Issuu

B la

02 2 e n i z a g a c k l ig h t M

Sabrina Mahmoodi

Kelly Hui

7, 11, 21

Jai Daniels

8,9

Lauren Dotson

Sarah Hopkins

12, 17

Sheila Tume

Tomás Miriti Pacheco

Jon Brooks

Amy Medrano

Cameron Drake

Sarahi Rincon Molina

Nadaya Davis

25, 26

Sahar Punjwani

Simone Gulliver

Photography

Destin Bundu

Layout and Design

Jai Daniels, Sarahi Rincon Molina

Editor's Note Arriving on campus, we shook the dust off our notebooks and prepared to face an old haunt familiar but strange. A “return to normal” pulled at our face masks, fogged up the glasses of a student body spilling out from Zoom screens. The pandemic followed us to class as we sat unsteady in our desk chairs, adjusting and re-adjusting to in-person realities so easily snatched away. To meet the needs of this uncertain moment, we encouraged our community to reflect on their routines, their patterns, the structures that shape their daily lives. RITUALS, public and private, routine or rare, are crucial to creating stability. The ancestors ground our every day, moving through twist-outs, cross-stitches, and other topographies for tracing our way home. We must examine these rituals, the stories we carry with us, in order to sustain our future selves. Now, as we are able to gather in person once again, we look anxiously toward the return of our shared routines: printing, release parties, board brunch. But we cannot move forward without invoking the past. With our new issue, we hope to mourn the rituals that were and are still disrupted by the pandemic, and to celebrate the new rituals we are building together around our changing circumstances.

Simone Gulliver & Tomás Miriti Pacheco

8:20 A.M. Sabrina Mahmoodi another sleepless night bled into morning, but i remain indifferent to the sunrise. daylight hasn’t touched the walls in weeks and still the room is sweltering, my breath the only breeze keeping dust from settling on my face. searching for the cool spots in bed, my body seeks the respite my mind craves. depression isn’t icy as i envisioned, but routine— a stale, stifling loneliness, slow-roasting over the hot coals of memory in pools of cotton down, i sink and envy the cold of the grave.

i’m in the worst of it, but i’ve been here before: the dread of the everyday.

with great effort, i rise from feverish sheets to a shaky stand, away from dark fantasies towards the reality of morning shower. there’s a heaviness to my limbs as i undress, the hair-raising chill of tile only mounted discomfort at the thought of a new day. i’d rather drown than face it, but i settle for a deep condition and a late start, taking time to relish the warmth of the water.

Eggs

Kelly Hui

In Shijiazhuang the sun yokes my skin an auspicious red. Here I am born to a knife, cut from my mother: a wound sewed back to her body, sold back to her body— what the ancestral gods call blood money. My mother tells me in the nongcun where she grew up every girl got an egg after she gave birth, stained red if her family could afford it. In labor my mother could almost taste the yolk and bit her tongue so she screamed luck: I have been biting my tongue ever since. Is this why they call it a mother tongue? In America I try to learn all the different ways to make an egg. Scrambled, sunny side up, or runny so the yellow mixes with the white. Once a year I go back, a perennial Odysseus, stumbling home on uncertain sea legs to the city I was raised to leave. I come from a foreign sky, over easy, and brown in the sun like a cha ji dan.

Kitchen Lessons Lauren Dotson She over cooked them Again She added baking soda instead of powder Again She’s asking What’s the difference Again

Every time she’s in here it’s raw Pink in the middle Like the finger of someone who’s been in the cold For too long Raw like winter It’s raw like feelings Raw like therapy Raw like taking a walk without headphones How do you undercook tofu again?

Every time she’s in here it’s burnt Burnt like all the pancakes are the first pancake Burnt like scraping the black off of piece of toast to reveal that golden brown crust But slathered in jelly and butter they taste the same Burnt like blond blue eyes Watching in wonderment as I wade in water without SPF 100 on my nose Burnt like bridges Who’s gonna inherit these recipes then? these stories Told over and over with seasonings as punctuations

Sweet potato pie covered, collard green stained college ruled paper Loosely organized amongst spineless cookbooks with Recipes that have tested time Tested patience But always had a next generation With hands ready with a whisk Or a spoon Or a fork Hands ready to prepare, to make, to love And My hands My hands with nails that can never fully grow My hands that remember callouses from recess and gymnastic dreams My hands that write, that imbue each word with a worry or a future My hands could only destroy those recipes Could only flambé those Sunday afternoon, holiday morning Rituals To ash

Waking up, I check the level of the pot. Browsing the mugs, shopping for the perfect one, just pick out my usual ally. It’s one from my home town because I’m homesick even though I stand in my own kitchen. I pour just the right amount, so I still have room for cream. I place it on the counter and check the fridge tentatively. Relieved when I see the bottle as I find black coffee to be undrinkable. I add some creamer, stirring away the trace with my chosen spoon. Raising the back of my hand as a paint sample, I compare coffee to complexion. If I’m darker, there’s not enough cream. If the coffee is lighter, then it’s palatable. After the final judgment, it’s ready to drink. The creamer returned. Every morning my skin associates with distaste. When did I decide to soften its natural bitterness? No one taught this behavior, but I’ve accepted it for years. Actually, maybe it was taught. But let’s be honest, that was far before I started drinking coffee. Nonetheless, I sit at the counter. I drink my coffee.

- me & my coffee Sarah Hopkins

CROWN (Create a Respectful and Open World for Natural hair) Sheila Tume

Let us part jungles of keratin in two promising paths toward liberation: where scalp-grease streams rinse our insecurities before securing the intellectual property beneath our labyrinth of grass, braided together by fruits of shea and coconut butter our ancestors whisper that we shall loc twisted vines into cells of protection and grow under the pressure of insufferable rain, our creation shrinks, bows, weeps before nature’s concoction: Law. Pronged by fear of our growth, snakes coat venom on our roots to uproot our trees, but watch the promised path that the dead leaves protected: the dreams of our ancestors, Queen

Roads Tomás Miriti Pacheco The alley pulls buildings into its narrow frame Shuffling brick into place amongst Slack wires. Gravel Echoes dust underfoot Boulevards push against Raised curbs and rugged Driveways below glass-front strips. Six lanes pull open a landscape Wind shrieking all the way. In the summer mirrors blossom up and down the street Winter slicks the pavement and fills it with light Curving into any number of ways, avenues Roads burying each other roads Almost silently changing name. I have right-angled my memories, Mapped them with ink as distant Reaching like a lost man outward Through the hands of strangers

To and From

Jon Brooks

I am currently on the corner of 55th and Woodlawn, but if you asked me what I was doing or where I was at, you’d be confused. You may expect me to elaborate— to say that I’m leaving the Starbucks behind me (iced chai in hand,) or that I’m on my way to class, or at least catching the Fifty-Five. I am not— not going, not headed to, not coming from. I simply am—a rebellion against the transitory nature of what has become my experience: always in the process of, but never being. I am (in a perennial state of media res) an unwitting participant in the mania of those around me—the perpetual "to and from” —and now the present is no longer a state of existence, but a vehicle through which I am seemingly meant to arrive at that illusory destination forever in the future, forever

someplace

farther.

Now and then, I remind myself of where I’m at and of precisely what I’m doing—my feet firmly planted on the ground—so as to tether myself to an instant and as the vehicle stops and the mania disappears, I celebrate how far I’ve made it thus: a brush of the sole against the concrete to get a good idea of what here feels like. I am currently on the corner of 55th and Woodlawn.

S S A P IT S N A TR 1GHT L K L B #: 286 Pass

NAME IT Cut prose in two lines cure ends by exploiting rhyme now it’s poetry Invite the major key, unlock your lungs with soul then name it gospel Carve gospel in your lips - now watch how you clip “I” “N”, “G” - flawlessly Trace vernacular with tongue strokes in sync with seas, color words in dreams (W)rap beats (mimic the screenplay’s form), glue tragedy to droll comedy, Cue the pause, present the masterpiece, frame, now name it: A-A-V-E Sheila Tume

I am a creature of habit. I develop my habits quickly And they are intricate like a spider’s web. There are rules upon rules. When I wake up, I check my texts & missed calls. But the difference between thought and habit is a difference of active and passive perception. No-one died during the night? Good. My job is secured for another day.

Active and Passive Perception Cameron Drake

I’m gonna be honest with y’all. I spent 14.5 hours on TikTok last week, my second lowest weekly average for Tiktok for the last month. I say I’m gonna stop at 9 to get ready for my 11:30 & boom it’s 11 & I’m gonna be late.

Check the Twitter feed.

Is it a Bones Day? I know this account! That guy said something misogynistic. An 8.5x11 got caught doing something racist.

Not them calling that Klu Klux Kleenex with box braids Becky with the colonized hair?? Black Twitter will always have my heart.

The line between active perception and passive perception becomes washed away by the incessant emotions I feel for each video.

Then I check Instagram for a bit. Like, like, swipe, swipe. It goes boring after the first 15 seconds, so I decide to check the belly of the beast:

Should I feel bad about the time and energy I put into social media? Probably. But I perceive what I want to and I want

TikTok.

to scroll.

I move to Twitter.

(who) do you love (me)? Nadaya Davis my love, stand in front of me and place your hand on the dip of my waist (hard like you mean it) and slide it up the back of my neck (gentle, like you mean it) and bring me closer to you. i love the way your fingers dance across keyboards, the tip tap and the heat of the candle and it’s the coziest of fall nights in your room, sheets fresh, eyes stinging from the screen. the way you move. the warmth of your face over the steaming pot, the strength of your stirring wrist. fresh out the shower pretty. right before the shower pretty. i can’t see when the water drips down your face but it feels good. you on the ocean bed, blankets bathed in blue. sinking lower, lower. now place your hand on the cool glass of the mirror, you-colored, and grab your no my hand and pull you no me in. yours truly.

How to Grate Cheese Without Shaving Your Knuckles Sahar Punjwani it’s late at night, around 11:00pm, and i’m getting out a cheese grater. there are a couple of options in my drawer, but for the cheese i put in the freezer thirty minutes ago, a slightly soft monterey jack, i know i need the one with larger slits. i bought the cheese earlier today, at my local HEB after my mom and i argued over the phone. when i showed up to the deli section, they wrapped up half a pound without asking. for the last 3 months, i’ve been going down the row of cheeses they’ve got in the display case, and the monterey jack is placed right after the sharp cheddar i got last week (which is after the havarti from the week before). i pull out the cheese, a serving-size, white enamel bowl, and dial my mom’s number on my phone. i have her contact saved under “Maa <3,” but nights like these are dialing nights. really, it’s almost as fast as clicking on her contact, but tapping out the numbers is nice, calms me down. i wait until the 2nd ring and then pick up the cheese, almost too cold to touch but bearable, and begin – i read online that a good way to avoid injury is to be careful and intentional as you work, so i grate slowly. on the 7th ring she picks up, barely awake, as i knew she’d be. i was asleep, why are you calling? i move onto the next step, grating a little faster and angling the block for an easier slide down the metal. just wanted to say hi. ok well. hope you got home safe. i’ll call you in the morning. it’s a short conversation, with nothing too consequential being discussed. our conflict from earlier is forgotten, momentarily, as my mom is not the kind of person to discuss weighty things after she falls asleep. tomorrow morning, when she is awake enough to remember her anger, will bring a different conversation, but that isn’t bothering me right now. alright. talk to you later. i hang up, and the screen reads 1:08. i’ve got the timing worked out so that by the time i hang up, i’m almost always done grating the cheese.

i’m down to the last bit of the block. last time, with the sharp cheddar, i got a little cut and some bloody cheese because I didn’t stop soon enough, so this time I’m going to be really careful. I turn the cheese around, getting all of the edges and making it smaller and smaller each second. it’s close to done and i'm kind of excited, nerves from before gone, because this is the closest i’ve ever gotten without scraping my finger. just for good measure, i give it one last grate. i’m about to wash my hands when i notice the blood running down my index finger. with a sigh i grab some paper towels to wipe up the small drops on the counter and throw some of the cheese into the trash. later, when i’m re-reading the tips & tricks for grating cheese on greatbritishchefs.com, i realize that i forgot to spray the grater with some cooking oil for an easier slide and less chances of cuts. i’ll try that next time.

Girls We Left at Midnight (Poems from Runaway Slave Ads) Simone Gulliver 1.

Dusk

In June she wants for swanskin. Sundown is a fleshy thing, dark-complexioned. linen hangs low on each horizon; petticoats for the girl with no face. Come morning she will swim with or without chains.

2. Day Summer runs to the shipyard Fishhooks, foyle-stone Deliver her from pleasure. Strong-made, marcasite Silver slit in stockings. July folds likely into August.

3. Dawn Sapphire- negress for the hour. (still)born on eastern shore. Mistress of the vessel Day(dreams) downriver stealing dollars, dew drops, a well for holding lost ones.

When shame gnaws forget her swords are branded.

Blacklight Magazine 2022