BIPOC Lenses Issue 4

BIPOC LENSES

ISSUE4

EDITORS NOTE

If you ask my friends, they’ll tell you that this issue went through several drafts and versions. I drove myself a little crazy trying to find a way to encapsulate the entirety of the African Diaspora at Oberlin and what it means to be Black. In a way, I felt that if I couldn’t represent myself, how could I represent others? But I think that’s when I realized the truth: there isn’t one way to represent everyone. What makes Blackness so special is the idea that it shows up differently in everyone. Some choose to represent this through singing, while I like sitting down and putting pen to paper. Black people are forever raising the standard and innovating. Our job as members of the BIPOC team is to honor how special it is to be Black and that nothing can ever stop us from being our unique individual and radiant selves. Every photo you’ll see in this issue represents how, even years ago, Black students were still teaching, laughing, and changing the campus of Oberlin. Time has done nothing to diminish our light, and it continues to grow brighter. So, I thank everyone who created this issue and hope you continue to learn about the wonders of Black history and culture.

Editor-In-Chief

Nikki Keating

Photo Contributors

Anokha Venugopal

The Oberlin Archives

Head Outreach

Ezra Pruitt

Treasurer

Arya Menon

Writers

Vera Grace Menafee

Reggie Goudeau

Skye Jalal

Mia Knox

Tseli Mathebula

Sage O'Reggio

Artists

Vera Grace Menafee

Sage O'Reggio

Marley Howard

Michael Boyd Roman

Julian Cross

Outreach

Sydney Banks

Mia Knox

Editors

Revanth Sudhireddy

Photoshoot Purpose

The black and white photos are collected from the Oberlin archives depicting black campus life at Oberlin in the 1960s-1970s. The colored photos are from now. The text collage throughout this issue references the text:

"Black/ African American/Africana Studies at Oberlin: African American Student and community Development Program: African American Studies At Oberlin College"

This text laid the foundation of Africana studies at Oberlin and transformed the community to resemble the one we see now. In no way is this supposed to represent every African Diasporic Student in the world or at Oberlin. Rather this photoshoot is dedicated to showcasing the history of the African diaspora here at Oberlin and how far we have come.

Marley Howard

Marley Howard

dreamscape 19

This was my first time attempting to express myself through visual art since middle school, but I’ve had collaging on my heart for some time now and really wanted to create what I was seeing in my head My maternal grandmother, Vera Ellis, whom I’m named after, is pictured in the center and I handpicked a white chrysanthemum to place on her photograph. She’s seen alongside Nina Simone, Toni Morrison, Ntozake Shange, Toni Cade Bambara, Audre Lorde, Alice Walker, and Lucille Clifton. The collage is meant to feel temporal and to convey a feeling of ancestral memory, nostalgia, and radical self-making. This piece is very meaningful to me and brought many different parts of who I am into one frame.

Vera Grace Menafee

2 ft x 3 ft, black-painted frame, words written by me

Here in Ohio Reggie Goudeau

A beautiful day, is not guaranteed

When Mother Nature is a scandalous fiend.

Here in Ohio, she’s the most bloodthirsty. Making the weather report so untrustworthy.

As the rain descends, I await its end, Although I enjoy eating pizza as I waste away in bed.

I can barely raise my head, although it’s stuck in the clouds.

that rained on my parade and left a mere flood around.

Here in Ohio, No forecast is true. Yet that also means your destiny is more up to you.

Skye Jalal

“Are we really sure Jesus turned water into wine? Because if you think about it, it really could have been anything. Personally, I think it was Crown. Because anyone who was hanging out with pimps and hoes like Jesus was, was definitely drinking Crown.”

About a year before my great-grandfather died, Mama found a box of letters between him and another woman, stuffed underneath a stack of old newspapers and a PlayBoy Magazine. Turns out, the entire time, he and this woman had a whole secret family. Monday to Friday, he was Meena’s husband and our Papa, but on the weekends he was theirs. For three decades, he went on like that, shape shifting.

My mama and aunties were so mad, but by the time they found out, the statute of limitations was up Alzheimers had already spread into his brain like a dandelion seed, and not only could they not confront him about it, but they all had to take weekend shifts wiping his vegetable ass

When he died, we sat pew-to-pew in the church house with the other family Enraged, Mama went to Meena asking her to do something about it. Why would she let us share space with this mistress? With her raggedy children? How could she not be angry? Meena responded with a patient smile, “Do you really think I was that stupid? Who do you think has been paying for those babies to go to school all these years?” Meena was always a woman of God, which I never understood. I didn’t get how she could worship a God who had done us so wrong, same way I didn’t get how she could love the babies of a man who did her worse.

The thing is, where I’m from, the weather is warm and the skin is brown. We speak the language of: “What’s mine is yours, no seriously you take it. - You need a bed to sleep on? Take mine.I’ll sleep on the couch.- I’ll be 45 next month if the Lord sees fit.- Here, I can watch both babies while you go to that interview, maybe their bad asses can now bother each other instead of me.” I’m from the land of “Won’t he do it God?” and “Yes he will!” and “I know Jonathan got that birthday coming up, I got extra food stamps from last month why don’t you go to Kroger and get some of them good candles?” and learning to love your cheating husband’s love children, because it's his fault, not theirs. I come from buckets catching the leak from the apartment upstairs and praising God every time the rent check goes through There, the weather is warm and the skin is brown, cause at least when it's cold we’re close together We take turns both sewing the safety net and trust falling into it It isn’t easy, but let me tell you when Meena died, she didn’t have any of those white-lady wrinkles

How did they manage to convince us for so long that we’re the ‘lesser’ sex? Everything is a mother. The Earth. Vinegar. Sourdough bread. Even the men’s own machines, those are still mothers.

The baby’s ears are itching. At times she plugs them with her pointer fingers, rotating them back and forth in a semicircle. That, or she cups her palms over her whole ears, like something loud is playing in the room beside her. But here, it is not loud. It is only a Thursday afternoon, on a random day at my aunt's house and the only sounds are me humming down to her in my lap, and her cooing back up to me in return.

We sit on facetime with my mom, and I bring up the ears. “Maybe they’re just filled with wax?” Mama said to me, unpacking groceries into the fridge slightly out of frame. “I don’t know though,” I responded. “Would a baby really be so conscious of her ear-wax? I’m nervous that she’s getting an ear infection. Or maybe she’s having that issue that I had with my ears when I was a baby, didn’t I get some surgery?”

“You and your brother both had tubes placed inside your ears. I have the same problem. As soon as you guys started having issues I had you get the surgery, because I didn’t know about mine until I was much older That's why my hearing is so bad ” Splitting open a carton of raspberries to rinse in the sink, she paused “You know what, you’re right I’ll talk to Sonia about it in the morning ”

I posted a photo of the baby on my Instagram story, and a friend slid up and asked me if she was my niece or my cousin. I didn’t know how to answer. I know that she’s my cousin’s daughter and my aunt’s

Once I really thought about it though, I wasn’t quite sure how I was related to the two of them either My Aunt Sonia is probably not my mother’s whole sister, possibly her half-sister, maybe a cousin, or a friend from college or high school or somewhere else I have a lot of aunts and only a few of them look like me Whoever the baby was, she still slept spread eagle the night before on top of my back, leaving a sweaty drool stain on my shirt by the morning. “My niece,” I replied. I guess that’s how aunts are made. I do know that Aunt Rhea is Aunt Sonia’s friend from college. The four of us, Rhea, Sonia, the baby, and I sprawl across the living room, watching the Jeffersons go to Hawaii on the TV. “You know,” Rhea says, “the baby has been messing with her ears a lot lately.” I perked up, “I was just saying the same exact thing to Mama on the phone this morning,”

Helen and her white husband Tom are on a beach in Oahu. Helen is upset, she feels as if Tom has been ignoring her the whole vacation. She storms away in hurt, but Tom is too distracted by the butts of young white women to follow her. He chooses to help one of them apply sun-tan lotion to her back instead.

Rhea picks the baby up from her legos on the ground, plants a sweet kiss on her cheek, and places the baby on her hip bone, wrapping her legs around the curve of her waist, “Usually when they’re having trouble with their ears like this, you know you’re in for a lot of sore throats.” I had noticed earlier in the day how well the baby fit on the curve of my own waist as I hauled her around. A curve I had hated for so long, that day seemed like it finally had a purpose, like that line of my body was drawn just for her to rest on. I didn’t know what to make of it

Sonia looked up from her phone for a second, “It could be an ear infection ”

“I was talking to my mom and she said that me and my brother both had to get tubes put in our ears Maybe she’s having the same problem,” I offered.

“Hmmm, it could be a family trait. I’ll talk to her mama about it when I drop her off.”

My therapist always talks to me about how “well-raised” I was, which always makes me laugh. My generation loves talking about childhood trauma, and my therapist knows better than anyone just how much of it I have. I laugh because I always thought being well-raised meant having two parents who puree their own baby food and run everything they say to you through a parenting-book first.

Just last night, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my second mother, sobbing into her chest about the wrongs of my first. And I’ll tell you, nothing else this year has made me feel more well-raised. If there’s anything my mom and dad did right, it was understanding that raising me was too great a task to trust only themselves with it. I guess raising your kids well is giving them parachutes to jump out of the buildings you set on fire.

I thought I found gold once in the creek that ran behind the house I lived in before the house I lived in before I lived in the house I live in now That house was painted bright green with pink stripes on every wall and even the bookshelves and the kitchen counters too Back then, my parents were 20 feet tall and could instantly heal any scrape on my knee or elbow with a magic kiss There was something shiny in the water, and so I dug my fingers into the bed, ripped it out, and let the current push the dirt off I dried it with the pant of my overalls and held it safe in my front pocket as I brought it inside to Mama. In the kitchen, Mama flipped over a white plate and dragged the tip of the shiny rock down its ceramic bottom. Pointing to the blackishgreen trail it left behind, she said to me, “Looks like you’ve found yourself some fools gold baby.” I didn’t understand. I didn’t even know it was up for someone else to decide. If it's shiny and yellow and hides under the creek current waiting for me to find it, why was I a fool for thinking it was gold? If I can tie a string to it and loop it around my neck, what’s the difference anyways? That day, Mama got a little bit smaller.

On the TV screen, a group of children sneak into a haunted house to hunt down the evil clown. The building sits upon a tall hill, a strike of lightning flashes behind it in the night. The wooden siding slinks off the building, crows fly out through smashed windows, an ominous howl erupts out from somewhere in the distance. I chuckle, knowing this is only Hollywood. I know that the most haunted of houses have picket fences. I know the ghosts that hide in walk-inclosets. It is not cracked foundations that scare me, but marble countertops that make me wonder, “Who was it that had to suffer for this?”

That building, the one the movie tells us is haunted, is probably just tired. The carbon in the wood has absorbed all the stories it can, and it is ready to be put to rest, to return to its mother. I know it’s unnatural for anything to be stainless, or try to be ❦

Whatever was making the baby’s ears itch, she gave it to me My nose was running just like hers The last time I was sick, the nurse after checking my temperature and testing me for strep, also gave me a word of advice. “Make sure you continue to eat, even if you aren’t hungry. Sometimes, when you have a lot of mucus in your body, it can drain down to your stomach, making you feel fuller than you are.”

Me and the baby laid down on the couch, as our Aunts around us spoke.

“There was so much traffic on 75. I didn’t leave in time, so I had to drive all the way home in the dark.”

“Girl, I hate driving in the dark. When I was younger, it was like no problem, but once you turn 50 it's like a switch flips and you’re ducking in a motel as soon as the sun sets.”

“I should have checked the Waze before I left. Google maps isn’t as good with the traffic stuff ”

“You know they’re owned by the same company right? But I think they run on different databases, sometimes Google maps can find addresses that Waze can’t”

“Yeah true You know what else? Can you believe it’s already snowing? Here I am shoveling the driveway in early November, I haven’t even had time to go to the Lowes and….”

Something caught the baby’s eye, and she darted to go investigate it I sat up with her With my head then above my body, I began to feel the mucus drip down to my stomach.

“Don’t you dare ask me how the Cowboys are doing this season, I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Girl, when will you just accept that your team is trash!”

“If you wanna talk about trash teams, I wanna talk about husbands!”

I have never had a birthday party with less than 40 people at it. I have jumped out of so many burning buildings. And even on an empty stomach, looking around me, I felt full.

Black and Traumatized

A deep dive into the stigma of therapy and mental health in the Black community

Mia Knox

To begin, the question that is presented is clear Where does this stigma come from? The answer is complex, yet it boils down to three key aspects, the first being generational ideals and inherited trauma in the Black community. Everyone is aware of the horrendous treatment of people of color throughout the history of the United States, particularly African Americans. Evidently, years of historical adversity such as slavery, segregation and discrimination- which is still more common than one might think- have had extremely negative effects on the community as a whole. Despite this, many fail to consider the mental and emotional toll it has taken on them and how it is still present in the way many Black people live their lives. A specific effect of such harsh treatment has caused many African Americans to become desensitized. In layman's terms, most Black people harbor the “it is what it is” mentality and usually do not address the mental or physical strain that they experience because they believe that the stress and pain is normal According to an article released by the National Alliance on Mental Illness

Despite the rising acknowledgement and acceptance of mental health issues, people of color, specifically African Americans, oftentimes do not receive proper treatment for such matters due to the stigma that surrounds mental health and therapy in the black community.

(N.A.M.I),“Black adults in the U.S. are more likely than white adults to report persistent symptoms of emotional distress, …Despite the need, only one in three Black adults who need mental health care receive it.” This article reveals that though Black people suffer from negative emotions at a higher rate they do not receive proper treatment and mental health care.s This is due to the fact that mental health issues are normalized among African Americans, but not in the way that they should be. In other words, Black people think of disorders such as anxiety and depression as a part of everyday life instead of an actual problem that requires attention and assistance.Furthermore, the same article reveals: “One study of showed that 63% of Black people believe that a mental health condition is a sign of personal weakness.” (FACT) This just goes to show that people in the Black people have not only been wired to disregard their mental health issues, but also to feel shame in acknowledging and treating them.

The stigma of mental health in the Black community can also stem from prejudice and fear. African Americans have a history of facing discrimination across the country in both profession and social environment But there is also discrimination and bias within America's healthcare system Despite new acts and amendments that prohibit or discourage bigotry in the healthcare system, many African Americans still face issues today There is consistent racial bias and studies even report that half of medical students and residents have held false beliefs about biological differences between white and black patients (Hoffman 2016). These instances have caused a general mistrust for medical professionals and this also plays in effect in conversations on mental health and getting treatment. As reported by the American Psychological Association (A.P.A), as of 2018, 84% of therapists/people who specialize in psychology in America are white. This lack of diversity makes it even more difficult for African Americans to be willing to give therapy a chance because they are at a higher risk of being discriminated against or not being understood because of lack of cultural similarities. This brings up the issue of misdiagnosis and misinterpretation of African Americans. As someone who struggles with diagnosed anxiety and has had a mix of different therapists, I can attest to the fact that

it is hard to find one that you are comfortable with, let alone one that you can relate to. Many African Americans would feel more comfortable if there were more therapists of color available since it is hard to open up to someone who cannot relate in any way to some of the struggles that you might disclose. If the therapist or psychiatrist is not Black, they might misinterpret some things that are said in a session because they may fail to realize the cultural divergence between them and the patient. Ultimately, it is hard to give an accurate diagnosis to a person whose life and experiences are so different from yours. Simply put, ignorance and lack of cultural awareness may result in false diagnoses or inadequate treatment of Black people. This actuality only magnifies the stigma that many African Americans harbor towards the concept of recognizing mental health issues and therapy.

Lastly, poor circumstances and lack of resources are a significant catalyst for this stigma in the Black community. Many low income neighborhoods, including the ones that are majority POC, struggle with circumstances such as a lack of steady forms of income, overcrowded housing, and single guardian households. There is also the topic of discrepancies of income in the labor force and the contrast between minorities and white people. Per an article by the Economic Policy institute “in 2019, the median Black household earned just 61 cents for every dollar of income the median white household earned,” This demonstrates that even if many Black people in these underfunded areas are able to maintain a steady job, a lot of the time they aren’t even getting compensated to the degree that most White people are. These conditions are a stark contrast to people who live in privileged communities, which are generally more concentrated with White people. Upper class individuals typically don't have to worry about where their next meal is going to come from. If they have many people in their home, most times they can afford to provide for their large families at a consistent rate. When finances are limited and one has to choose between feeding themselves and getting therapy, the choice is a clear one. It's also the idea that disadvantaged communities don’t normally have proper resources to treat severities like mental illnesses because they can't afford it. Treatment plans, consistent therapy, prescription, as well as learning about mental illness takes money and time. Time that could be used elsewhere. Undoubtedly, this blatant juxtaposition between privileged and unprivileged communities is a clear motive behind the stigma revolving around mental illnesses in the Black community.

So how can we get rid of this stigma? Although this problem will involve making some personal changes within the black community, there are numerous things that can be done by others in society to make the change easier. For one, the root of the issue stems from the heinous treatment of African Americans along with the offensive and oppressive qualities still present within the system. Most black people would not feel as opposed to therapy as they do if they were treated as equal to everyone else and offered the same opportunities. Equally important is making sure that people inside and outside the field of psychology educate themselves on the distinct difficulties that African Americans face and how they should be handled differently from non-people of color Those who treat black people should be well aware of these differences and certified to analyze and evaluate them There should also be more resources available in regards to mental illness in underprivileged communities, especially seeing as though they are usually predominantly populated by African Americans, and that “Black and African American people living below poverty are twice as likely to report serious psychological distress than those living over the poverty level,” according to Mental Health America It may seem like there is nothing you can do, but charities, fundraisers or something as simple as raising awareness through a post or tweet are all valid and effective ways to help end this stigma and help Black people address and treat mental issues that may plague them

The Statistics

1-in-3

African Americans who need mental health care receives it.

(Dalencour M, et al 2017)

58.2 % of Black and African American young adults ages 18 -25 with serious mental illness did NOT receive treatment.

(The CDC 2018)

12.3% of Black and African American adults who had a doctor’s office or clinic visit over the past year had difficulty getting needed care, tests or treatment compared to 6 8 percent of white adults

(National Healthcare Quality & Disparities Report 2016)

BLACK AND AFRICAN AMERICAN MENTAL HEALTH RESOURCES (Scan Below)

Super-Predator as Pantokrator #LambInWolfsClothing

Michael Boyd Roman

Tseli Mathebula

in california, my grandfather’s budweisers lay mangled on saltillo tiles like legbones, tibias. the heater keeps breaking until the tea in my grandmother’s tumbler has gone cold.

down in mofolo south, the teacher is telling them to eat their chalkdust it tastes just like maize meal until someone chokes.

in ohio, iwisa maize does not exist. and neither do throats without word, all expression relies on the hands. they wrinkle under the pressure but never bend back. an ancient adolescent.

in that body, short nails become a mandolin, slicing skin to aged paper. just the right amount to form an atlas. knuckles as maloti range, textured topography. the amount that folds .

an aeroplane, flown to you. it begins as a blood letter out of instinct, but returns to ink when you ask: ‘enough?’ this separation between body and being. diaspora, convergence, and exodus again. well. is it?

in my palm, a vessel bursts outward, stunts all pursuit of healing. the drum on the body, the side of its own skull. somewhere, my fatoumata is praying: anke djé, anke bé

and in georgia appears its hide. the goatskin and hardwood, the way it was used as a bowl, as a boat. the music a more bountiful travel, less map, more matter. enough with routes forgotten, roads grown over. isn’t it easier with only the slap and the bass?

nkon, tell me it is smoother: the moment when the hand raises, the silent gasp of anticipation. khulu, isn’t this innate? the far-off taste of the sweat pooled in our narrow piltrum; i can feel

your legs heat-glued to the porch chair; do you hear the rag of horses sifting in, the hope gathering, percussing, the promise

well. can you? are you watching? as the shavings of my hands reform in pages. or prayer.

or something like pangea.

This final project was made in honor of my maternal great-grandmother who I called Abuelita. My Abuelita was an avid fisher and forager; I think that is part of the reason she lived such a long and beautiful life. My vision for this piece was to document her life and experiences as an indigenous person and mother who supported herself and her family by living off the land I hoped to capture the essence of her life force through the use of indigenous plants, texts or artifacts, and imagery My initial hope for this project was that it would come together as an altar through which I could provide her with offerings as she roams the afterlife whatever and wherever that may be I was interested in how motherhood looked for Chuchis; what obstacles she had to face while raising all of her children (on her own) in Mexico during the early 20th century. Ever since I was a child I have revered my great-grandmother as an icon or sacred figure in my life. I relied heavily on my memory to piece together the things I know she liked. December 17th marks the day of her passing and creating this piece has helped me feel more connected to her. I also wanted to take this opportunity to continue exploring and celebrating my (partially) indigenous identity.

Gesso, collage, and egg tempera on handmade pinewood ply panels

My Lady Cerqueda

Sage O'Reggio

Julian Cross

How This Year Is Going

BIPOC LENSES

BIPOC Lenses is an Oberlin Student-run magazine that unites many different POC organizations under one publication to showcase the beauty, talent, and art thats students of color create on campus.