The Indicator × THE STUDENT

These pieces were initally published in The Indicator’s 2022 Fall issue “Bridges” and are presented here in collaboration with The Indicator.

Awa Diop

Staff Writer

The thick branch of the oak tree leans against the narrow second floor window and blocks streams of sunlight from Adja’s African Braiding Salon. The light that seeps through the panes reaches the back of the shop, casting stark white rays against the pink wall. All the stations are empty this morning except for one. Adja parts the last section of hair with the rattail comb to hook in another box braid. She’s working on the last two braids of Michelle’s hair, a first-time customer. They haven’t talked much past the initial greeting and Michelle explaining her style choice. Adja often prefers silence anyways. Having just come to Harlem from Mali some six months ago, she struggles to communicate comfortably with American clients like Michelle. She feels as though they have little in common. Embarrassed by her limited vocabulary and accented English, she’s much less anxious when Sidiki Diabaté’s “L’Enfant Beni” playing from the TV hooked to the right wall fills up the space.

As Adja separates the Expression braiding hair, she sees her daughter who sits behind her through the mirror. She brought Tima to the salon whenever she wasn’t at Kindergarten. Babysitters were too expensive, and she never really felt safe leaving her baby with anyone but her mom and sisters who were now back home. Tima, who was previously laying on the rug watching some YouTube show on her tablet, was now sitting up with a doll in between her lap teaching Kayla, Michelle’s daughter, how to braid. They both sat concentrated on the mannequin head, the youtube video now playing on the floor as their own background music. They had matching pink and blue bubbles at the end of their plaits. The little name necklace around Kayla’s small neck mirrors the name bracelet on Tima’s wrist.

Kayla intently watches as Tima’s chubby, little fingers part a messy section of the doll’s head. She then separates the section of hair into three parts. Tima holds out for Kayla’s hand to gently place on one of the small sections of hair. As Tima holds her two pieces of hair apart from each other, she instructs Kayla to place the piece of hair she’s holding through them. Tima roped her own two over Kayla’s piece to make the first hetch of the plait.

“That’s it! Now you move that,” Tima instructs as she points. Tima had picked up many words at school, and has been stringing together full sentences for the past couple weeks. The curvature of her tongue as she speaks is slightly laced with that of her mother’s language and her English is quite impressive. Kayla circles around her still holding the piece of hair, moving to the direction she pointed to make another layer of the plait. The two girls keep moving around one another, their arms tangling up as they attempt to finish their first braid together. Once done, the plait hung loose and fuzzy. But it held up nonetheless, refusing to untangle.

Aidan Cooper ’26 Staff Writer

“He [the king] has, or takes, the land in his natural Body, yet to this natural Body is conjoined his Body politic, which contains his royal Estate and Dignity … and these two Bodies are incorporated in one Person” - Ernst Kantorowicz

She stands before a sculpture named Look Where she unspools twine from the knots She loosened from her wrists the sigils Heaving like words in a throat opened Her Prayer like a touch and boiling Shiver turning the dust-clouds into rain.

He stands before a lectern named Wash Where he uncoils ribbons from the holes

He cut through his fingertips the callouses Spinning like words in a throat opened His Confession like a breath and frothing Sieve turning the faucet-spit into wine. She stands before a cabinet named Him Where she unfastens metal from the wounds He fashioned from his longing the edges Dulling like words in a throat opened Her Mouth like an end and whistling Language turning him and her into them.

He stands before a maelstrom named Her Where he uncovers stardust from the skin She buried in her histories the diamonds Thawing like words in a throat opened His Arms like a wish and rippling Music turning her and him into them. They step into a Body named Them, A sovereign dressed in dashes – in the Oneness — of blood and otherwise. They wash the sheets — in their creases, Hands like residue — they look until They know — all has been taken in. They caress the cracks — of their Body, Rolling – with the force of water — Against a charged calm of white, These puppet strings, these finger blades

You can read the rest of these pieces on our website, www.amherststudent.com