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t is evident in the history of North America that White Supremacy has been present for more than decades. Having these white Supremists such as Christopher Columbus and Wilfrid Laurier on the Bill gives a narrative of who is important to the nation. Seemingly, most,  if not all the people on the bills have been white, Christian men. We are taught a narrative here of who is "included" and who holds power and authority in the eyes of the nation and who in fact "represents' the nation to not just the people of the nation, but the entire world. There is a huge lack of diversity in the people on the bills, bills which are used every time you take out your wallet- these are the faces that you see, the faces of white Christian men. It is to be questioned, what message this gives to the rest of the non white non Christian people of North America.

However, the notion of having a person's face on currency seems rather flawed to begin with. People are very likely not perfect, and having them glorified in this way, where they are essentially the face of an entire nation, is a system which seems unjust. A leader may be a hero to some and a tyrant to others, it depends on the perspective or story. So having a leader on the bill, which is used by all, tells too "singular" a story.

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Preeta,Pre,Prettycat

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I like hanging out in weird bohemian condos

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I'd rather be less euphoric, and more happy

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I like the whole East meets West kinda vibe

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I like to change my hair colour alot cause im indecisive in life

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I like Vintage things cause they remind me of better times

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Id rather kill the prettycat than be less curious

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I like it natural and I like to play with makeup

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I like athleisure wear

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I like soda cause it reminds me of childhood(ginger ale is the G)

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Id rather live without my mood swings

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I like my coffee and cigarettes

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I'd rather be less pretentious

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I like Sushi places

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I like that I don't have a proper thigh gap

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Symbolism in Donald Glover's "This is America"

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Symbolism in Donald Glover's "This is America"

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The black man with a cloth wrapped over his face is shot through the head. The gun is then placed carefully on a red cloth, while the body of the man is dragged off the scene - The man has no name, no identity or in this case, the loss of lives, specifically black lives -  due to gun violence is a story so common in America that it goes swept under the rug.
The weapon of violence is treated with great care, which makes us question how dangerous weapons and power are in the hands of the every day American.

Among the violence and chaos, the schoolchildren dance around enthusiastically, some documenting the chaos on their phones - A commentary on how the exposure of millennials to the ongoing violence in the world has made it their normal. Documentation of blood and gore becomes a theme, and we are reminded of incidents in which people have chosen to "watch" instead of intervene.

The grim reaper rides around in the background on a white horse - People in power and in a position to take lives are put on a "white steed" or glorified in the society as a result of their authority.

Donald Glover runs breathlessly as if he is being chased - Historically, this can be thought of as him running away from a lynch mob. It can also be thought of as how the history of racial violence and prejudice in America chases on behind the lives of black people till date. History repeats and racial violence is still very prevalent
in America, the consequence of which black lives cannot "run" away from.

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Let us talk about, "how impressionable and vulnerable we are in the face of a single story."

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's TED talk offers insight into how a single story or perspective can solidify as the perceived identity of a person, socioeconomic group, country or culture. She says that if in a story, you show people as one thing and one thing only, over and over again, then that is what they become. "A single story creates stereotypes"- they make one story become the only story.

Mass media or pop culture has, throughout the generations, created powerful stories that narrate a curated version of people and cultures through their characters. I believe, in social media, people now have the power to curate or "brand" themselves into a single image or "story". They can build their own personal story and create a sort of controlled "avatar".

I started my instagram as a social experiment. I wanted to experience how the world, and particularly the East views women explicit in their expressions of sexuality.

I realized after a point, that my pictures told my audience a story which turned into a collective thought or view of me as a person based on the type of content I chose to curate. In the case of many, the images stuck well enough for them to dehumanize - in this case into a sexual object.

Through my exposure to pop culture of both the East and West, I have been subject to many "one story" narratives. But I knew, rather early on, the truth of "never judging a book by its cover" or in this case, a "single story" and I tried to form my thoughts and opinions of people by seeing them from many angles, as best I could.

Personally speaking, I have always seen Art as one of the most effective modes to communicate a message or story that resonates with people in the longer term. My poems I feel, best reflect me and my identity (which I believe is a collection of stories) that are, if I am to say, less curated as they evolve out of my set of beliefs, emotions and world views.

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I like my naivete in once thinking fringes were cool

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Concept of contrasting identities

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Sweet chamber boy, you are so out of breath,

The musk stained bed breathes damp in your sweat

Torn apart like the the petals of my forget- me-not

dismantled and naked in sweet foaming froth

Sweet chamber boy, the tip of your nose is red,

Soft to my touch like a melting sorbet

Cheeks coming rouge from hound dog teeth

Please adorn your scars like fine jewellery

Sweet chamber boy, where is my necklace?

It holds the key to my chains

Won’t you unshackle me?

I’m restless

I’ve meld into you, like I’ve no faith in me

And laid bare in the  glaring light of your scrutiny

What do you see in me, Sweet chamber boy?

Am I your  little mistress? A stretchy, bendable toy? Am I the putty that can take perfect form?

And fall back into nothingness once you’ve gone.

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I was born on February 6th 1998, to what is described to be a profoundly chilly winter's eve (in the words of my mother). My childhood, as I can now constitute, was a relatively happy one. We lived in a joint apartment and I grew up in a large family. I remember my first home as having a quad where all the children would come out to play in the afternoon. It remains one of my fondest childhood memories.

My mother, a social scientist, was offered a research paper at the University of Cornell, so we moved across waters to the quaint little town of Ithaca in the state of New York. It's where I went to pre-school, always tugging at my Father's shirt and never letting him leave my sight, even at the expense of the principal's disapproval.

In a year, we moved back to Bangladesh, where I resided till the age of fourteen. My parents were socialites, my Mother a women's rights activist and my Father a documentary film director. They were eccentric to say the least, and I would be a fool to say that I did not pick up on their such eccentricities. A rebellious teen, I was packed away to the boarding school in the hills of Tamil Nadu and later resided in Calcutta after my expulsion.

Upon returning to Bangladesh, I took a gap from my studies, finding solace in poetry, acting and modelling. I began a social experiment on instagram to gauge the reaction of Eastern society to expressions of sexuality. In this time I also studied Literature and found meaning in the writings of John Keats, particularly the ballad "La Belle Dame Sans Merci".

I believe in myself as a poet at heart, and I would be wrong to predict what the future entails. I do, however, imagine, time and time again, a study filled with old books, children with curly hair, a picket fence and a snowy Vacouver. It'd remind me a bit of Ithaca.

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My Bengal of gold, I love you

Forever your skies, your air set my heart in tune

as if it were a flute.

In Spring, Oh mother mine, the fragrance from

your mango-groves makes me wild with joy,

Ah, what a thrill!

In Autumn, Oh mother mine,

in the full-blossomed paddy fields,

I have seen spread all over sweet smiles!

Ah, what a beauty, what shades, what an affection

and what a tenderness!

What a quiet have you spread at the feet of

banyan trees and along the banks of rivers!

Oh mother mine, words from your lips are like

Nectar to my ears!

Ah, what a thrill!

If sadness, Oh mother mine, casts a gloom on your face

my eyes are filled with tears!

In the national anthem of Bangladesh, "Amar Shonar Bangla" there is a recurring reference of the motherland as "mother". Tagore ties a strong feeling of attachment in the anthem by describing the nature of Bengal- the seasons( Spring and Autumn), the mangrove forests and the paddy fields, the banyan tree and the banks of the river. By referencing to the motherland as "mother" and by drawing into the imagery of Bengal, Tagore instills a sense of familiarity and closeness to the motherland into the people of Bengal. It urges the people of the nation to feel a strong connection to the motherland or "mother" which in turn aids in the nation developing a sense of nationalism and patriotism. The use of the word "mother" or "ma" can therefore be thought of as crucial to the anthem because it personifies the motherland, allowing the people of the nation to relate emotionally to the anthem and feel
a sense of duty towards their nation.

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Oh Wise Men, Love Hath Proven You a Fool

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Oh Wise Men, Love Hath Proven You a Fool

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Oh wise men, they scurry and huddle across the table of time

they speak of their men, and their women, and their fine wine.

Love hath lost its savior to the dampness of his clothes,

Love hath traced back Eden's garden of the East to where the ocean flows.

Creatures that hath not seen the bending of time

Hath not seen merry light where the sun shines

Fools of depth and rage in the fallen desolation

Perpetual happiness in the pain of the limb's Godly creation

The Father speaks of love in his woeful teary eye

For compassion is wrecked on the shores of the coming tide

His breast is gallant of the harshness of his freedom

And life lost to his love's redeeming treason

Fall light fall in the chambers of amber

Ruby or Sapphire on the pendant of the surrendered

Who hath Love lost

And Loved not at all

The wise men weep on to Love's soft call.

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A little too big at the heel,
I had to wear you to know
That feeling of the child inside
Cherry apple red got me starry eyed
I picked you out and mother cried
"Not until you're a woman."

Little me always had a thing for red heeled shoes. It's like I'd tap my way home. I believe there's a little Dorathy in us all. And red heels are powerful.

My favourite pair is now scarred at the back. Still wear it with pride, to the grocery store.