of the ordinary for many people in this country. I spent a relatively short amount of time in jail, I got off with my charges expunged, and— on the surface—I’m unaffected by the experience. But this brief glimpse at the criminal justice system and being discriminated against was enough to wake me to how much better off I had been than so many other people and how much better off I still am, even than that man.

48 acknowledging that what societal tier you’re at, how it differs from others, and where this difference may give you an advantage. It’s also taking this understanding and using it to stop undermining people who are oppressed. The first and most difficult step, as I found, is realizing that one is, in fact, privileged. We’re not taught to see our privilege and it takes something like getting arrested to slap us in the face and say, “This is other people’s reality! You have it really good!”

I knew after I got out that I was changed. I knew, if only temporarily, what it was to be trapped and powerless. I knew also that it was a privilege to have lived my life before that turning point feeling oppressed. My action in March 2012, in an effort to keep abortion legal, ended in a very different way than it started. I began the day very sure of myself, but by that night I was completely dehumanized. While the experience was awful and I don’t credit the power that put me there, I do feel like I’m a more complete person because of my arrest. I realize that there’s more to action than me and my struggle. I think about the struggles of different women and different people every day, and I no longer shoo my privilege. I’m not immune to justice and as a feminist, I recognize the many people who are victims of so much deep-seeded inequity and discrimination in this country

by Saidu Tejan-Thomas, Jr.

I know I learn best from observing

I know elementary school and neglectful teachers I know how to make do with what I have; how construction paper can double as a blade how I called my first attempt at ending it, a paper cut I know white girls with maize hair and bright skin who taught me my dark was bad, but I know the afro is strong and black skin is far from brittle I know “Black don’t crack”

I know the moon is the loneliest thing in the sky

I know grey clouds move in at night and I feel most alone in the dark

I know today my friends and I are a little different, and some see women as food, I learned about rape culture from a collection of stardust disguised as human who occasionally identifies as a Boi I know gender, bodies, vaginas, and penises don’t define you.

And the closest I’ve gotten is saying my name in the mirror the right way I know I’ve shelved my country

I can’t remember where I heard that

I know we are all temporary beings ready to see who will cry when we leave I know dust is where we came from and it’s where we will return I know somewhere in Sierra Leone is a grave holding the dust of children, I know they are my family I know rebels who gave guns to those children to kill for Idiamondsknowthere must be a mine somewhere in Chicago the way them boys kill each other I know this country kills cultures and calls it assimilation I find it hard to remember home some days

POETRY FIRST PLACE The Little I’ve Learned (After Aja Monet)

I know Bob Marley tied to teach me through a boombox in a living room in Freetown, Sierra Leone, And vibrations that positive can’t be contained I think we all want someone to be vulnerable with and not be judged for it I know when I was 13, I watched Sex and the City marathons I know a lot of people don’t think so but Sarah Jessica Parker could still get it. I know how hard it is to let go of boyhood fantasies I know how hard it is to let go

50 in my Facebook profile, Twitter bio, and back pocket

I know it’s the closest cloak I reach for in my identity crisis I know my sister was born cloak-less, naked, American, fatherless I know the type of men who will see her thirteen as sustenance I know how to fight, I know to fight, I know how to fight and being the older brother means God sent me to light from the darkness first so I could show her the way I know the devil enters your mouth when you’re angry and we say things we don’t mean wishing we could take them back, I know every breath is precious but I don’t carry my inhaler. I know I breathe easier lying next to a warm body I know I translate everything I hear and speak And still don’t understand love.

How life is holding tight to people you care for I know my mother once told me “Death is like rain; it falls on everyone’s doorstep” I know the irony of her death. How my hands failed to grip water How easily my knees bent when I heard she fell I know my mother was my favorite poet I know she’s on a cloud somewhere tonight Keeping me company, clapping in happy thunder at the little I’ve learned, and the celestial I have yet to know.

May we proudly travel as we please. Each of us will take her own strides into the warm neon light at her own pace, at her own tone, at her own will; smiling in vulnerable whimsicality or tight-lipped in vehement silence or bearing her teeth in proud lioness anger for every injustice: we will be heard through the cold soundproof walls, sisters holding hands through the tidal wave of the end of days.

It’s more than fantasy: it is achieved and realized, envisioned and actualized in life, more than fluid lucid dreams and more than reverie: It’s in the little girl with chestnut eyes glowing burnt ochre embers in the morning sun stretching her young limbs skyward and gracing the floor with the touch of her toes and struts out of bed with a royally earnest gait. She knows when she faces the morning that daring to live voraciously, spaciously, is her proclamation of dedication to flourishing in a glass tomb world that screams at her to shrink. May we proudly speak as we wish.

Every voice—from the cautiously whispered soprano letting powerful calculated words that bubble behind that unlabeled mouth spill when willed to do so, and sit quiet when she chooses—to be fearless mid-pitched blossom filling the room with fury as ample as her softly powerful calves and round unstoppable lightning heat thigh—to the trembling tenor who will let the tense world see her true identity shrugging off the sheaths of shame clenched around her rain-straight waist.

POETRY SECOND PLACE With this Power No One Can Take by Bayan Atari With this power no one can take, May we proudly take up space.

ARTWORK

Couple Kathleen Brien

Two-Toned Future Jasmine Thompson

57 Sometimes I Can’t Keep My Head Together Peighton Young

58 Dying from the Inside Peighton Young

59 Shock Therapy Sandra Whittington

60 Invisible Kathleen Brien

61 Aspergers, Alzheimers, Dementia, Etc. DepressionTrypophobiaand DermatillomaniaAnxiety Kathleen Brien

WRITING

I parted with my innocence and my childhood when I found out Santa Claus didn’t exist, and I’m pretty sure nothing – not even sex – could bring me any lower than the first Christmas we didn’t put out reindeer food. As for the relationship aspect, I was two-and-a-half years into a relationship and we were going strong. Lastly, there was the most difficult part: Parting with Your Hymen

Losing your virginity entails a lot of parting. First, there’s parting your legs. These logistics are fairly simple, taught to us through splits in gymnastics class, the basic physical education crab walk, and the lunges your mom does to “exercise” around the house. Then there’s what your abstinence-only sex education classes teach you: when you have sex you part with your innocence, your childhood and possibly your significant other.

The way people describe a hymen pushes it away from reality and more into a fantastical category. Before I actually parted with my hymen, I would have believed in unicorns before believing in this basic piece of my anatomy. First, there’s the common phrase “popping the cherry.” Connoisseurs of sex use this phrase to make it sound…I don’t even know, but to me it just makes it all the more confusing. First of all, do you really “pop” a cherry?

Losing My Virginity over a Period of Four Months by Anonymous

At least, that’s what they all say. I suppose if used in certain contexts – a lover, a friend, a family member, even a childhood pet – this years-old cliché is true. However, if what you’re parting with is your hymen, and that parting isn’t going so well, let me tell you: parting is a goddamn relief.

I have eaten many a cherry in my day and it seems more of a squish than a pop when I crunch it between my molars. Then of course there’s “breaking” your hymen. Now, instead of a cherry shoved between the walls of my vagina there is a piece of glass that will shatter when a penis touches it. No thank you. Not to mentioning the fact that some girls are told that tampons, riding a horse, or gymnastics will cause them to no longer be

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

So, when our clothes were off and the door was locked, I attempted to – in technical terms – part with my hymen (with help from my boyfriend). There was the assumed fumbling and awkwardness, laughed off as we attempted to roll on a condom and situate ourselves comfortably. Then there was the final moment, preceded with a tensing of every muscle in my body, which I began to lose my virginity. ThereTryingwas pain as my boyfriend pushed into me, and before I could ask myself when the “sharp pinch” would end there was a wall. I gasped loudly and tears pricked my eyes as my boyfriend attempted to go more than an inch deep inside of me. He failed and the pain was too much for me to bear. Both of us being virgins, we had no idea what was supposed to happen and attempted to fix the solution, fairly sure that his penis was supposed to go more than a third of the way inside of my vagina. However every time we tried, there was that wall again, ever-present, and what I assumed was my mythical, fantastical, horrible hymen.

66 virgins. I mean, really? If a hymen holds that much power it has to be magical. Not just a piece of anatomy, but a sign that everyone can see that says, “I’m a whore,” no matter how you lost your virginity. I thought you lost your virginity when a penis entered your vagina but apparently, I was wrong. That magical moment when a tampon pushes a little too deep or a little too hard, that’s the moment all girls should be writing about in their journal labeled “TOP SECRET” with hearts on the Thencover.there are the descriptions of how it actually feels when you part with your hymen. Considering the amount of mystery wrapped around it, I’m fairly sure it’s the number one most-googled question before each girl loses her virginity. Some say they don’t even feel it. Others say it’s a “sharp pinch” followed by relief and pleasure. Even more say it takes a couple times for it to stop hurting.

“Maybe it will loosen up if you push harder?” I asked my boyfriend.“Idon’twant to hurt you.”

“Well…I’m good. But there’s this thing?” “Yes?” I’m fairly sure at this point her heart has stopped and was waiting for the declaration of my teenage pregnancy. “Well, Eric and I had sex,” insert a larger intake of breath from my mother, “and I don’t think it went how it was supposed to… there was a lot of pain. More than I think there was supposed to be.”Twenty minutes and an ob/gyn appointment later, my mother officially knew I wasn’t a virgin. Though the newest low in this wonderful journey was yet to come.

“You won’t.” “I’m not going to push harder if it hurts you.” He refused to budge on the subject and as a result I collapsed into a puddle of tears, naked, while a condom was still rolled onto my boyfriend. He awkwardly held me and asked what was wrong but what could I say? I don’t think there’s a way to explain how much of a failure you feel like when you’re unable to perform a basic biological function. I mean, there are 12-year-olds having sex and getting pregnant with strangers yet I’m unable to have safe sex with a man that I love? Also, given the stigma of sex in our society, it wasn’t like I could have gone to the nearest adult and ask how sex was supposed to feel. For the week that my boyfriend visited – he went to college in New York, I here in Virginia – we attempted and failed at having sex. My boyfriend left with a kiss on my forehead and the positive words “we can try again in a few months.” Trying Again We tried again a few months later, I think it was during Thanksgiving break, and failed. That’s when I completely lost it: I called my mother. My mother has always been an open, loving person and felt no need for tsk-ing at my personal decisions. But calling her about my sex life? A more embarrassing phone call has never happened in my life. It went something along the lines“Hey,of: mom.” “Hey! How are you?”

WithObstetrician/Gynecologistyourfeetinthestirrupsat

the OB/GYN, you reach a new level of embarrassment. Your legs are completely spread – an extent to which I’m sure no Catholic nuns approve of, regardless of the medical reason – and a person’s head is located approximately at your knees. To make matters even worse in my situation, my gynecologist was what I like to call elbowdeep inside of me. She was looking for a “micro tear,” the supposed cause for my dyspareunia, a fancy word for painful sexual intercourse. The doctor attempted to find this tear by inserting multiple fingers inside of me and pushing around as if a micro tear will appear like braille on the walls of my vagina. Though, I’m not a doctor so maybe that’s exactly how it goes.

“I don’t feel anything,” she said, her voice seeming to chastise me for being a wimp on the sexual pain factor.

In order to find this micro tear more efficiently, the aggressive doctor asked me how the pain felt and where it was located. I hated this question – and still do – because pain is pain, especially when it comes to parts that are inside of you.

At the time I didn’t even know what I had eaten for breakfast, so I was even less likely to know exactly where this pain was located.“The right side?” I ventured, trying to think back three weeks, to the last time I had had sex. Her hands reached even farther and pushed, to no avail. She pulled out her gloved hands, as if they hadn’t been inside of me for the past half an hour and shook her head.

“Aha!”

“Well something is there,” I insisted, forcing her to once more penetrate me while I laid back on that crinkly white paper at all doctors’ offices. To me it felt like the cheap toilet paper at public schools and I wondered idly at the time if they had the same supplier. A supplier whose life goal was to make the most uncomfortable people – patients and public school students – even more uncomfortable when they were either ass-up on a table or wiping their ass in a bathroom stall. Above my wide-spread knees my doctor looked up in triumph.

69 ThanksAha! to my encouragement, she was able to find that my hymen on the right-hand side was thick, too thick. This made it unable to break on its own. This came the fun – actually, completely horrible – part. In order to have normal sex I would have to take a month manually stretching out my hymen. I won’t go into details because they’re intimate and disgusting, but let’s leave it at this: masturbating is fun if you’re choosing to do it for pleasure. Having to masturbate every day, to stretch out your hymen, while your mother knows you have to do it – that’s beyondHowever,explanation.thedoctor was right and my hour-long-total molestation paid off. Normal sex is now attainable and my hymen was effectively broken through a month of hard work. And after the two months of failed sex, a month where I waited for my doctor’s appointment and the month of doctorprescribed masturbation all I can say now, in regards to my hymen, is: parting is a goddamn relief.

As if dividing your tongue is the solution of having a conversation with me as if slang is a second language

Why do you think my body is some equation worth solving? Why do you speak “black” to me?

Pieces by Brittney Maddox “It’s hard out here for a bitch.” Says Lily Allen as she sashays around with women who I could call my sisters and it’s easy for her to say

When you’re a black woman the first thing people think is not how smart you are or how humorous you are and what are your talents are They want to know what pieces of you can they fit together into the glass screen of their tvs They want to know if you know how to twerk

As if twerking is a skill you somehow inherited from your ancestors As black woman my body is under a microscope my thighs are picked at my breasts are examined my hair is a puzzle It is a mystery why is what’s on top of my head a mystery?

Doesn’t hip hop degrade black women anyway? Why is it a problem?

Why do you pick apart my mind?

So yes I’ll teach you how to twerk, how to dougie, and to drop it like it’s hot You can call me “boo” I can cornrow your hair I can pop lock and drop it Stop it flip it and reverse it Wait…let’s reverse that! My culture is not something you can rehearse you cannot act “black” My body is not a costume My culture is not something you can consume You cannot emulate my experiences and sell them for the world to Noseethat’s not an accurate representation of me on BET I’m not a video girl Gyrating across your screen

I’m not a stupid hoe bands won’t make me dance I’m not your mamie I won’t cook and clean for you I’m not your jezebel I’m not your chocolate delight I’m not the girl who only exists for you at night I’m trying desperately to mute the stereotype of what it means to be a black woman. In a country that sees me in pieces but not as a whole.

As if I am the well-spoken token dictionary to urban culture

His sugar plum lips by Gabbie Robinson

What’s left of his clothing, a royal purple tube top he borrowed from her closet, is blackened with blood that shines brown in the light. She can only see his top half, the rest covered by the black bag. She scratches deep into her arms, turning it red like his swollen limbs.

The squeak of the officer’s boots amplified by stainless steel coffins. She hates this cop with his peculiar look, as if judging her for not collapsing in grief. She holds herself still under the mortician’s steady gaze. “That’s my brother,” the tone alive, self-conscious of the space it rings through. The officer’s hand is light on her shoulder as he steers her from the room, the sharp teeth of the zipper hiss behind them.

There’s hollowness to her chest, like his caved in left side. His light brown skin, like her own, is mottled sick green and acid yellow

That’s the only thing she can recognize. His face is smeared with blood and blush, his head misshapen.

His lip s are still stained with Sugar-Plum Fairy, It matches the chipped polish on his fingernails.

Now...... despite having no involvement in the events described to you just now besides possible prior ignorance of:

As their shared scripture says not to harm the children. Before he could even be handed off, He received a three pronged arrow through his neck. He died too young to understand prejudice and war But old enough to understand love and mercy.

Is...YouAskIa child a treasure or an enemy?

Ali al Asghar by Steven Thomas Bock

The occurrence in question is the Battle of Karbala where an infant named Ali al Asghar, among many more children not even able to conceive the notions of war and prejudice, was killed by such evils. His short life and unjust death separated from my own existence by centuries has made a crack, no a canyon, in my soul in regards to how I look at war and other means of needless invalidated separation between human beings for “If one is not your brother in faith, he is your brother in humanity.” He was just a child when he died. His parents and their companions simply on pilgrimage When things got so bad they had to stop even pilgrimage To speak up against the ill treatment of the people.

Armed as pilgrims not soldiers They were attacked and entrapped at Karbala By a ratio of more of 400 to each of their mere 72.

Child, elder, pregnant with child, woman and man a like Were made to starve and thirst. However what happen to all the children Was enough to make all despise the Caliph. What happen to him alone Was enough to make all despise the Caliph. His father took him - only an infant - to give to his oppressors So they would give him water

of being ignorant of the deaths they have caused Arechildren?youjust

Does it manner if they are Sunni or Shia?

How…… many battles of war, Of AreWarTerroristicWorthless,Evil,Sickening,mere,youguilty

Do you enjoy mere derivatives of humanity - not even GodSuch as mere countries, political ideologies, religious sects, material wealth, More than your siblings in humanity?

A child shouldn’t be shot because their parents and you have a Ifquarrel.youcan love Allah in His infinite complexity, Why not a child in their humble simplicity?

For that manner does it manner if they are even Muslim?

A…child

shouldn’t be made to thirst because you don’t agree with their parents.

a whore who gives consent at the cost of ignorance?

Is not a child a seed of love life should congregate around? Not death. Not war.

Something came here, something massive and implacable Stopped and rested its terrible bones. Was it one fell swoop or a subtle creep over the years? Does it matter? The result is the result.

by Michael Waite I Lima fades away, the land is able to breathe again Without the weight of asphalt, its dry, dusty chest rising and Infallingthe still air. There are some structures scattered on the house or a wall beckoning the highway with bright painted letters, But wild emptiness easily outnumbers these ruins. Slowly they crumble and rebelliously return to the sand. II

Bus ride to Nazca (A Positive and Negative Perspective on the Landscape)

Alandscape,whitewashed

Pitiful remnants of towns, missing walls and inhabitants. Dry riverbeds lined with trash left for the birds. Survivors go from day to day with the skeletons in full view. Sometimes they whisper in the candlelight, when even the Hascantinagone to sleep, careful not to scare the children Or summon the return of that which took their friends away.

Lost at Sea by Chrissy Epperson I grew up in between two beacons of femininity: my sisters pruning themselves like weeds to be the same— painting their faces still finding no traces of what the TV and the magazines promised us if we aligned with their idea of Mybeauty.mother: a lighthouse projecting gentility. A father who oozed Andmasculinity.I,wonderingifthisisthebody, the person I was meant to be with the TV and the magazines telling me what to straightenwearyour hair don’t you dare get any fatter. And I did push ups until my arms shook perfected a right hook I would never use because boys are afraid to bruise a girl.

So I starved the boy right out of me to fit into smaller jeans made for preteens with no hips. And my family telling me ‘Don’t give us any lip. Nice girls don’t argue and offer no quips.’ And the insecurities took root inside of me growing tendrils long and mean that infected my mind with tired dreams of beauty. For years I let them grow I tended them through rain, through snow. And let women whose showedribsthrough their skin whose protrudedlips from cheeks sunken in convince me of their beauty. How was I to know that those women and my mother were wrong until the day that I left home while my mother and the TV and the magazines kept telling me ‘You would be so pretty if only…’

Wishing they were the ones who took us to potties

I recall the pain of adults dirtying me before washing it away with golden rain Their sweaty hands touched me everywhere, although I begged them to refrain My tears…our tears…were in vain They even made us touch each other Grade schoolers fondling one another’s undeveloped bodies

So I sometimes wonder if what happened to me, hurt them more than myself

Tar’s Fans by Nevelious Jordan

I used to be a movie star

Just before we step in front of the camcorder

I can remember back far when I performed under the name “Tar” That’s the name they gave me because I was the only little black Itboystarted with a bald white man asking if I wanted a new toy

The Barelyabductedableto write complete sentences yet nude photos of us are being snapped

For girls, sweaters and checkered skirts I guess the attire was part of the fantasy’s appeal It gave us a real elementary school feel Each time we were raped, it was taped

While these men and women called us “hotties”

For any 8-year old, that’s one hell of a decoy I was my parents pride and joy

But unless you’re a sick pervert, you probably won’t know what kind they are

The bastards he used us to entertain Flashbacks stain my brain

We were forced to dress up sometimes For boys, khakis and plaid shirts

To make innocence-breaking filth to be shipped along the US to Europe and across the border Child hoarder That’s what they called the bald man

Fourteen years have passed and the memories still jerk me back like Wallwhiplashtowallkids in a damp, cramped cellar

The women I walk past, glaring at me with lust

They are the reason I flinch at a camera’s shutter And why I start to stutter… When people say I look familiar I think back to the day I was snatched off the porch

And realize I’ve achieved celebrity status in secret I don’t want to But the fans force me to keep it

And I don’t know if police ever found them all but I’ve tried moving on with my life It’s hard, though, when people are staring

The look in their eyes says it all

They know who I am And they are fans The men watching me on the bus

And no, I do not neglect the ones disguised as people.

Welcome to Mi Peor Pesadilla: Authentic Mexican Hellhole, Where your friendly neighborhood business proprietors are fans of white wash and inconsistency masters of evasion of tax collection, health inspections and customer complaints. Ethics are a far-cry but the numbness that y’all all crave is a couple overpriced buds away. Just take a left off litterscenicriddenhighwaytoo far too gone, you know, the street that splays the darling little swamp these folks seem to love sinking into so much, the one they lined with the idols of their lifestyles, convenience and complacency and awh, they call it quaint.

The water in some towns is too stagnant to drink, Run like hell until you learn how to fix it.

On any given night you can find me behind the hostess stand, putting all my weight into a place that does not support me, counting roaches to kill the time.

“Family Style Dining” at it’s finest by the family that buys the luxuries I can’t afford then loses my paychecks, pilfers my tips, exploits my persistence, But hey, we’re all chasing the dream of a well-insulated wallet, caught by our tails in The Rat Race, but I think you should know

The Contempt I Bare for Waiting Tables by Kathryn Novelli

(No.)Coworker, server, friend stands beside me shimmering eyes, seatingsedated,people she’s known since childhood at dirty diner tables. They see her now as a personal servant and no more. They don’t say thank you.

81 watering down a culture, then overcharging for the product has ceased to prove itself as a lucrative business combo and I’ve lost the drive to sell my soul with that manufactured

Thegusto.regulars:agaggleofdrunkards and bigots comparable to wriggling maggots trapped under a rock but suffering from illusions of grandeur crafted on the back of ill-gotten privilege; at the register they let me know that entitlement complexes and camo print are all the rage this season. I ask if they’d like a receipt and let them know I haven’t felt the seasons change here in a while.

The cook will only speak to me in whispers, tells me I’m pretty so close to me I can see through his intentions in the seclusion of the meat freezer where the hanging animal carcasses really set the mood and I’m overwhelmingly aware that he’s been staring at my ass all day.

I know enough about cooking to know that he’s not grunting about chopping onions and enough Spanish to know when he’s calling me a bitch for not appreciating his compliments. Then he asks me if I’d feel safer if he’d walk me to my car.

the sweetness I’ve been demanded to provide. Honey,likethe dollars I’ve been lured with, and I remind myself I’m getting paid to smile, nod and agree, quietly preferably. Stay subservient and resist what my better instincts know when I don’t stray away from his beer vapor breath made heavy with the stink of ignorance and Honeythistea isn’t sweet enough Honeythissteak just don’t taste right

She doesn’t deserve this they don’t deserve her but in this place our uniforms match white shirt, black pants the bows of our aprons pronounced on the smalls of our backs synchronized cinching our waists ought to be stretched tall and thin bent into shape to please the men. Your hourglass ladies fulfilling your stereotypes refilling your margaritas and right now Ithedoubtman at the bar wants that drink more than I do. His slow southern drawl stings my cheek, calls me honey tells me to come closer to him I

Honey,shudderlikeheappreciates

Honeyyoulook tense and then his claws sink in and Motherfucker get your hands off my shoulders

Motherfucker I’m fantasizing about destroying your truck Motherfucker a gay joke is not a way to start a conversation but a race joke is more than enough to end one. Motherfucker you will never own me nor my body and times are changing and you cannot hide your filth in this sinkhole for much longer. The customer is not always right the server is neither a prize nor a punching bag but I hold my tongue. and I’m getting Refusetired. to appreciate abuse, tip generously.

Motherfucker you’re lucky I didn’t spit in your drink

When I asked questions no answers were provided Just directions to a corner, and a head full of thoughts/questions

Didlike

The section of my textbook looked thinner than The words seemed carefully placed The truth unpacked We began with the Atlantic slave trade

they wear gold and kentia cloth like the pictures I see Were they darker than me Did the lighter skinned girls sit at the top of the boat

This will prove who’s the prettiest whose human enough to be 25,000raped

A twitpic posted of brown bodies aligned on the deck captioned Favorite if you prefer light skin Retweet if you prefer dark skin

Did they hold up their red noses Did they watch in anger or with closed emotions when their darker counterparts got thrown over Centuries later we scroll over

The dark skinned girl being photoshopped next to a black leather couch or the light skinned girl with freckles being cropped beside a rotted banana

It’s team dark skinned team light skinned On the S.S. twitter ship Sailing down the sea of statuses on a timeline

Except that each historical or cultural lesson took us at least 2 Andmonthsthen we reached February

Do the two teams rival for survival

Dark savages fighting to stay alive in the cargo Light skins having identity crises living in chains and cabins

RTs to see a vine of the ships crew invading these brown vessels

No specifics on the homes these bodies were stripped from

Colorism by Shay Patrick I don’t remember learning much in my primary school days

When looking at the phenotypes of our brothers and sisters

Can we turn the ship around Can we stop teaching each other That being brown and black is alright

The blind eyes and open mind of John Henrick Clarke

If 100,000 followers, light or dark, realize we are voyaging on the same timeline

As long as our black has some white And God lessens our curves And curves our curl pattern into spirals, not coils That we are only useful in a tray full of watercolors when we learn how to properly blend Our history keeps forcing us to divide But there is no order of operations for black skin

To unlearn ignorance and start asking questions

To unlearn the statement of “this is just how it is”

But to study the Y It is hard for us to admire our differences

So I challenge us to stop trying to solve for the X

The red hair and thirst for freedom of Malcolm X

We are a people with a history That teaches us the terms race and color are interchangeable But I promise when we look pages deep we are so much more beautiful than that.

The mocha skin and unapologetic message of Assata Shakur

Shooting the Messenger by Joshua Braunstein

Now Xbox marks the spot to gravestone on a funeral plot where a mother buries her baby boy in a wooden box. Life is not a game don’t treat it like a console you cannot console someone who had no controller or control over when the gunman pulled the right trigger. In the right place at the wrong time just the latest Jordan Davis with less press because it was black on black crime. He was a verbal improv artist known to pick and juggle rhymes from where he sat the exact attack had bullets exit out of his back now we can’t get you back. If the only way out of the “hood” is drugs and rap why do you think they call it the “trap”? I’m just stating the facts. How can you call it a project if it’s not a work in progress? That’s nonsense its crap. The penitentiary is the pen and rappers write bars because the system is cracked. Treat your black boys like animals but act surprised when they adapt.

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Addrean Ross aka Lil Snupe who was shot and killed over an argument instigated from playing video games.

Now watch the evidence stack, he was slain by A stolen gun how could this B we are left to ask Y an X convict had access to a firearm. Now a woman loses the child she held in her arms for your right to bear arms and the world loses a talented young rapper with no rhyme or reason. But this is no isolated incident. The grim reaper is grinning at the south side of Chicago because the death toll looks like Afghanistan without TV coverage or a word touching newsstands. We have grown numb and accustomed to the violence. Let’s break the silence go to the NRA nail the 95 theses in the front office. Do guns stop crime or do they cause it? Are the two girls from my high school killed at Virginia Tech tragic losses? Is there tragedy in the destruction of a masterpiece when you make it this easy to acquire the tools to erase them? They would’ve graduated in 2011 but their parents learned the unfortunate lesson that college credit doesn’t transfer to heaven.

Human beings are not meant to see or bring death. The proof is in eyes of a returning solider with post traumatic stress. Lil Snupe took two shots to the chest before his lungs sang the sad song of his last breath. How can we brace ourselves and ask who is next instead of reevaluating gun licenses and background checks? Because casual causality of an 18-year-old artist is not something I can accept. Will nothing change until it happens to their own flesh? How many innocent sons and daughters must be slaughtered and play martyr before America can see farther than the barrel of a gun?

The Student Media Center, part of the Student Affairs and Enrollment Services division at Virginia Commonwealth University, is a resource center for recognized student media at VCU. Current recognized student media include Poictesme; Amendment; The Commonwealth Times newspaper; Ink, a quarterly magazine; and WVCW radio. For more information, contact VCU Student Media Center, 817 W. Broad St., (804) 828-1058. Mailing address: P.O. Box 842010, Richmond, VA 23284-2010. E-mail: goweatherfor@vcu.edu. Amendment accepts rolling submissions. Please send your name, contact information and submission to amendmentvcu@ gmail.com

AMENDMENT

VCU STUDENT MEDIA CENTER vcustudentmedia.com

Amendment 2014 Cover FINAL.indd 4 9/29/14 12:20 PM

Amendment Literary and Art Journal 2014/15

Articles inside

shooTing The messenger - Joshua Braunstein

losT aT sea - Chrissy Epperson

Tar ’ s Fans - Nevelious Jordan

colorism - Shay Patrick

The conTempT i Bare For WaiTing TaBles - Kathryn Novelli

Bus ride To nazca - Michael Waite

ali al asghar - Steven Thomas Bock

invisiBle - Kathleen Brien

his sugar plum lips - Gabbie Robinson

dying From The inside - Peighton Young

shock Therapy - Sandra Whittington

TWo-Toned FuTure - Jasmine Thompson

someTimes i can ’ T keep my head TogeTher - Peighton Young

WiTh This poWer no one can Take (poeTry 2nd place) - Bayan Atari

couple - Kathleen Brien

privilege check (nonFicTion 2nd place) - Gabrielle Schatz

The liTTle i’ ve learned (poeTry 1st place) - Saidu Tejan-Thomas, Jr

our unBorn child (FicTion 2nd place) - Tavia LaShae’ Gilliam

sloW hours - Sandra Whittington

preTTy in pink - Kathleen Brien

The FirsT deBaTe (FicTion 1st place) - Alex Carrigan

The heTerosex dellusion - Steven Thomas Bock

Walking While Female aT one a.m. - Maya White-Lurie

i Work - Ashley Dean

deTermined - Jasmine Thompson

alone Widda Bird + a Boddle - Cameron Spratley

Bigger on The inside - Taylor Dunivan

To kill a BuTTercup - Katie Burnett

exhiBiT x - Camila Alfonzo Meza

inca sTone - Michael Waite