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by Black Anthology

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by Black Anthology

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by Sarah Forbes

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I come from
great migration descendants and foreign immigrants,
from buffalo soldiers and dreadlock Rastas,
from sweet potato pie and fried plantain.
Jill Scott and Bob Marley co-wrote the soundtrack to my childhood
singing of love and pride.

I was taught love by warrior women.
By women who the world ain’t give no choice but to be strong,
but they did so with grace and a touch of magic.
They mixed love into my oatmeal until it grew me up like a bean stalk.

I come from women of faith.
Granny said her Jesus loved me and armed me with rosaries,
while mama whispered her prayers for me into God’s ear.
I went to Catholic school during the week and to Baptist church on Sundays,
Black and white Jesus love me.

I was taught love through joanin’ sessions.
I was taught love is a verb, love is PDA.
Love always texts to see if you got home safe.

It looks like dancing in the kitchen,
it feels like climbing into my mama’s bed at the end of a hard day,
because love takes you as you are
(but you better change outta yo street-clothes first).

Love knows what you need before you do.
It fusses at you when your elbows are on the table
or when your glasses are dirty
and your shoes are in the middle of the floor.

So, don’t tell me what love looks like, I’ve met her.
You don’t know her like I do.
Your love is lukewarm,
and I won’t settle for anything less than sweet potato pie.

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by Kaila Holland

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by Annie Kern

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At home there was always nachos – made our way.
There was sure to be a TV on in the evenings and a warm place to binge-watch.
At home Sunday mornings were for pancakes and turkey sausage and eggs.
At home there was art on the walls and music mingled with incense in the air.
There, random bursts into song were not only welcome, but encouraged
and our kitchen tile was as good as any ballroom floor.
At home the dining table was decoration,
for the finest meals were to be served on our laps.
At home we found quiet when we needed it.
On our couch, we took refuge from the world, escaping into well-needed nap.

At home life felt simple,
even when it wasn’t.
Even when the world shook our foundation,
we stood together, sheltered and safe.

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by Kaila Holland

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I’m not the fighter you think I am
that thought blankets
those that care about me at night.
“she’s okay no matter what,
She’ll fight to the end”
It’d be better for my mother
to imagine I fought tooth
and nail
against my snatchers;
yelled at the top of my lungs,
taking in all that was left.
Truth is...
I smiled at my kidnapper.
Finally.
My disappearance will be at
no fault of my own.
Shame burns like the midday sun.
A hot stove top that I can’t keep
from touching.
It’s beautiful really,

when you don’t have to shield from the sun.
I shied away from its brightness,

and now,
I’ve been flung into it.
At no fault of my own.
It’s nice not to be responsible
for my own shame anymore.
After all...
I was never the fighter you
imagined
me to be.

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"say my name like a prayer" by CeCe Heard

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"say my name like a prayer" by CeCe Heard

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“but you believe in God”
as if
God
didn’t
create
me this
way
as if God and queerness can’t exist in the same holy temple
as if God isn’t the embodiment of queered existence
God
who
created
man
and
woman
in Their
image
God
whose
image
contains
both
man
and
woman
God a nonbinary supreme
as if God Them
as if love
as if I was
as if I fell
the devil in
as if I am
in sheep’s
as if I am
for your
as if I am your
as if I am
to baptize
as if I was
to judas you
I judas
I judas you to
I judas
I judas
––say my name like a prayer
self isn’t love
isn’t love
deceived
in love with
sheep’s clothing
the devil
clothing
a punishment
transgressions
own personal hell
the fire
your sin
created
to salvation
you to hell
temporal damnation
I judas

––say my name like a prayer

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by Ella Holman

*background song: "Cranes in the Sky" by Solange

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by Desmond Young

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by Madison Dugar

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A Whole-Heart to a Half-Brother by anonymous

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A Whole-Heart to a Half-Brother by anonymous

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It took me excruciatingly long to write this first sentence. Already I find myself blinking excessively to forestall the welling of tears in my eyes. I don’t know where to start. It still hurts. Let me just dump emotions down on this inanimate object, this undeserving laptop which could never comprehend the fullness of what I went through and still go through. I won’t even consider how what I say will be received or change the perception others have on me. I feel obligated to say it as it is, even if that means forcing myself to relive an incident I have tried to bury.

Putting my hyper-masculinity aside, I loved him. My age at the time was transitioning to the point where memories were joyfully – or painfully – lodged forever in my mind, pinned to the canvas that is my life story. Though fragmented, I remember Leroy. A lanky, teenage boy with smooth dark skin and even smoother facial features. The way his lazy eyes, subtle nose, and full lips sat on his face resembled his father – our father – closely. I never met his birth mother. His face seemed to rest in a smiling position, giving those around him an accurate impression of an amiable, welcoming individual. He laughed often but laughed genuinely, as if what had occurred was a uniquely comical experience that only he and you shared. His hair was never long, always asking for a close-cut temple fade at the Chop It Up. I remember his style. Leroy, still growing into his adolescent body, was skinny with long limbs. To combat this lanky, spidery appearance, he wore oversized sweatshirts and baggy jeans, with brand name shoes that were always kept meticulously clean. Jewelry had also begun to pique his interest. I have in my mind him going to high school with some icy stud earrings or a glistening silver chain watch, adding a certain shininess, more so a dazzling appeal, to my brother. The expensive accessories themselves aren’t what caught my eye, but rather they only made visible the pre-existing glamour of my idol. I wanted to shine like him.

Leroy had a magical power too: power in his ability to make you see the wonder in something far from wondrous.  His gaze fell upon something plain and normal – a person, a place, a thing - with such passion, such excitement, that he seemed to elevate it to a level deserving of utmost fascination. We were sharing a drink one time, just a can of Fanta. But the special manner in which he put his eyes on the remarkably unremarkable aluminum object filled me with a conviction that it held some rare, and incredibly desirable attribute. This magical ability added liveliness to my daily schedule, a liveliness that was craved during my younger years.

I enjoyed spending time with Leroy. Retrospectively considering our relationship as brothers with a notable age gap, I probably annoyed the hell out of him. Me, a pre-tween fool just frothing for attention from who I looked up to, this shiny teenager with special powers and smooth dark skin. My selfishness for his time would range from the mundane task of asking him to help me study for an English vocab test, or me pulling eagerly on his lanky arm to come play soccer in the yard or me intruding on his alone time to learn about the mystical and awe-inspiring world of a teenager. Some would say I was obsessed, but we all have that person in our life with whom we wish we could share every important moment with: the funny ones, the happy ones, the special ones… the painful ones. Vastly more important though, is that person in our life who we need – truly for survival - to just talk with. I liked talking with Leroy. I would clamor senselessly about the petty struggles of an elementary school student, and he would just listen. Many people in my life would hear what I have to say, but none would listen like Leroy. He mastered the balance of being receptive, acting as nothing more than a body with two ears, while also being sage, delivering impactful advice and genuinely making my problem his problem. He was like a Martin Luther King to a crowd of activists, stringing together exactly what I wanted to hear and exactly what I needed to hear.

Or maybe I just idolized what he said to be nothing but perfect.

I leaned precariously on what words spilled out of his mouth next. The fullest, most rewarding achievement for me was a compliment from my big brother. Whether it be a basic “good job lil bro” to a well-written birthday card, his words were the source of my confidence, the heat and water to my geyser.

It has occurred to me that Leroy loved me too. The teenager would never admit it, but any wise adult could have seen the subtle loyalty he owed me, the protective mannerisms, and the comfort we felt together, all aspects of the foundation of brotherhood. When there was the choice of spending time with good friends or watching one of my Crossfire soccer games, I was his priority. In a frantic, busy Century Link Field commons area, where towering, loud figures put stress on my small, introverted body, Leroy’s guiding hand on my shoulder dissolved my angst of being squashed like an ant and dissolved his angst of his little brother’s vulnerability being exposed. In the quiet after hours of our residency, the perennial problems of a high school boy evaporated when he and I were together, no talking, no playing games, no interaction at all, solely existing in a comforting vicinity eased our minds. I guess you could say I needed him and he needed me.

And then he was just gone.

Rather, he is still gone and forever will be gone. The decision he made that ripped him out of my life was quick and thoughtless; but the impact still lingers today. For what he did there was no option for him to stay in the house. It was an executive decision made by my parents to send him to a juvenile detention facility for 3 years. Shaney loved him like her own son, and Lee loved his son. But they also had to protect my sisters and I.

I couldn’t even comprehend what had happened, and today I still am comprehending what happened. While the good old days of Leroy and I together is starkly vivid, the time after separation – days, weeks, months, years - is a dark, sloppy barrel of brutal anguish, hot rage, isolating sadness, eroding emptiness, and an ugly hodgepodge of other destructive emotions that writhed like disgusting snakes, tighter, as if wringing the will to live out of my feeble heart and replacing it with an evil wrath to make others feel my indescribable pain, and squeezing tighter and tighter yet, spreading a viscous poison over my eyes to blur and distract me from what I still had in life, and cruelly squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter more on my helplessness, taking the air out of me while filling my lungs with the poison until I’m chained torturously between suffocating, drowning, burning, and – breathing.

When he had to go, I cried and prayed every night for him, and that is all I can remember physically doing. Metaphors are a good way to express a complicated idea or feeling, but I can only come close with this one. Imagine one of those extra sticky Rite-Aid band-aids firmly attached to your upper back, covering a deep and wide stab wound. Next, imagine a stranger snatching the band-aid off, fastening fingers around the edges of your wound and just ruthlessly pulling apart, opening the once slit into a gaping crevasse of exposed flesh. Now imagine that stranger takes a cup of lime juice and pours it over your wound. I can say I felt that degree of pain, but that doesn’t capture the multi-dimensional, agonizing, and irrecoverable broken state I was left in. The reality is I was hurt and will never be healed. No rubbing alcohol, no bandage, no surgery can serve as a panacea to a broken heart.

March 15th, 2009 was the last day I saw him and will live in infamy as the last day I see him because I can never bring back the shiny Leroy with smooth dark-skin and magical powers. Leroy C. ****, age 26, lives somewhere without friends or family, working a minimum wage job, but my big brother of the past lives only in my heart as a tasteful memory.

Somehow there seems to be no more physical evidence that my brother was even present for eight years in my life. Some way or another all photos of him have been deleted in our family album, all his clothes and magazines and school supplies and shoes and everything removed, the own space me and him shared every night swiftly remodeled to eliminate traces of the one who had to go. He is gone, and some forces have tried to make myself and my two full siblings forget. His physical self and proof of existence is lost, but I remember Leroy.

I have to wonder what it would be like, if the me who wrote this paper ever met the Leroy right after his arrest. They would both be seventeen, ending their junior year in high-school. What would they say to each other? What should they say to each other? Undoubtedly, overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame would wash over Leroy, knowing that his little follower fared the hardest stages of his life alone. No anger, or hate, or animosity would surface in the buzzing mind of my previous self. There are no words to say, no apologies to be given, or apologies to be accepted. The years have already passed and no godly power can change that. Maybe I would just stand and stare silently, deeply melancholy while considering what could have been.

If you are unlucky enough to read this, remember it as a love story. It’s not his leaving that hurt, but the building up and severing of powerful brotherly connection that hurts. So fuck you Leroy for being such a great big brother. Fuck you for being that lanky teenage boy with soft chocolate skin darker than mine, and exciting powers to animate the world around me, and that intangible something that made you more brilliant than a flawless diamond. It would be a lie to say I wish I forgot you, but if I could have, I would have. The problem is, I can’t.

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I was in the bunk bed above my friend, in a room surrounded by beautiful, dark skinned women. The overnight event was a space just for Black people, no matter how much Black blood you had. I had my bonnet on, in a place where my bonnet was not questioned or commented on - my hair invisible under the silk. The girl walked past the open door to my room and did a double take. “Oh so we’re letting in WHITE people now??” The “W” in the word white shot from her mouth and twisted in my stomach. She had no idea that under my bonnet an overflowing mane of untamable dark brown curls covered my pale scalp. She had no idea that half my blood was black blood from the black bodies of my ancestors. But I knew why her voice reeked with disdain. To her I was Caucasian, an infiltrator of a space meant for Black people. And even though in reality, I am not white, I carry the privilege of being light skinned. I stared back at her, unable to defend myself, not sure how to move forward. Her piercing green eyes scanned my skin, not seeing my African American father’s nose, my full lips or my hidden hair. And I couldn’t blame her. And I tried not to blame my skin. So I stayed silent. I laid in my bed, in my discomfort, in her discomfort, in my privilege - trying to figure out how to convince everyone in the room I belonged.

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by Samantha Modder

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Exhaustion ebbs at my consciousness, like waves on a sandy shore. Calm down, go gently into the night.

I fall asleep slowly, then all at once.

My mind is in free fall, plummeting through idyllic aspirations and saccharine memories.

Calm down, go gently into the night.

They’re wrong, the nightmare is not in sleep, but in life.

My mind is in free fall, plummeting through idyllic aspirations and saccharine memories. I am both dead and alive.

They’re wrong, the nightmare is not in sleep, but in life.

Don't wake up! Don't wake up! They’re feeding you lies.

I am both dead and alive.

But in my dreamscape, I don't have to say goodbye.

Don't wake up! Don't wake up! They’re feeding you lies.

Get up, they say, you're missing out on life.

But in my dreamscape, I don't have to say goodbye.

I sink into oblivion.

Get up, they say, you're missing out on life.

I fall asleep slowly, then all at once.

I sink into oblivion.

Exhaustion ebbs at my consciousness like waves on a sandy shore.

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by Galen Hicks

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My cousins

4 of them hover above my head

Love smells like coconut oil and seared hair.

A movie plays on the laptop

No one watches

Someone is retelling a story

Do yall remember when...

Fingers smear blue magic hair grease on precise sections

A hand rips the comb through my hair

I flinch

Stay still

Brown hair is woven into my hair

You guys, we should…

Loud laughter

Put some water on the stove

They dip the tips of my braids in the boiling bath

Hot steam lick my scalp

It’s just the steam they grin

A mirror is handed to me

Ask your mom if we can sleep over

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by Renee Austin

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Tongues (after Frank X Walker) by Ibura DeHaan

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Tongues (after Frank X Walker) by Ibura DeHaan

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I used to tease mommy for what we called her Buffy voice.
Her conducting business, reporting, parent-teacher conferencing,
sounds kinda like an email looks-- voice.

D as in door,
E as in elephant,
H as in house,
A,
A,
N as in Nancy,
is how I learned to spell my last name, overhearing her phone calls.

Around me her voice was warm,
but careful
not to slip too far into the northside accent she was raised with,
careful,
to pronounce my name in all its glory, so I’d know to correct people
when I heard it butchered by the knives we Americans carry in our mouths.

I loved to hear her R’s relax and melt words like
here, hair, her
into an indistinguishable one,
the way only Saint Louisans can.

Around her sisters she was class clown,
twisting and bending language like balloon animals,
making everyone burst with laughter.

Around her family her tongue was colorful,
bright as her smile,
and loud as she wanted to be.

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her hair isn’t messy

for every curl that lays on her

head is delicately laid by nature

she’s not to loud you’ve just

never heard a voice like hers

brown eyes of warmth

that remind you of

cool summer zest in ice cream

on hot days

her lips are not too big

they are perfect for

flashing smiles

she’s not angry she’s passionate

and terrifies you because

her mind is her own

not one to be easily manipulated

a vessel of its own being

its power scares you

and it’s even scarier

because she knows

the value of her worth in truth

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“At the End of the Rainbow” by Max Jenkins

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“At the End of the Rainbow” by Max Jenkins

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When I am 13, Trayvon Martin is murdered.

When I am 14, a girl I've known for years tells me that I don't "act black." I am bothered for a moment, then go back to thinking that she's pretty. Her boyfriend is gross, and white, and listens to rap music. I think she deserves better. I wonder what she thinks he acts like.

When I am 15, I am dating a white boy that thinks curly hair is gross. It's only when he tries to hold my hand that I am upset. I straighten my hair before I go to see him. I am starting to think some things are wrong here. It is years before I realize how much was really wrong.

When I am 16, same-sex marriage is made legal in all fifty states.

When I am 17, I am told that asexuality is for white people, and that being an asexual person of color is a "white supremacist's dream." She does not elaborate. I am supposed to know how I uphold my own oppression. I wonder if there is any queer identity that is for black people. I know the answer before I ask the question.

When I am 18, rainbow flags with additional black and brown stripes begin to appear. They are saying that it's divisive. They think it was less divisive when they could be racist without critique. I buy a mini version of this flag, to be on display in my dorm and hidden on trips home.

When I am 19, Janelle Monae comes out.

When I am 20, a white gay man tells me that my natural hair makes me look "like a lesbian." I squint at a Pinterest board before I cut it again. I cannot see sexuality in the rows and twists and tapers. I feel like I am blind. I feel like a traitor for not really minding the association.

When I am 21, I participate in a research study about interactions in the queer community. The researcher rejoices, says that he is thrilled that I am black, because he doesn't "see that often." I wish I had no idea what he was talking about. I wish I still had the energy to be shocked.

When I am 22, I will be many years of black excellence, queer pride, black suffering, and queer exclusion embodied. There will be more enduring and more thriving. Some history will always repeat.

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by Renee Austin

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Boats and boating--Equipment and supplies

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by Kaila Holland

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the way my eyelashes curl at the ends.

books that make me wish i were a better writer.

the smell of ackee and saltfish on saturday morning.

my brother, who laughs like he's crying.

springy wet coils.

hair bobbles, flower clips.

the way honey crystallizes at the bottom of a jar.

a hot cup of ginger tea.

plaits, platitudes.

the soft swish of church hosiery.

my mother, in her bonnet.

the scent after you slice into an orange.

the sound of my own heartbeat.

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by Samantha Modder

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by Fatou Kane

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I lift up mine eyes unto the ice pop mountains, from whence cometh my help and a cold breeze to dry wet glances.

My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

Who molded human form from body-temperature mud and scooped up holes into our faces Who created the ground we run on in summer mornings

And the ground we crunch our feet through in winter afternoons

Who created the sun and the breeze and the cold

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. My mother told me in Dark, brisk whispers as she whispered in a whispering tone: Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

My mother slept in the cold and kept me in it with her

She taught me to keep my feet in the cold

Cold like water, like breath caught in air, cold like ice pops and frozen drops, like snow kept white and solid and genuine

It made her stronger

It made her unrelenting as the winds that are fast, freezing, dry,

She slept next to me and dreamt a dream that she was dreaming:

In her dream, she came to the red door of a house, sat down on red rugs and screamed out of her red lungs.

She spat blood onto floorboards, like tears tasting like copper tasting like nickels And she woke up to the cold and felt

Slow cigarette drags of air across her face, smooth, cooling, calming cold The Lord is thy keeper: my mother showed me the shade that is his right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by warm summertime day, nor the moon by brisk night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy human soul. The Lord shall preserve thee in calming waters

Like cooling off sweat from shoulders

And hands

And smoothing out the brown of my chin

The Lord shall preserve me.

My mother tucked me under her chin and as she sang, her breath fogged and cooled my skin

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by Desmond Young

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Digging my toes into plush carpet
I rest my hand on the doorknob
Thinking today is the day
To feel radiant
And have the sun warm me from the inside out
A kiss that I’ve missed for weeks
I count down from ten
Twist the knob
But a soft sound flits by my ear
Eventually growing louder
Til it fills my head
Do you hear that hissing too?
As the air pours out of the room
Slipping between the cracks and crevices
Out under the front door
Away from me
Am I the only one?
Who can feel oxygen scrape the inside of their chest cavity As it flees their throat
And joins the growing vacuum in the room
Every subsequent raggedy gulp of air
Shrinks
Until all I can manage is a slight wheeze
Tears squeeze past my gated eyes
And I fist both hands
Til crescent moons imprint between the brown lines on one palm And the other tightens around the knob
Clutching for courage
This is supposed to be MY day
The day I take back control
From the fear that traps me in this house
From the neighbor that did this to me
Who stole from me
It happened years ago
And I fled
To another state and another school
Only to be stuck again
In the same vicinity
Due to these days of quarantine
So with my last rasp
I shout
No!
Mentally to this repetitive situation
Physically to the faceless brown wood blocking me And yank the door open
Stumbling down the worn brick steps
And falling hard on the grass
I pant in relief
I fucking did it
And smile bright as sun caresses me in greeting Soaking it all in for a moment
And then get up
Thighs straining to hold this weathered body While my knees knock occasionally
Retracing my steps back into the house
A moment was all I needed
To know I can do this
And maybe next time
I’ll make it to the mailbox

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by Desmond Young

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by Fatou Kane

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“Open Letter to the Black Girl at a PWI” by Raevyn Ferguson

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“Open Letter to the Black Girl at a PWI” by Raevyn Ferguson

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Dear young queen,

You’re fear is valid. Your questioning of your beauty is valid. Everything you feel is valid, even if they make you believe it isn’t. know that your beauty aint got shit to do with them. i woke up today apologizing, for the mistakes i’ve made. apologizing for the desires i had to once end my own life. because i thought this world would be better without. after being bruised by white women and men, been torn apart by black men I figured that being a black woman was a curse rather than a blessing.

i can’t decide how i feel yet.

and now i sit here realizing that that was selfish of me. because everyone around threatens to take us, without the aid of my own hand.

ive felt with gun violence. i’ve seen it. i’ve been put in positions where i didn’t know if i could come home from a “routine stop”. that the world is so cold that warmth comes from other black women and far and few between.

and yet we wake up everyday going to classes and smiling along side the white people who have been assured that no cop will take their life in vein. we stand here for a plethora of reasons, yet I wanna tell you i’m here. we are here. in a pool of white, we still take up space. we may be silent, but we are here. Its quiet around here. And the silence is eating me alive. I have no poetic way to say what I feel, but this incessant pain feels like it is swallowing me whole. I want to say I’m in the deep end but I can’t swim very well so i’ve accepted using my life as a black woman who will be remembered, and live to make sure it doesn’t end here.

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a very bad prologue

As I am writing this, my nation is getting a huge cramp. The years of dehydration and ignoring nationwide, systemic injustices has finally caught up to it. As I am writing this, I only have a loose idea for the story that will follow. I should probably drink some more water. Avoid some cramps… Anyways, I think this may possibly take some inspiration from that. Or not. I don’t know. I found a certain Japanese Ghost Stories by Lafcadio Hearn. At the time of this recording, I have only read a story and a half and encountered no witches, but this is a story about a witch. In hindsight, I don’t actually know what compels me to write this story. Perhaps it will come to me soon…

***

the dilemma at hand

Being barefoot is a drag. Bare feet and concrete don’t exactly agree. Probably because the roads in this town aren’t maintained very well. I just found out that Greenville allocates three times as much funding to its police department than its schools. Waste of taxes if you ask me. My baby could be getting top-dollar schooling, in a safe neighborhood, but GPD could care less about all that as long as they get to parade their new military-grade tank through the town. Probably why the streets are so messed up. Damn potholes and whatnot… Are my feet bleeding?

a little onlooker looks on

What a dilemma that guy must be in. He’s got no shoes on. Is he bleeding? And what in the world is he running from. I sure wish mama had remembered to pick up my eyeglasses from the eye doctor yesterday. Is that… Is that woman naked? Well whadya know. Greenville is the dullest town in America. Possibly the whole world. Never did I think today would be the day I’d see a witch chasing a black man right in front of my own house. I sure wish I had those glasses right about now. They sure are moving fast… Well, that’s enough craziness for one day. Better get inside and make Nana some jasmine tea. She likes jasmine tea around this time of the late afternoon.

1

the dilemma continues

I’ve always hated running. But I probably should’ve joined the track and field team when the coach asked me back in high school. Coach Matthews. Son, you’ve the build of an ebony demigod! You have to run for me, son! But I hated running. It was a drag. Still is. Man, would this bitch stop chasing me? She’s 50 paces behind me, but I can feel her claws around my neck.

the mailman assists

I am so gonna lose my job. I shouldn’t be helping this guy. I should have just minded my business. Yeah I guess that witch with the long black hair was chasing him, but I could’ve minded my business. The guy’s bleeding all over the packages. You can’t go around bleeding on people’s packages like that. It’s unsanitary and pretty inconsiderate if you ask me. That’s it. This is above my paygrade. I’m dropping him off at the dollar store around the corner.

HELP ME!

“Help me!” screamed the 39-year old man. “Please sir, I am being chased by a witch!” “A witch you say?” asked the dollar store cashier.

“Yes boss! A witch!” said the man.

“Well, was she naked from head to toe?” asked the cashier.

“But of course, sir,” said the man.

“And did she have long black hair? Like obsidian?” asked the cashier.

“Naturally, sir,” said the man

“Well boy, you got yourself a witch,” said the cashier.

“Then you’ll help me?” asked the man.

The cashier slaps the man right on his cheek and says to him, “Boy, if you don’t get the hell out of my fine and lawful establishment this instance, I will personally tie you up, take your money, and feed you to that witch myself without a hint of hesitation. Don’t you see how strong and fine this establishment is? Erected by my great great grandpapa William Benedict. You have no right! Bringing your witchcraft and voodoo. I oughta lock you up. Endangering the business

2

of good folk with your problems. Take your ass somewhere else before I have GPD roll their new tank up here and blast you back to where you came from!”

The man leaves. He leaves out the back of the store more tired than he arrived. The witch enters the store. Her long obsidian hair shrouds her naked body. The cashier kindly directs her to continue her hunt out the back of the store.

the dilemma is exhausting

I hope my baby girl made it home safe from school. That nasty boy better not have bothered her again. Pulling at her hair and whatnot. Making her cry. The bus driver should’ve done something. But son, she’s only asked about seven times that I intervene. Well, I guess she had a point there. Seven times isn’t that many times. Four hundred times oughta get her attention. Yup. Baby girl just has to keep at it, and soon the bus driver will intervene. I keep telling her she has to sit closer to the front. She can’t always stay at the back. How will the bus driver see that nasty boy picking on you from all the way back there.

a certain call

Hi. Yes, I’d like to report a man. Yes, his skin is dark. Yes, he is barefoot. Yes, he is bleeding all over the streets of Greenville. Well, ma’am I don’t want to sugarcoat anything so I’ll say it plain and simple. Our livelihoods are at stake. I fear that I am in grave danger. Yes. The gravest ma’am. Would you be so kind as to send down one of those beautiful tanks y’all have up there in your facilities and clean up this mess. He’s also got this witch trailing him. Damn hippies. Oh pardon my french, ma’am. Anywhosies, I hope that tank is on its way. You’ve dispatched one already? Oh how delightful. I can’t wait to see it in action.

the dilemma

All those years running underground on railroad tracks and my ancestors couldn’t spare me an ounce of stamina? Damn, the bitch caught me. And at my own house too. What’s that tank doing here?

3

two greenville policemen sit on their tank and wait to eat the strange fruit “Guess the witch got him first.”

“Guess so.”

“He stopped moving a couple of minutes ago.”

“Suppose so.”

“You think she’ll let go of him anytime soon?”

“Maybe so.”

“How do you suppose she caught him, hauled him up a tree, and hung him with her bare hands?”

“She’s a witch.

“Fair point.”

a greenville firefighter

Can’t believe that guy ran all over the city with bloody feet. Some people just have no decency. Someone’s gotta clean up your mess buddy, dontcha know! Now I’m out here pressure washing his bloody footprints off the road in this hot summer heat! Well, no point in crying over dead bodies. And he better stay dead too. Don’t need any more troublemakers bringing any more witches ‘round these parts.

***

an even worse epilogue

It did not come to me soon. This was pointless. There’s some meaning in here somewhere, but hell if I know where it is. It’s not like people are going to listen anyway. We’ve been explaining the dilemma for far too long. The people who need to read this probably won’t, and if they do, they still wouldn’t get it. Not even sure if I get it anymore, since we’re so caught up in trying to convince them that the dilemma exists. If anyone was actually listening, we’d be living. The witch would be dead. Firefighters wouldn’t have to wash our blood from the streets. I apologize if this makes no sense to you. I couldn’t help you understand it if I tried.

# data[].attributes.body
by Samantha Modder

# data[].attributes.headline
“Get Crunk: The Away Game" by Carre Salder

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“Get Crunk: The Away Game" by Carre Salder

# data[].attributes.body
Kayla flipped the sun visor down to reveal the mirror hidden inside. Her brown eyes blinked as she bought the paint covered brush to her face. Her hand was steady, careful to not get any of the gold glitter near her swooping baby hairs.  Just as the third dot neared her nose, the car shuttered to a stop. Her grip slipped leaving a gold glitter splat across her nose.

Kayla’s eyes flew open as she turned to Amber. “What was that?”

Her best friend ran her fingers deep into her kitchen as her face scrunched up with a sheepish expression, “We sorta, kinda, maybe ran out of gas.” She said the last words in quick succession squishing them all together.

“Ran out of gas!” shrieked a voice from the backseat.  Lesa. She nervously twirled her finger around the gold beads layering her T shirt. It was the part of the year where the cold front hadn’t completely sunk its hands into the air, and you could get away with just a T shirt if it was before the moon rose in the sky.  Perfect football weather.

“How’d you not notice we were running low on gas Miss Honor Roll?” Kayla asked.

Amber sucked in air through her nose frustrated. “Well, I had to figure out how to even get here when the GPS lost its connection!”

“What are we going to do now? We don’t have gas. My make up is messy and the game’s going to start soon!” Kayla whined.

“Well maybe if you weren’t doing makeup in the car you could’ve handled the GPS!” Amber spat back, slapping her hands on her tutu sending a cloud of gold glitter into the car.

Kayla glared at her.  She had only had time to brush the mascara over her eyes and throw on a gold T shirt before she had walked to Amber’s house. She was just going to explain this when Lesa interjected, “Cut it out! That’s not helping.”

Amber and Kayla sighed and mumbled apologies to Lesa. Amber spread more glitter over the seat as she swung the door open and stood on the side of the road. “Maybe we could push it to a gas station?” she suggested as she paced the length of the car, her laces dragging in the dirt.

Kayla’s mouth dropped into an “O” shape.  “Push? Push! To where, we don’t even know where the next gas station is. Just call your mom, duh.”

Amber rolled her eyes.  Have her mom pissed at her for getting stranded? No thank you, she would rather cornrow grass. “Now Kayla, you and I both know if I call Sharon, she gone drive over here mad and we won’t make it to that game.”

The noise in the car stalled at that sobering fact.  As much as they didn’t want to be stuck here, no one wanted to get this far and turn around.

“You could walk to get gas,” suggested Kayla.

“What if I get attacked by a bear?” Amber asked.

“A bear attack!” exclaimed Lesa from the back seat.  More worry lines creased her forehead.

“We’re going to a football game, not the Hunger Games. There’s not going to be a bear!” Kayla shouted.

Amber slid back into the driver’s seat, her box braids swinging after her, “ I just think someone should go with me.”

“What if the person we leave behind gets attacked by the bear,” Kayla counters.

Then hearing her words out lout she turned to the back seat where Lesa’s hands were even more tightly wound around her plastic beads.  She looked over at Amber and they said in unison, “There isn’t actually a bear!”

Amber snapped back to the front and tapped her fingers along the steering wheel.  Her mind was running over the past hour.  She was angry at Mario for not filling it up like he promised and even more angry at herself for not checking the gas tank. True, he was the reason their mother had granted her permission to drive all the way to Greenmont, but just because he was starting didn’t make him any less responsible.  Now she didn’t feel bad about shedding glitter all over the car, that would be his mess to clean up.  A post game treat.

“What if we all walked to the gas station?” Kayla asked.

“But then the car’s stolen,” Amber sighed.

“A stolen car! That’s worse than a bear attack!” Lesa’s voice had hit an all too familiar falsetto that signaled she’d had enough. Her imagination had gotten the best of her and there was no going back.  Her large round doe eyes welled up and a few tears slid down her dark umber face.

Y’all ever hear of tender headed? Lesa’s what you call tender hearted.

Her friends dropped the conversation as they both slid into the back seat to comfort her. Kayla moved aside the yellow jacket so she could pat Lesa’s back.  Amber wiped the stray tears away, but they hadn’t even streaked the yellow dashes on either side of her cheeks. Lesa was just lucky like that.

“We’re not going to be here for long.  Hey, hold on!” Kayla said.  She scrambled for the cord still connected to the car and plugged her phone into the other end. Her nails click clacked across the screen and then a familiar beat cascaded through the car’s speakers.

“Walk it out! Now walk it out!” Kayla screamed, as she flung the car door open and pulled Lesa out with her.  She stepped further along the road as she bounced with the music.  Amber shook her head but joined in as Unk’s “Walk it Out” continued to blast through the car and Lesa shook her arms to the beat, her smile wide and happy on her face.

Kayla pointed her finger at Amber and bounced over to her.  Amber accepted the invitation as she bounced closer until she was in front of Kayla. Kayla raised her hand in the air and leaned forward and said, “Westside walk it out!”

Amber jumped forward to answer, “Southside walk it out!” The two bent over with laughter, then Kayla abruptly stood and snuck up on Lesa. She was dancing in front of the car when Kayla extended her fingers to tickle her sides.

Amber almost joined in, but she was the first to notice. A red pickup truck was growing closer. Moving slower.  A lightning bolt of fear struck her insides. “Kayla,” she hissed over the speaker, “turn the music down.”

Kayla turned to face her annoyed, her nose still sparkling with glitter.  But before she could complain she saw the truck and it was like an invisible angel welled up inside her and possessed her. Kayla shut the music off faster than she had thought possible.

Wordlessly the trio formed a line and watched with opened eyes as the car strolled to a halt in front of them. They released a collective breath as the window rolled down to reveal Derryck Meys and Tierra Jackson.

“Y’all going to see Mario play?” Tierra drawled, her voice flowing like honey out the window.

Amber nodded, “We were, but we ran out of gas.”

Tierra’s eyes crinkled in response, but then she unclicked her seatbelt and jumped out the truck. Every bit of her upbringing showing.  She peered over into the bed of the truck, then walked over to the driver’s side window and whispered to Derryck.

“Derryck can go get gas.  There’s a gas station not far from here,” Tierra announced.

Amber smiled, “Could you please? I could pay you back on Sunday Derryck.”

Derryck’s deep voice carried as he said, “Nah, you good.” He kissed Tierra once then drove off down the road.

The three looked over at them a wistful look on their faces.  Those two couldn’t have been any more perfect with each other had they tried.

Tierra grinned as she walked over to them and said, “I’m glad we saw y’all. I just wanted to know who was bumping Unk over here. I should’ve known it was y’all.” Tierra had an ease about her that made her one of the sweetest people they’d ever met. “I didn’t think many people would make it to an away game, y’know.  We should take a picture to commemorate the moment,” she said.

The girls bunched together as Tierra extended her arm, and just as she was about to click the circle, “Wait!” Kayla cried out! “My face looks like a catastrophe still.”

“Hold on, I can fix that.” Tierra said.

Kayla sat with her eyes closed in the backseat as Tierra’s fingers moved across her face wiping the splat on her nose away. Her acrylic nails sang as they clacked against the brush’s handle as she dipped the brush into the paint.

“Y’all lucky you stopped where you did, a few more clicks in you would’ve been straight up in Redneckville,” Tierra noted as she blew excess glitter away.

The girls hummed in agreement.  Once Tierra finished, they snapped a picture and then Derryck’s truck rolled into view again.  He filled up their tank with the red gas can and hopped into the truck. Tierra laughed as she climbed in after Derryck, wiggling her fingers goodbye, “See y’all at the game.”

The girls waved goodbye and then settled back into the car.  The closer they got to Greenmont the more the road opened up to wide green spaces.  The air was fresh but tingled with a hostility they couldn’t entirely define.  Once they rolled passed the welcome sign Greenmont become less of an unknown destination and more a tangible force. The local bank was decorated with the Greenmont High’s trademark white and green.   More houses with trucks and four wheelers crammed in driveways and open garages came into view.  An absence screamed out to them across the landscape.

“She was right, this sure is …southern,” Kayla mumbled under her breath.

Kayla’s voice had trailed as she considered what Tierra had actually said.  But her tongue had felt too stiff once it crossed the city line. She was too fearful to utter Redneckville aloud and run the (suddenly not so irrational) risk of one appearing.

“But we are Southern. We live in the same state,” Lesa replied.

“Yeah, but we’re season our food, yams over pumpkin Southern. This is vote red and hide white in your closet Southern,” Amber replied in a low, reverent voice.

Amber switched lanes and topics as they bopped their heads to the music distractedly, letting the road finally take them to Greenmont High.  Just as they pulled into the parking lot and circled the lot, Kayla yelled out, “Slow down! Slowdownslowdown!”

“What is it?” Amber asked obliging her as the car slowed.

“It’s them!”

“Them who?” Lesa perked up.

A gaggle of pale and straight-haired girls stood gathered in the parking lot. Green hairbows and real honest to goodness knee socks made them blur together, indistinguishable from the next.

“The volleyball girls that were running they mouth, and writing checks they asses couldn’t cash.” Kayla said as she fumbled for the aux cord and recklessly transferred her phone over.

“Come on, Amber.  Get closer to them.”

“Are you serious? No.”

Kayla stuck out her bottom lip and begged, “Please?”

“Fine, but show me the song first,” Amber conceded.

A devilish grin spread across Kayla’s face as she flashed the screen to Amber.

“Girl, Crime Mob? Pick another song. I ain’t starting nothing tonight.”

Kayla rolled her eyes and queued another song for Amber’s approval. Amber smiled, turned back to Lesa and asked, “You ready? Let’s go.”

Amber rolled all of their windows down as Kayla turned the volume up and Lil Jon blasted from the car’s speakers.  Kayla yelled, “Who ya wit!” from the window and stuck out her tongue as Lesa hyped her from the back seat with a flurry of hand movements.  Amber bopped her head extensively to the beat, then put her foot on the gas and sped off leaving the duplicitously fragile girls confused and shaking.

The car exploded with giggles as they reveled in the moment. Those Greenmont girls had no idea what was going on. They would probably drive home to their families to tell the story of how they narrowly survived a gang threat, but that didn’t matter now.   What mattered was that the familiar thud of drums greeted them as they had so many times before. This was an away game, but the energy of home threaded through the air.   The blurry shape of gold and sway of people in the stands as they descended into the stadium filled them with belonging, just long enough for the inhospitable mist shrouding them to appear miles and miles away.

# data[].attributes.body
What is a moon without its surrounding stars?

Brightening up every corner of an unknown galaxy.

What is the temperature of my body without the heat of your hands?

Echolocating every hill and valley with a husky voice.

What is a fire without dry brush?

Creating little sparks by the friction of dead leaves.

I still look for you among the nebulae.

I hang on the gravity created by your absence, brighter than ever before.

Every dent and crevice sharpened by the inspector, darkness.

I am seen, deprived of your mercy.

And I think I need you now.

I think

You complete me.

I think

My heart fits perfectly in the palm of your hand.

I think

If you held on to me any tighter you’d crush me in your embrace.

Nevertheless I think

I loved you.

Without you, it’s dark in here.

But I think

The darkness is my friend.

# data[].attributes.body
MUA ArtistrybyKamryn

# data[].attributes.body
She said “Really?”

I said “Why not?”

She looked at me.

“Silly, do you remember

What you forgot?

I gave you life!

I gave you a mouth to speak,

Ears to hear, and clean, clean teeth!

Also a brain,

That knows well enough,

A mother shouldn’t get a keychain,

While her son gets a cup!”

“In the thick of the moment,”

I began,

“I just wasn’t thinking and,

Seeing as how the place I was in

Suited my brother’s taste better,

I spent a proper amount,

So I wouldn’t leave untethered.”

“Harumph!” Her face said.

“Well, let’s see what happens next time

Should I be in a place that suits your tastes

Less than mine!”

“Give it back then,” I said.

“No,” She said,

“I’ll keep it as a reminder,

That acts of kindness don’t

Always grow kinder.”

At that I turn to leave

She calls

“And next time, make sure it’s the right team!”

# data[].attributes.body
Photography by Efua Osei

# data[].attributes.body
You open your eyes. A little bit of sunshine creeps through the curtains to your left. It’s unfamiliar. Very rarely had you woken up in the morning with the sun on your face. Not because you had not slept in this bed, or had not woken up at this time before, but because there would always be something blocking the sun’s path.

They took the brunt of the sun. But they always woke up later than you, so it did not bother them. By the time they opened their eyes, the sun’s rays had moved on to another part of the room.

But now it was you who took up the brunt of the sun.

You get out of bed. And you realize just how quiet it is. Before, the sound of their breath would fill the whole room as you rose, but now, it is just you. Just your breath. Even if you try to make your own breath louder, to match theirs, it is not the same. It never will be the same.

Before you can stop yourself, you glance back at the bed, like you always do. They would always be sleeping, and they were so peaceful. It was something lovely to wake up to. Even now, you can almost see them, serenely dreaming away under the covers. You blink, and the truth is in focus again. All that is there are sheets in disarray. They are not there. They are gone. Like you needed yet another reminder.

You curse yourself for looking back, but you know that there was nothing you could have done. Looking back in the morning was automatic. A habit that had been built for years, decades even.

It is time to get on with the day, you think. Though, you don’t have the same drive to, not like you usually do. At least you already did this next part alone, so it should be as normal, right?

Making your way into the bathroom, you understand now. No, it is not as normal. Because all that greets you are reminders. Their toothbrush sitting at the right edge of the sink, just as they always left it. Their towels hanging off the rack. Even their smell fills the air, absorbing into you with every breath.

It is still for a moment, as your mind only hands you a blank card when you ask it what to do. Don’t want to go in, don’t want to go out. Don’t want to pack away their stuff in a cardboard box, yet don’t want to look at it either. Something rises from deep in the pit of your stomach, lodging firmly in your throat. It’s a nameless feeling, but it overtakes you all the same.

You move again, but it feels without purpose. Like you’re on autopilot. It’s an empty sort of feeling. It makes sense.

You go through your morning routine in this automatic state. Brush your teeth. Take a shower. Change your clothes. It is only at that final activity that your consciousness awakens once more. Probably because you are back in the bedroom, you think.

You are turned away from the bed but yet the lack of their presence is clear. It makes you wonder how you managed to sleep at all last night. Not that it was pleasant. It was a dreamless sleep, the kind you only get when you’re at the peak of exhaustion. And perhaps that is where you were after the events of yesterday. The events you are going to have to force yourself not to think about for days, weeks, months, likely even years to come.

The sun may be shining but you feel as though you are stuck in a fog. Dreary. Clouding your vision and your actions as you move without any sort of energy out of the bedroom. In the hallway, photos serve only to make the fog thicker, until you can’t even see right in front of you.

Breathing turns shallow as you struggle to move forward. Wading through the fog takes the little bit of energy you have. It’s like the bathroom all over again. You want to look at the pictures, relive the memories. But you worry. You don’t want to relive the wrong memories. Maybe it would be better to forget.

Even if that were true though, it is far too early to forget anything.

Moving through the fog becomes more difficult as memories flood in your head once more. The fog seems to become more dense, each breath weighing down your lungs as you try to get through the hallway. You swear that you feel a hand in yours, even though you know it can’t be real, that you’ll never really hold that hand again.

And then, all of a sudden, you’ve been liberated. The fog has cleared. You are in your destination. The kitchen. What should only have been just a short walk had been turned into an unending trek.

The morning sun shines in through the windows, giving the room a warm glow. You can see dust particles floating, captured in some of the rays. Just as usual—the kitchen always got plenty of sun. When you first saw the room, all those years ago, you had not liked it. The layout was all wrong, the colors were bland, you did not see any reason to love it. But they fell in love with it at first sight. And seeing the way their eyes lit up, dreaming of all the possibilities this kitchen held, you decided it was worth it. Over time, you came to love the kitchen just as they did.

The kitchen in the morning was a sanctuary. It was where the morning routine culminated. You would begin cooking breakfast to the sounds of them stirring in the bedroom. And soon, they would enter the sanctuary too, grabbing their apron, meeting you at the stove. Together, you would finish cooking the meal. Then you would enjoy it together, letting the taste envelop you

both. Conversations would be made. Or sometimes you both preferred the silence. As long as you were close.

These are the things you think about when you enter the kitchen. The memories that pull you from the present. You feel your body start wanting to move on impulse again, but for some reason, you don’t want it to. Instead, your next steps are methodical, they have purpose. You go to the fridge and grab the eggs, grab the bacon. You take out the grits from the pantry.

You stand in front of the stove, and you do what you always do. Stove on. Grits on. Bacon on. Waiting for the bacon to cook. You keep your mind focused on the task. Just make breakfast. That’s all you have to do. It should be simple. But you know that nothing is simple anymore.

You feel the moment coming. This would be about the time that they’d enter the kitchen. You swear you can almost hear them again. But you know better.

Watching the bacon is all you can do to keep yourself centered. To keep the fog from coming back. It’s the only thing keeping your mind off of things that you don’t want to think about.

Finally, the bacon starts to fry. The snapping and popping shouts in the silent kitchen. Focusing completely on waiting for the right moment to flip the bacon, you realize that you do not have a fork to flip the strips with.

You reach out, your normal code for asking for some ingredient or utensil. They would always know what you wanted, you cooked together every day after all. You hold your hand out for a few moments, before you realize.

Stepping over to the silverware drawer yourself, you feel victimized by yet another habit.

After being flipped, the bacon starts to cook a little faster. Not long now. First, you grab a paper plate for the bacon to cool on. Then, you prepare your plate, like you always did before. They would always get their own plate. At the clink of the plate being set on the counter, you turn your attention back to the bacon, which has just about finished.

You place the newly-cooked bacon onto the paper plate, and then you drain the grease. While letting grease and water wash down the sink, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window. It isn’t very detailed, but it feels wrong, even though you must look the same as you do every other day.

It’s your eyes. They do not hold the same meaning. The same feeling. They are not windows to the same soul, not anymore. Not when part of you is gone.

You turn the water off and bring the pan with you back to the stove. You pour the previously prepared scrambled eggs into the pan. You don’t remember preparing the eggs. Your brain’s

autopilot mechanism must have won out again, which is odd. They always prepared the eggs, after all.

The eggs cook for a few moments, and then they finish. Breakfast is ready. The smell of the bacon lingers in the air. And now, with everything being finished cooking, silence falls once again. You used to appreciate quiet moments, but now they feel deafening. Suffocating.

You force yourself to be loud when preparing the rest of your plate. You scrape the pot as you pour your grits, the unpleasant sound of metal on metal being better than the silence. You select your portion of the eggs. You even make little grunting noises while doing so, just to interrupt the unyielding silence.

Moving yourself and your plate over to the kitchen table, you find that freezing feeling threatening to creep up once more. Suddenly you don’t know where to sit. Normally you would sit with the window behind you, giving your full attention to them while you ate together. But you don’t want to look that way. Not now.

You sit in the opposite seat. Their seat. You force yourself not to expect someone else to come to the table. Right now, all you’re thinking is that it is the seat that faces the window.

Through that window the sun is shining. It is the beginning of a new day. New and unfamiliar indeed. You don’t think of what the rest of the day will hold. The plans you will have to make. The things you will have to do.

Now, you simply gaze out the window, keeping your mind as free from thoughts as it can be. You look forward to the nature you had never paid much attention to.

You don’t think of the uneaten food, enough for one person, that is growing cold on the stove.

# data[].attributes.headline
"Survival of the Fittest in a F*cking Pandemic” by Aaliyah Allen-Coleman

# data[].attributes.subject
"Survival of the Fittest in a F*cking Pandemic” by Aaliyah Allen-Coleman

# data[].attributes.body
How our institutions are failing us

Read on Medium

At the moment I am typing this my phone notifications are exploding with outrage from an email that students at my university — we’ll call it “CollegeU” for this article — received. It stated that in lieu of the five-day spring break we are accustomed to we would be receiving two wellness days over a month apart from each other in which the university “ will offer instruction-free days…to allow for rest…” and “instructors will be asked not to schedule exams, quizzes or assignment due dates on the days immediately following…”

From my text messages, tweets, and GroupMe chats everyone is asking the same thing. How the HELL does “CollegeU” think that is an appropriate consolation prize? This semester we had no fall break and lost a day of our Thanksgiving break and the majority of us are crawling to the finish line of the semester. And “CollegeU” responds to that with…two days…during spring semester…the historically more hectic and stressful of the two semesters for most students, and that was before the pandemic, racial unrest, and impending economic collapse on TOP of everyone’s personal worlds and problems.

What. The. Fuck.

No, really, what ARE they thinking? Do they think students are doing okay right now?

Let me speak for myself and say I am not okay! I’m so far from okay. I told my therapist verbatim recently, “well when I do things that I used to enjoy like write or read it feels like my brain doesn't light up anymore. So little actually makes my brain light up these days. Tasks that used to be manageable, like school or meals, are really hard. I have diminished capacity and what feels like insurmountable expectations. ”

THAT IS TEXTBOOK DEPRESSION. I HAVE NO DOPAMINE.

Now, read that again. Now consider that I am not an anomaly at all. Every one of my peers I have interacted with has shared that they’re experiencing this in some form or another.

But I’m actually not surprised that CollegeU did this. I’ve spoken to quite a few friends recently and shared that I feel that against all common sense and goodwill institutions like “CollegeU”, including our federal government, have taken a “survival of the fittest” approach to dealing with pandemic life. Collectively American society has decided, we will foolishly press on in the face of a global pandemic and refuse to bend our knee to the reality of the situation(i mean we do hate kneeling don’t we).

The reality of the situation is this: we’ve lost so much. Many of us have lost friends and family from Covid. We have lost jobs, opportunities, trips, experiences. We have lost our lives as we knew them. Some of us may even feel we’ve lost who we even are. That sucks. That hurts…and yet we are refusing to grieve. My therapist specializes in grief and they always like to note that grief isn’t always about physical death but can be any type of loss. The loss of a person, a job, a relationship, an object, and a dream can all trigger the grief process and the pandemic has made it possible to lose all of that and more in the span of a week. Grief is begging us to yield. Not quit. Not give up, but yield, pause, process, care for each other, care for ourselves in a way that is rooted in reality.

Yet, institutions have refused. The old way of life has died, and instead of acknowledging it, burying it, paying our proper respects to it, and figuring out how to move on without it, we’ve elected to dine with the corpse and call that our “new normal.” How grotesque.

The way I see it we’ve decided new normal does not mean adapt a new way to function under our new circumstances; no we’re using it to mean shoehorn the expectations and productivity of the Old Life into the reality of the New Life at the expense of our collective wellbeing. Whether we like it or not our minds and our bodies are responding to the reality of New Life. Again speaking for myself but knowing that I’m not the only one, my mind is lonely. My body is tired. My mind is erratic and flooded with anxiety. My body is in rebellion against my wishes for it to perform to the capacity it used to…and they took my spring break. After taking my fall break. After the pandemic took my capacity. After racial unrest took my peace. After social isolation took my loved ones.

And they refuse to meet me, and other students at our new capacity. When the pandemic started in March “CollegeU” instated a more flexible past policy so that instead of just one course a semester, you could make multiple courses pass/fail to accommodate the upheaval the pandemic caused. Now, this school year the original policy has been reinstated, but I’ve yet to see the pandemic stop upheaving our lives. Please tell me how 6 months into a pandemic I am better off than I was at the start? Institutions like mine and society at large are failing to take in the erosive cumulative effects of being in this pandemic across the long term. We are functioning as though we will only survive by continuing to adapt to the extenuating circumstances. That is the textbook definition of survival of the fittest which is DARWINISM. Ya know the foundation of eugenics, that thing? Yeah, probably not the best model to function off of.

And to what end are we doing this? Grades? GPA? Producing a competitive pool of applicants post-graduation? What we can tell employers we accomplished during a pandemic? WHO CARES.

No, really who. gives. a. fuck! It’s a fucking pandemic and you want us to supersede our diminished capacity and failing mental health to make the dean’s list?? Please tell me in detail how you will comfort someone’s grieving mother with their GPA when you call and tell her they’ve committed suicide. No, really I wanna know. And don’t tell me that’s out of the realm of possibility when more than a quarter of young adults have contemplated ending their own life during the pandemic. I have heard from someone’s MOUTH that they feel more likely to die by suicide than Covid and in my mind, I AGREED, but yes, take our spring break. Don’t prioritize our wellness as human beings to ensure our academic/career future is solid, but whether or not we’ll be here to see it is totally negotiable.

Arguably a five-day spring break is a baseline, we should be asking for more. More therapists. More resources. More academic leniency. More breaks. More care. In a usual year, maybe spring break is enough, but this year students are being hit from every direction and college doesn't exist in a vacuum. This year we need more than the baseline to adapt to the increasingly challenging circumstances…and “CollegeU” has the audacity to deny us that.

Well, I say we don’t let them. Ideally, CollegeU receives this righteous anger and feedback and rescinds their decision, but they’ve failed us before so I’m not resting the onus of possibility there. Maybe professors individually will recognize how egregious this is and take it upon themselves to work breaks into their syllabus, space out assignments, give flexible due dates, and lower the stakes, but professors have failed us too so I won’t rest the onus there either. No, the onus is on us — students. I say this so seriously:

If they won't give you your break, make one.

Take. Your. Break.

You do not owe this institution your sanity or your wellbeing. If they will not meet your needs preemptively you have the right to meet your needs yourself, and we all have the right to rest and care. Don’t be afraid to send that “I won’t be in class today email” or don’t send it if you don’t have the capacity and just don’t show up. What will they do? Be mad about it? So what. Who says their expectations are more important than your wellbeing? As disappointed as I am in my institution and the country at large to adapt in a way that centers care and not productivity or profit I am not surprised. I however will not be succumbing to it, and you have the choice not to either.

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Photography by Efua Osei

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My whole life is one big identity crisis

Why has being black always felt like a sickness

The tickle in my throat started when I was five

When a kid on the playground asked me a question I couldn't contrive

An answer to, "Why are you black if your parents are white?"

I was confused as to why his question felt like a slight

My parents told me I was adopted.

Adopted?

The tickle turned into a sore throat by the time I was seven

We started our US History lesson with Ms. Kevin

She taught us the white people were "explorers" of new lands

And built our country with their own two hands

But those same "explorers" brought black people over by boat

She failed to mention the chains wrapped around those slaves' throat

Or that millions of people who looked like me were only seen as property

Wait, why doesn't anyone look like me?

It was the first time that I had realized

So I began to idealize

The way white girls' hair fell so perfectly straight

Just to watch them appropriate

My culture with their perms and "African print" clothing, and I saw my fate

But Ms. Kevin told me that I needed to behave

After Sammy said I could have been her slave

I thought the only way to cure my sickness was to assimilate

So I got my first relaxer when I was eight

I sacrificed my beautiful curls to be accepted by the oppressor

And it turned me into a second guesser

Of my own worth, a constant state of feeling lesser

My sickness only got worse.

I was called a nigger for the first time in the lunch line

How can someone be so hateful at only age nine

Pizza doesn't taste so great when its toppings are dehumanization and self-doubt

At nine years old I hated being in my own skin because I couldn't figure out

Why I was so sick to my stomach, I wanted to shout

But I couldn't, because Ms. Kevin told me to behave

And being too loud or too angry could put me in the grave

I learned to be quiet, to just be "brave"

While straying further and further from my roots

But what are my roots? Do I have the right attributes?

Who am I? Where did I come from?

My head hurts.

By middle school I had this assimilation thing down

Sticking out was inevitable in my all white town

But if I followed every trend

Maybe this sickness would finally end

I blared One Direction and Justin Beiber with my friends

But found my love for Kendrick and Beyonce behind closed doors

To avoid them thinking that the "n-word" was a word they could explore

I became the "whitest black person they knew"

And, in return, my popularity grew

For the first time I thought maybe my sacrifices were worth it

But the headache didn't go away

As I entered high school, I felt like I was on autopilot

I also noticed how easy it was to stay quiet

But my sophomore year, everything changed

Blatant racism exposed people's true colors

For years we dreamt of friends forever

I never thought it would be those relationships that I would have to sever

I could feel my temperature increasing, and I decided there was no cure

I had to navigate life without my "best friends" for the first time, eternally unsure

I realized almost everyone in my life had failed me on the most fundamental level

No one thought learning about my identities was worth their time, so I had to settle

At 15, the only way I was connected with black culture was through the media

But where is that same energy in "academia"

Years of assimilation and an all white community left a disconnect

Between myself and the black community because I didn't reflect

The characteristics that make me "black"

So what am I? I feel like a reject

Too black for white people, too white for black people

But I finally allowed myself to see the flaws in our system

While learning to look at myself as more than a victim

Little did I know that that was the cure to my sickness

So I began to open my heart with forgiveness

I chopped off those dead ends and let my natural roots grow

Roots. I finally found them and I let them show

I realized that being black can't be defined by language or music

But by how I express my love for my people, and that realization was therapeutic

Sometimes I think maybe I wasn't actually sick at all

I was just sick and tired of being so sick and tired of feeling so small

That is a side effect of a sickness called oppression

So senior year, when my girl put that crown around my curls

I was celebrating the growth I had made from that little girl

Who felt so sick from being in her own skin

I had to dig my queen energy out from within

I learned to love my brown skin, every drop of melanin

The struggle is worth the joy, it was apart of my development

And like Kendrick said, they won't take me out my element

Being black is strong, beautiful, and perseverant

Now I'm 17 and I'm fighting for liberation

This revolution is being led by my generation

I have never felt closer to my people than when we hit the streets

With every chant that usually finds its way off beat (some white people need some rhythm damn lol)

But people are sacrificing their bodies, safety, and livelihoods for their love for black lives

I have never experienced that type of compassion or care and it revives

The hope I had lost from being surrounded by so much hate and silence

Because that's an especially painful kind of violence

This movement has taught me the importance of radical love

The joy of this revolution must come from above

A pastor said once that every time we say "black lives matter" the Cosmos rejoice with us

But that's a concept these racist ass Trump supporters aren't ready to discuss

So no matter how much backlash I get for standing with my people in resistance

I will stand strong for the long run, because we need that persistence

Because black lives matter today. tomorrow. and forever.

Although I sometimes still feel that same tickle in my throat

I now know that being black wasn't the sickness

It was the cure.

# data[].attributes.body
Heartbeat

What makes my Black Heart beat?
Is it the singing and chanting in the streets?
Is it the pink bonnet that clings to my sheets?
What makes my Black Heart beat?
Is it the way others see me?
Or that they don’t
See me
Who is me
And what makes my Black Heart beat?
Is it the content I consume?
Enough about me
It’s all up to you,
At least it used to be
Then you told me it was superficial
The music
The speech
The intelligence?
I threw out your script
I make my Black Heart beat.
The bonnet that clings to the sheets
It can cover my hair
Natural
Protected or
Straight
That does not change my Blackness
I MAKE MY BLACK HEART BEAT.
The music?
Rap                                                             R&B                                           Country
Hip-Hop                                                  Jazz                                               Pop
I MAKE MY BLACK HEART BEAT.
My speech?
Unapologetically me
I MAKE MY BLACK HEART BEAT
My intelligence?
Unbounded
All parts of me
Whether you think so or not
MAKE MY BLACK HEART BEAT

- Maxine Michelle

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by Renee Austin

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I am a black man.

You can call me evergreen,

for I bloom like a forest

in the middle of the sea.

Like a rose surrounded by destruction

and waves of agony,

I am mystical, magical,

and made to be a King.

My beautiful black woman,

stand up and rise with me.

We can be the light shining

at the end of everything.

That smile you beam is deadly,

it proves that you are free

to think and to love

and to live eternally.

Our black excellence

is growing like a seed,

thrust into the soil,

uprooted by defeat,

but we hold our crowns up.

Victory's all we see.

The idea that faith, love,

and everlasting peace,

can finally be reached if we

just follow the Dream.

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When you look at me,

It is with blindness and intolerance. You see a hideous creature you created To be the object of your hatred.

No. I am more than that.

When I look in the mirror,

I see something to be loved.

Beautiful brown skin,

A healthy body, a warm heart.

When I look at you,

I see emptiness, scorn, envy.

You seal me inside a glass jar With a lit match

To slowly suffocate as you watch on. But it is you who is breathless.

# data[].attributes.body
captured by MaKayla Stovall

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Her lungs filled with air, expanding with a fullness of life that, for more than a moment, she despised herself for. Mourning manifested itself heavily in the lungs which filled and then hastily recoiled to neutrality, expelling the air with an exceptional quickness that was alarming but somehow, she found comfort in their suffering.

She was returning stolen air.

For years she had been breathing. In her sleep, as she ate, in class, during movies, exams, church. She never paid it any mind, not while she watched it rise in the cold, frozen air, or as it fogged her compact mirror on occasion.

She thought her breath, her air, was hers alone. She took it for granted.

She breathed while she watched the news, and again when she hid her face from it. She continued breathing as the world around her burned, as her city puffed up and fell to the ground in a cloudy, ashy haze, as #BLM engulfed her feed, as people marched, and others disregarded. She even dared breathe now, in the comfort of her home, her television inflamed,

Her lungs filled with the air of someone’s last breath.

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“Self-Care That I Can’t Live Without” by Ryan Ricks

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“Self-Care That I Can’t Live Without” by Ryan Ricks

# data[].attributes.body
A Nintendo DSi. A SpongeBob DVD. A soft blanket. A satin cap. 
What do these things have in common? These are just some of the things I need for a perfect self-care routine. Watching SpongeBob and playing games simultaneously, because I can’t stand to just do one thing at a time. A soft blanket because my room gets cold. A satin cap because I want to lay my head back without messing up my hair (I have to make a wash-n-go last a week somehow). 
I’m exhausted. This summer, in many respects, sucked. Not only was there the pandemic, but there was all the racial turmoil and trauma that we had to work through, and still have to work through every day because even though the trends have died down, we have not stopped hurting and being hurt. And I know for me, dealing with performative activists left me drained, upset, typically hopeless. Because these are the people that show up for us? This is the best that white America has to offer? 
Even though I always say that I lower my expectations, the fact is I’m an optimist so I’m hurt every time something that shouldn’t be a surprise happens. 
Sitting there with my SpongeBob and my games (usually also SpongeBob, to be honest) and my blankets and my cap, that’s the time where I don’t think about how much the summer sucked. And how much I’m disappointed by people. And how exhausted I am. Sometimes I end up doing that anyway, but the point is that I’m not supposed to. 
A pillow. YouTube. Warm light lamps. A snack. 
Another set of four items I need to have a perfect self-care session. It depends on my mood though. Sometimes I can’t even sit through a 3-minute long YouTube video. Hence why I usually end up playing some sort of game on my phone while having a video on in the background. 
I’m exhausted. College is stressful. More stressful than I expected. It’s exhausting, especially since we’ve had no break. Because of the endless work, I haven’t been able to have any self-care sessions like I want to. The effects are showing themselves. I have less of an ability to deal with the world around me because every day I wake up in an overworked-induced daze, assignments spinning in my mind where actual thoughts should be. 
Self-care is critical, and yet I can’t even do it this semester. Not enough at least. What kind of choice is it where I have to choose between engaging in self-care or sleeping? Because I always have to work until late at night, when I should just go to sleep. 
Door closed. Blinds shut. Earbuds in. Quiet. 
My self-care sessions are for me only. I live in a space with others but I still make them mine. Despite popular belief, I wouldn’t call myself an introvert, but I do need my time to myself. And I
suppose that in the end that’s all my self-care is. It’s taking time for myself because normally I never do that. Whether I’m working, or doing someone a favor, or educating myself or attending protests or doing literally anything, I’m always doing something for someone else, or something bigger than just me. 
I’m exhausted. I need these times to be selfish. And I hate calling it that, because this shouldn’t be called a word with such a negative connotation. These last few months we’ve been asked to deal with a lot while under conditions minimal breaks, downtime, or any sort of recuperation. 
And yet, we push through despite these conditions. Which is a double-edged sword, because everytime I prove myself to be capable of some sort of physically and mentally exhausting feat, I’m asked to do something even worse (2 wellness days, anyone?). 
That’s why I’m not selfish for taking some time to care for myself. It’s why I need to take time to take care of myself. I can’t live without it.

# data[].attributes.body
yesterday i fell in love for the first time

i swallowed the sun and she warmed me from the inside out

it was shared looks and shared smiles and shared love

how could someone love me in ways i hadn’t yet learned to love myself?

yesterday i found peace.

today i felt heartbreak for the first time

i hear what if and why not and i wish

the thoughts are racing and the memories are looping and

maybe it was all in my head

when will i feel like me again?

today i lost my peace.

tomorrow i will heal for the first time

i will remember my love for myself and how it stands on its own two feet

i will greet the tide of sadness without allowing her to pull me under

knowing how the cards fell, would i play this game again? (yes.)

tomorrow i will be at peace once more.

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by Ruth Alemu

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Flashing lights. All I see when I close my eyes are flashing lights. And when I open them, to find  some release, the lights are still there, tracking my every move. A uniform stops me only to smile  and say hello. Why stop me then? Why not let me pass? You can say hello as we keep moving  along our own paths. But I know that my path will inevitably collide with yours. And somehow  my path will end suddenly. Synonyms for suddenly include: promptly, swiftly, abruptly,  unexpectedly, instantly...like a shot. Like a shot that rings out that is so loud my ringing ears  distract me from the pain but at the same time no one will hear it. A shot that should end two  lives but only ends the life of the innocent. A shot taken away from me, a shot at getting my  degree, a new job, finding my soulmate, living a happy life. I try not to think about it all when I  see the flashing lights...

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“There are a couple things i must tell you” by Fatou Kane

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“There are a couple things i must tell you” by Fatou Kane

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there are a couple things i must tell you:

the present comes most times in spite of preparation

and is gobbled up into the past just as quickly as it stopped being future  I am taller than you now

and everyone has gone so you gotta check for your own monsters now.  and you will wonder if that is what growing up is?

a lump in the throat.

and a dragging of the feet.

and you will encounter the terrible truth that you are not as knowledgeable as you think you are,

along with the suffocating realization that nobody is harmless as long as they got teeth in their mouths,

and remember,

you have a right to drag your feet

you will go through life trying to avoid cherry pits

do not forget to enjoy the cherry.

how long is a minute really? be careful not to choke.

and be careful not to crack your tooth on the fact that

you were borne into tragedy

and the world began in tragedy

such is the plight of the hungry soul

and so you will begin sacrificing sobriety to higher powers take this green to mean anything you want it to be

it might take you too.

maybe

clear out the weeds from that bramble in your head.

sticks and straw thirsty for destruction are strewn all about were you not made for burning?

you will recall there was never a time the night did not follow the day be patient.

a time will come when you will have forgiven everyone but yourself maybe you delight in your suffering

that kind which softens your fingers out of idleness

But even so, you will find love.

again

and again

and again

and each time it will feel something different

i know that

you are a pile of reckless if only just to feel something i am taller than you now

and

i know your secret

and my love,

you dont got much time left.

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“after for colored girl who have considered suicide//when the rainbow is enuf” by Fatou Kane

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“after for colored girl who have considered suicide//when the rainbow is enuf” by Fatou Kane

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after for colored girl who have considered suicide//when the rainbow is enuf by Ntozake Shange

this, is a poem for colored girls

whose rainbows were fading

this, is a poem for colored girls

whose rainbows are fading

and this,

is a poem for colored girls who feel they will never get their rainbow back.

know that it will come back even on rainy days

we must remember,

rainbows are not borne of sunshine, they are the children of rain drops and thunderstorms

held by fiery sunsets and ash filled clouds from when the world was on fire and you survived it

when the world is still burning and you persist in spite

when those gluttonous flames tease your curls,

when the thirsty heat becomes too much to bear—

it becomes apparent that black girls do indeed melt.

not like chocolate, but like candle wax

and know that like candle wax, you will harden again

and that like candle wax, you are allowed softness

we are allowed to collapse into ourselves

we slow the fire

no, this is not your self-immolation party,

not yet

this fire will never consume us.

know that like candle wax,

we keep the fire at bay,

and god as close as possible

there is no closeness quite more intimate than oneness see we are god,

colored

girl,

you are god

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captured by Shot On The Block (Noah Stewart)

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“I asked God to specially handcraft a lover just for me" by Chidera Igbo

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“I asked God to specially handcraft a lover just for me" by Chidera Igbo

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I asked God to specially handcraft a lover just for me

And he did.

His skin reflected the moon’s light

He was

Gentle yet firm.

Tender yet strong.

We danced to the song of owls and night jars

We picked stars from the sky

Until morning

And The sun shined on our love

And I wiped away one final tear when I realized

I’d been mourning the death of a boy who never lived.

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"A Lamp to Light the Way” by Jebron Perkins

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"A Lamp to Light the Way” by Jebron Perkins

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I bought you flowers

But I should've bought you kerosene

Burn your evil effigy

Brought to life, like lucid dreams

You stepped into my garden

Carrying your pestilence

And god forbid your foolish ways

They stole away my common sense

I should’ve bought you kerosene

And burned you at the stake

For karma comes to evil games

And witches play for final fates

I should’ve burned it all

Your color coated golden gates

But instead, I let them stand

Dug a hole for my own grave

I should've bought you kerosene

Burned you black as Dante back from hell

And let you hear the words they say

I'm sure by now you know them well

You made me hate parts of me

Tried to revoke my legacy

But even antebellum sees

That I am your eternity

I should’ve bought you kerosene

You wicked land of broken dreams

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by Galen Hicks

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rainy nights lead to foggy mornings.
i wonder,
how many more days must i endure?
peace that shares a place at the table
with its complement of distress.
a friend that was never sought out
but instead welcomed me in.
hands covered in the pain of others,
but i still reach out to them.
knowing that it will only hurt in the end
because that is the only love i know.

the moon looks so pretty after a storm passes by.
like a person fighting their brokenness,
trying to prove their worth.
maybe that leads them to take that forbidden fruit,
the temporary ailment for their isolation.
to become their own version of eve,
and in the end still suffer more than what they deserve.
but what is it that we deserve?
regret or happiness,
success or failure,
why define yourself based on a fickle idea
of what you think you warrant in life?

sometimes i like to think that i am the butterfly
and this is all just a dream.
failure, regret, success, happiness –
all ideas constructed and maintained,
all subjective to the individual.
but in reality,
because that is all there is to this life,
we bounce between the ideas of others.
until we’re all just droplets from the same cloud,
no different from the other,
all looking through the same lens
of what it means to live.
a symptom of life.

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"Dear angry Black woman” by Sabrina Spence

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"Dear angry Black woman” by Sabrina Spence

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Dear angry Black woman,
Do not let them cage you, angry lion fighting Black woman with the crown on her head. Do not let them knock you off your throne Black woman, do not go gently when they ask you to surrender. Keep your fist raised like the coils that garden grow from the soil of your scalp,

Black woman, do not be afraid when they tell you you cannot because you will and when there’s a will there’s a way but do not let them break yours.

Black woman, they will come for you, sticks and stones to break your bones the way they tried to break your mothers’ spirits but they will find, Black woman, that you are not the weak link in the chain. You are the diamond pendant resting above a beating heart hot as the plantation sun. Black woman, you are more than a cash crop descendant, cotton-haired beauty. You are the sun and stars, a reminder of freedom. When they look at you Black woman, they should see history. They should see tomorrow, they should see promise, they should see beginnings and endings and in-betweens because you are everything.

You are the wind that blows cool after the rain baptizes the earth. You are the leaves that blanket the ground, mother earth tucking in her children. Black woman I know you are angry; I know you are tired; I know you. I know the fear hiding behind umber eyes blazing, pointed forward never turn back keep going never let them see you tumble and fall.

Stand proud, stand true, carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, be the world, I know.

I know you.

-dear, angry, Black, woman

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I’m a threat to my oppression because I too am three.

To combat my class, sex, and race I live my life gracefully.

Class in my walk,

Cadence in my speech,

Curls in my hair,

But there's pain underneath.

The pain of denigration, defamation, and simply being overlooked.

Because though we too fight on the front lines it’s only our brothers praised in books.

They say that they love us but that’s news to me because

If we’re queens where the hell are our kings?

We fight for them, care for them,

Give our minds, bodies, and souls for them.

But it’s the Browns, Martins, and Floyd’s that the people see

When our women, our sisters are dying just as brutally.

Taylor killed in her home,

Bland hung in her cell,

Salau killed by her own,

When she begged the police to help.

I’m tired

The time has expired.

Why haven’t they all been fired?

Can someone tell me who the hell let Trump in the White House when his words only add fuel to the fire?

I don’t know where I was going with this.

Maybe I just wanted to let off some steam.

I guess you could call me angry cause it seems to be all that you see.

But just take the time to listen.

Just lend me a minute of your time.

All I'm asking is to be seen,

Without having to be white.

They say Black lives matter

But to whom does that apply?

I’d like to think it’s me.

But secrets out, I’m not a guy.

This movement should be as much for him as it is for her.

I’m not trying to be divisive, trust me...just take my word.

I want us to unite.

Rather than fight for air time.

It’s not a matter of he or she, when we are all fighting to survive.

In a world where our skin binds as one...

We’re a family for lack of better words.

I’m writing this because I love you, but I want you to know that we're hurt.

It’s time we care for each other before our names are the ones we chant in the street,

Power to the people

But It’s time we do things differently.

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by Ruth Alemu

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1 step 2 step 3 step 4:

the blistering august sun darkens my brown skin. sweat drips and bounces onto the crusty asphalt. my lungs are givin’ out but i’m alive… oh jesus i feel alive. i want to give up ‘cuz my lungs are givin’ out but i don’t. i couldn’t. i shouldn’t. the rope loops around me, the balls of my feet fall because of gravity. this heated breeze positions me in a matrix. i feel near 2000. up, i feel up ‘cuz ciara’s level up just queued.

i feel the energy now? no inhaler needed? suddenly i feel okay, ‘cuz i kept breathin’ ‘n breathin n’ breathin’ n ‘breathin or uh,

whatever ariana said. i speed faster--side to side, alternating legs and bulging quads. i always wanted to give up, and some days, especially on those rainy ones, i nearly did. but, i knew that my beautiful brown body deserves a lil’ challenge ‘n a healthy heart. i named my jump rope motive because they not only gave me a motive to jump ‘n jump, i also needed to discern the motive to wake up and accomplish. 1999, 2000! woohoo! i reached two millenia, a ton, or whichever way you wanna  quantify it. passed out, heart pumpin’, lungs contractin’, forehead drippin’, ‘yonce playin, n’ the bees buzzin’. my guardian angels are singin’ and i’m listenin’. i did it today, i can do it again tomorrow and then the next day. i just stay self-motivatin’, manifestin’, repeatin’, believin’.

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"Letter from a Marginalized Student” by Marc Ridgell

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"Letter from a Marginalized Student” by Marc Ridgell

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Dear Reader,

Many high school seniors dream of attending their top choice university. When I got accepted to WashU, I felt so elated. I knew that I would be able to express myself and be myself. I knew that I would receive opportunities. I knew that I would find the community I had always yearned for. During orientation at WashU, I started to conceptualize WashU’s positionality in St. Louis and their treatment of marginalized students: in my orientation group, we “toured” a predominantly-Black neighborhood near the Griot museum, and my white group partners silenced me when we worked on a mini-project afterwards. Additionally, before embarking on that “tour” through the neighborhood, the coordinators provided a very bland, offensive Native American “land acknowledgement.” While I had already found a group of Black first years that I vibed with, I unfortunately felt isolated. When living in Dardick House last year, many white people in my dorm made me uncomfortable. When I walked into BD, I saw the ways that white students would treat the Black co-workers. Some WashU students never humanized me, as they saw me as their Black and gay pet who merely had a flamboyant personality. For example, I remember when I have been mistaken for another Black male student. I also remember being greeted in very condescending ways. Apart from my experiences, I remember hearing my Black friends’ stories on campus, existing in toxic, white-centered classrooms and spaces. Being Black and gay on this campus can be cute, at times, because I have access to certain affinity spaces. But, sometimes I wonder how life would be if I weren’t limited my identities. I wonder how I could feel and express myself without feeling at the margins of my college community.

Are these issues WashU specific? Nope. Many Black (and gay) college students across the country can probably relate to their dream school not being their imagined experience. I know that the people who I have surrounded myself with--students of color, LGBTQ+ students, and lower-income students--are people that make WashU bearable. But, if WashU claims that they are a school that “fosters diversity,” they should not make their most vulnerable students feel like this. Not only does WashU administration need to do astronomically better, y’all WashU students need to do better, too. Much of white WashU is complicit in the same acts of discrimination as the rest of the adminstration--and yes, this includes white students with other marginalized identities. While this is the end of my rant, I hope other Black students feel empowered, through undergrad and post-undergrad, to critique the institutions that they are a part of and are complicit within.

Signed,

A tired, Black and gay WashU student

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by Ruth Alemu

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i was born a baby girl too soft for this world
i was told to effloresce and bloom but
God rained and i dissolved
but you rain and i petal
i worry that my love for you is a sin
not because we are eves basking
in the sunlight filtering through the leaves
of the forbidden tree
but because my love for you
rivals that of God
i always knew that my God was true
but i didn’t know it until you said i adore you
i didn’t quite understand it
until your eyes smiled at me and said i was good
i didn’t quite feel it
until your lips graced my neck and your hands blessed my waist
i wasn’t quite whole
until you held me in your arms, made me pinky promise i was okay
and it came to pass
after 400 days and 400 nights of pain
a new covenant was established between god and her person
and she, meaning they, meaning we
built an altar for ourselves in that place
and i called the place enigma
because in that place i asked God why He would bless me
with a temptation as holy as you
and He said because
you and i and we are necessary
and loving you is loving God is loving me is loving you is love is love is love
no matter what

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captured by Shot On The Block (Noah Stewart)

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an excerpt from "Multiracials In A Dating Hierarchy" by Sparkle Whitaker

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an excerpt from "Multiracials In A Dating Hierarchy" by Sparkle Whitaker

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The dating hierarchy in America is greatly influenced by individualized preferences that relate to race and cultural backgrounds, political points of view, and racial intermixing attitudes. These individualized dating preferences have ultimately formed various patterns of inclusion and exclusion of multiracials. Multiracials find that their placement in a dating hierarchy is dependent upon their racial background and the queried dater. Honorary white (Bonilla-Silva 2004: 933) multiracials have are ranked higher than non-honorary white multiracials and exhibit more flexibility in their dating choices. These honorary white (Bonilla-Silva 2004: 933) multiracials prioritize white racial backgrounds and similar cultural or ethnic identities in their partners. So is not the case for non-honorary white multiracials, who are often part-black, that do not always prioritize white daters in their dating hierarchy. These daters often consider the political points of view that a partner has and the racial attitudes that they exhibit. Both honorary and non-honorary white multiracials have different criteria to use when pursuing a relationship with someone. Multiracials are placed in various ranks in a dating hierarchy by different monoracial and multiracial people. The concept of suggesting that there is only one dominant dating hierarchy in America is futile, since any hierarchy is based on personal desires, which vary per person. However, the presented research has outlined dating and marriage patterns that contain residual effects of the binary racial system in the U.S. that held Whites as top tier and Blacks at the bottom of the racial pyramid. How this continuation of racial inequality impacts multiracials in the dating world is implied in the patterns of inclusion of part-white multiracials and exclusion of part-black multiracials. I suggest that future research should explore more of the racial attitudes that guide those daters who perform inclusion of part-White multiracials and exclusion of partblack multiracials. Perhaps only then can a dominating dating hierarchy be articulated as the standard in American society.