Cellar Roots Volume 48

Fine Arts Magazine

Volume 48

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Leadership Sydney Keenan – Editor-in-Chief Lauren Ahern – Assistant Editor Christine Uthoff – Faculty Advisor

Editors Piper Coe – Copy Editor Isabelle Raudszus Sarah Zimmer Hailey Hauswirth Sondos Jaber Jasmine Scroggins Maria Barbato Aryana Jharia

Graphic Designers Kelsea Pearson – Senior Layout and Design Editor Raushanah Davenport–Brown Aryana Jharia Miles Bednarski

Outreach

Sarah Schneider – Social Media Outreach Coordinator

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TABLE OF A Quarantine Coping Mechanism Journal.......................................................8 Germs Out There............................................................................................14 Three Short Stories About Fin........................................................................15 Cold Hands, Warm Hearts.............................................................................21 Bliss ..............................................................................................................22 A Series of Autumn Haiku..............................................................................23 Marceline Jones..............................................................................................24 As Summer Hangs Her Weary Head..............................................................26 Mathu Lisa....................................................................................................27 Understand Your Place...................................................................................28 Beautiful Hour That They Call Morning, Hear My Song!..............................30 Your Pledge, Our Place...................................................................................31 Substance Abuse.............................................................................................32 All of My Tomorrows.....................................................................................33 Dead Weight...................................................................................................35

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CONTENTS The Flower Boy...............................................................................................36 Moses the 7th.................................................................................................37 Sleep Forever...................................................................................................38 Sleep 1............................................................................................................39 Snowy Day.....................................................................................................40 First Cold Day of the Year................................................................................41 Song of the Cedars.........................................................................................42 Weeping Flower..............................................................................................44 Call Your Tita.................................................................................................45 Without Leaves..............................................................................................47 Winter in Spring.............................................................................................49 Grow Up Tall...................................................................................................50 Moon Man....................................................................................................53 Kindergarten Art Project.................................................................................54 TheBarbershop..............................................................................................55 The Barbershop II............................................................................................56 Black Boy Joy.................................................................................................57 Black Boy Joy II.............................................................................................58w

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I’m tired of being stuck in this house. I’m tired of feeling trapped. It feels like these four walls are caving in and I’m going to be buried alive at any moment. The slam of the doors signals to me that once again another argument has happened. As I lay under my blankets curled in the fetal position, I pray for it to stop. …

“It’s 1 pm! You are wasting away your day! AGAIN! Why am I even surprised? ” My mother screams at my father, while he tries desperately to keep composure.

“You’re a DISGUSTING, LAZY SLOB! Playing on the xbox all damn day…grounded…...take away your phone….awake by 10 am….GO TO YOUR ROOM ” Eventuallyhiswordsblurintoone. Is he even saying anything different or it is all the same word? My heart aches desperately for my brother as he stands there enduring the blows.

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH I CAN”T DO THIS YELLING ALL THE FUCKING TIME!!!! …

It’s been dark for days. What’s the point of going outside when I can binge Netflix? My mom keeps going to the store so I have to eat the food. I mean it can’t just go to waste, that’d be bad. And hey! It’s perfect for snacking! …

Okay! I can’t do this! I NEED out! Something! Anything! Oooohhh!

OUTSIDE!!

The musty Detroit air is better than the consistent smells of dogs, teenage boys, and burnt food.

The sun! Ah! Whoa! Treeee! Ow. Back inside now! But it feels so warm, maybe a little too warm. Okay okay, positivity Kaitlin. Why didn’t I do this before? Alright, game plan. Gotta work out and go outside every day. Have to uh.. uh… learn something new during this time. Have to... uhhhhhh... work through the never ending list of books to read and don’t add more!! Have to socialize and check

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in with people. Stop wallowing in self pity, DAMN! Have to do something other than sit on my ass all day. ...

Boredom creeps in as he attempts to bury us alive. He comes from all corners and directions, never ceasing to capture his next victim. WE must stop him. If not I fear that he will conquer us and prevail as we disappear to smithereens. The only way to stop him is to write out extensive lists of activities that we must be doing every second of every day. The only way he hasn’t already overcome us is because we used to be busier than bees.

Work, home, make dinner, put kids to bed, sleep and repeat. That is the life we lived, that’s how we beat Boredom. But now we are forced to stay inside and lock our doors. Never to come out until this virus dissipates, whenever that may(or may not) be. …

Things to do every day are as follows: Spend time in the Word, exercise, schoolwork, read, play guitar, socialize, see the sun. All of these MUST be done every single day no matter what. Brain thumping against skull?

Too bad! Puking guts up? Too bad! Tiny demons stabbing uterus until you want to die? Too. Damn. Bad. Accomplish these tasks. Now soldier! ...

Things to have completed by May are as follows: organize bedroom, organize the bathroom closet, organize the blanket closet, organize the floor closet, organize the cleaning supplies cabinet, organize the office, organize the kitchen cabinets, organize the other bathroom, organize the other other bathroom, organize the basement, organize the garage, organize the bookshelves, organize the sunroom, organize the garden, organize the trees, organize the organization, organize the mind, organize, organize, organize, organize. …

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I miss him. The boy with glowing green eyes and red hair. I miss his laugh, his smile, him. My love started before he got sick. Since then it has flourished but so has the pain of being separated. …

So update... Being productive and active is actually working. I feel better.

School sent an email saying that they would give some money if we took summer classes. I don’t know, it’s a grant of some sort. I signed up for two summer courses. These will at least keep me busy and I can work on completing GENEDs. One of the classes I am taking is some food and culture class. I don’t really know, it’s supposed to fulfill a GENED requirement and should be super easy. The other class is a religious studies class which I am overjoyed to take. …

Learning, struggling, studying, falling, homeworking, crying, writing, smiling, passing, faking, relaxing, resenting, breathing, wondering, missing, escaping. …

I guess Quarantine isn’t too bad. I have learned a lot about different cultures through my classes, have read a lot, started and finished some shows, played guitar, learned technology better and more. I still miss everyone but I am making the best of it. …

Nevermind. I want out. DAMN IT! It’s been months! My food and culture class has so many freaking readings every week! I don’t have time for this crap! I can just watch her lectures and bs my way through this.

It’s literally a class about food, it’s not incredibly hard, just tedious. Life lesson: don’t take summer courses again. I should have got that job at CVS... ...

The laughs just aren’t the same over the phone. Hugs are non-existent.

New adventures have halted, yet the tears keep flowing.

What does the air smell like? Does it smell good or still gross?

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Would I even be able to tell? …

Good News! We can start to gather in small groups, outside. I can start to socialize. At least this is better than being stuck inside all day and not allowed to go out. At least a little freedom is good… right…? …

I got to spend time with him today, that green eyed beauty. Somehow his smile got bigger. I have never felt safer than I did in his arms. …

Breaking: Michigan State University screws over students days before move-in day telling them to stay home! Who’s next?

Breaking: Thousands of college students across the country are being forced to stay home and are denied the chance to experience college fully!

Breaking: Students all across America are learning online now.

Breaking: Whitmore extended the stay at home order, again.

Breaking: Masks are mandatory.

Breaking: Don’t leave your house unless you need to! You are to be a prisoner in your own home. …

Campus update: June 26 Hello all and happy Friday!

Classes this fall will be offered in person, online and hybrid. We are still working on that extensive university guidebook we’ve been telling you about for months. We are working hard to update you on information and will give you some ASAP. Campus update: July 2 Hello all and happy Friday!

The university has been awarded millions of dollars but we are only going to give students a small chunk because we are selfish and cheap.

Enjoy the day and be on the lookout for information regarding fall.

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Campus update July 10Hello all and happy Friday!

The Safe Return to Campus Steering Committee met the other day to discuss health factors and concerns with fall. We have attached an extensive, well explained list of our plans for your benefit.

Campus update July 17Hello all and happy Friday!

If you haven’t heard enough, Whitmore has required that masks are mandatory now. We want to assure you that we are still working hard and you should have information within the next few weeks regarding the fall.

Campus update July 24Hello all and happy Friday!

We are “ensuring (you that) a safe and healthy experience for our students and employees remains the University’s number one priority.”

Except we aren’t going to tell you any information.

Campus update August 7Hello all and happy Friday!

We have finally completed that university guidebook and have attached it for your benefit. We ask that you take time to carefully read over it and expect that you have no other questions or concerns because we answered everything you could possibly ask. Students will be permitted to live on campus and more information will be sent shortly.

Campus update August 14Hello all and happy Friday!

We have updated course schedules. You will be able to see them on your emich page. Have fun with all the changes! We will be testing students for COVID but are not entirely sure how to do that yet but we don’t want to tell you that so we will say we have a plan in progress.

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Campus update: August 21 Hello all and happy Friday!We are still working on things. Keep waiting even though classes start in less than a month.

Campus update August 28 Hello all and happy Friday!

Wow! What a crazy week for everyone! We pushed the move in date back 3 weeks and told everyone to deal with it. But wait! Then we sent out a form and said if you fill this out you may be granted access to move in early and not in the middle of classes. We made you wait a few days before we told you what the heck was going on. Also you have to spit in a test tube bottle on zoom to test for COVID before you can move on campus. Have a great week!

Campus update: September 4 Hello all and happy Friday!

If you are living on campus, congratulations! You don’t have to move in and try to get all your schoolwork done still. Make sure you wear a mask everywhere and fill out the COVID pass every morning. …

This will probably be the last entry. I have moved on campus and classes have started. The world is not back to normal but it is better. I get to live with my friends and spend time with them again. I am able to go pretty much anywhere as long as I wear a mask. Keeping this journal has helped me cope in a lot of ways and it is a documentation of the time when the world went to shit.

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“ This painting is based on a magazine collage that I made. The idea of the painting is based around the woman peeking out the face. Through this artwork, we get to see into her mind. For example, she peeks out the head because she’s scared to go out into the germs. In the background of the painting, we also see her and her husband both are dressed to attend an upscale event. Behind the painting, we see a figure who’s climbing down the ladder upside down with anxiety about going out into the world of deadly viruses.”

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Here’s a little story to start you off. A little joke, an ice breaker. Sit down, have a cup of coffee, and have this short story. It goes like this: Three sheep stacked in a trench coat walk up to a movie theater counter and the cashier says, “Hey, we don’t serve you here, you’re sheep” and the top sheep says “Count us,” like the threat that it is, and the cashier goes “One, two....” and then he’s asleep at the counter and the sheep get in with no consequences. That’s a joke, right, because sheep don’t talk.

So the thing about the art market is that if it was ever discovered by The Public At Large of how much of the art in it is forged, the entire thing would collapse. Fin doesn’t know how much art they’ve handled is even real, but they’re pretty sure that all of the big stuff is fake. Like, what is even the definition of ‘fake’ though, here? It’s real art, isn’t it? It’s just not painted by the artist that it says on the package. And the worth of it is all subjective anyway, it doesn’t have an exact worth, it’s just based on what you can get for it at market, and it depends what market you’re looking for. (And that’s part of why they don’t really deal in cash anymore; they deal in favors. It’s not lucrative, and it’s not sustainable, but it’s what they need more than money right now.)

Okay. They know some of the art they’ve handled is real. The stuff in Arthur and Guinevere’s house was mostly real; you can tell by the color of the paint under your fingernails. It’s not real anymore, and it’s not like they’ll ever notice, either, right? It’s not like they’re checking the quality of the paints. Which like, most people don’t, right? They see a yellow and they take it for yellow. Now, you look at Fin and you’re supposed to just slide right over them; there’s nothing interesting about them. Brown hair, brown eyes? That’s literally most people you see. Slide right on by.

They kept one of the smaller pieces. The little portrait of a white cat, curled up on a table.

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When they forged this piece, they made the cat’s nose black, a twist of the paintbrush, not a problem. It’s noticeable, but only if you’ve seen the real thing. And maybe they wanted to be noticed, like this. They’d seen the real thing and they were unsatisfied with the forgery they were handed. Fin grew up as the winter prince in that household, but everyone knew they were never going to be the king. Accident of birth, said their mother. You are still loved, said their father, but Fin knew the twist of that, knew that it came with limits. Push him far enough and he will break. So, so, so. Enough reminiscing. The public doesn’t need to know.

This isn’t — Fin doesn’t go for just paintings. Sometimes there are other things. There was a collection of photographs, limited edition Polaroids.

They were valuable because of the quality of the ink used. Fin likes photographs, sometimes, because they can’t be forged, but they’re not their specialty. They remember this one theft, because there was a little article in the paper about it, because they had gone back for seconds, after the first set had sold so well. Paid them well enough for them to risk it. The curator of the collection had been quoted in the paper: “I remember being simultaneously pissed off and mildly flattered after the first theft. The thief had left photos that I also thought were inferior.”

Fin had cut that out of the paper, kept it in their apartment for a while.

Someone appreciates their work, they thought. Someone else appreciates their eye.

That was all before Hobbes. This was before the bright house in the city, the lawyer’s office there, the red sweatshirt that Hobbes bought them in Venice (the California kind). That was before Hobbes walked into the open wound they left in Boston; they were just following the plan. You cut ties, you erase the evidence, you make it disappear. You get out of town. But they left something behind, and Hobbes was in the area — It was the map from Yale. Mapmaking is easy, map-stealing is barely harder. You just go to a university and pretend to be a student, and again,

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Fin looks the part. Fin looks every part. That’s the whole point of being Fin. Except they didn’t look the part of anything but arsonist, standing there in the alley beside Hobbes, and their lungs still taste like smoke, and all the evidence is stacked against them.

And then Hobbes just takes them out to dinner, on his dime. Can I get you some dinner? One runaway to another. I won’t pry, and if I’m boring, I’ll pay the bill and you’ll never see me again. And he keeps his promise, and he keeps keeping that promise, and Fin gets used to him, yeah? Listen. Listen. The state of nature is a state of war, and Fin knows that’s not the kind they can win. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know that one.

That’s all the backstory there is, that’s what was hiding in the back room, everything else we’ve got in stock. That’s how the sheep got into the trench coat, isn’t it? Okay, so here’s another story, to transition us into the next part. Fin’s transitioned, huh, you can have the grace of going with them.

It’s just an afternoon, it’s just an evening, it’s just a snapshot of what someone did once, not them, allegedly. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the show.

Here’s the layout of the room, the house; just a collection and jumble of furniture and colors, melted together to create a combination of things, of objects, of overzealous decorative pillow population on a chaise lounge. What’s the chaise lounge used for? Not chaising, anymore; it’s for swooning upon. Fin wobbles on their feet and goes down dramatically.

It’s rare, but there’s a special kind of joy out of making a scene. Fin likes it especially when the curator himself helps them up, and says “Are you alright, madmoiselle —“ and there is the little hitch in his voice, the note of confusion. Fin watches that confusion play out. Come on, buddy, add up the clues: breasts (clever inventions),

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long blue ball gown (perfect for this kind of night), heels, shaved legs.

Anyone can get these common household items; all bombs are made of easy-to-get materials. It’s what happens when you put them together that counts. The curator puts together the bomb and helps Fin to their feet.

He’s the one that will take the blame for what happens this night: he set off the bomb.

“I’m fine,” says Fin, easy, easy, easy. “I just suddenly felt dizzy,” oh, and that perfect layer of coquette, that note of — in Fin’s mouth, it feels like they are speaking French. “Perhaps some air,” they continue. “If I could step outside for a moment —“ “A stroll for the lovely lady, of course, of course,” says the curator, and he’s taken down with just the slightest of smiles, the easiest of looks. Fin steps around him and exits out the side door, their hands still in their neat little white gloves. No fingerprints, no proof, no parlay.

Well? One thing turns into another, doesn’t it?

Here they are: tipped onto one leg, barefoot, in a stranger’s kitchen, looking for something else. Sweet tea, street T, it’s all the same to them; tilt your grin and wish, darling, and you’ll get whatever you ask for.

They carefully open one plastic package and shove most of a cinnamon bun into their mouth; easy enough to manage. They pour themself back into the dress they came in, tuck a hair behind an ear, pad their resume a little. Let’s go, then; they never said hello so there’s no good reason to say goodbye. They slip out as easily as they slept in, a lot of finesse, not a lot of thought.

The apartment they have up in Morgan Park is fancier than this, but it’s a subway’s ride away, and they don’t want to do it in this dress, and now it’s just a cab ride away, filched credit cards / phone number / yes that’s the name I have on file. They sit in the back seat and undo their face, smeared mascara becomes tired eyes, everything tucked neatly back into their purse.

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They’re going to need a new phone soon. This one is getting too many numbers.

It’s been — a bad week, honestly? Nothing ever really goes wrong for Fin, but things go — sideways, sometimes. The weather’s been rainy, and sometimes that’s good for business, but it hasn’t been, this week, and Fin’s been holed up most of the week, painting. Tori’s been messaging them, on and off, suggesting things to paint, and talking about, like — the roaring emptiness inside of both of them, the two sides of Valentine, the weather in California. Jealousy is the most perfect waste of time, but they keep having to step back from the computer to waste their time, to walk down to the park, to order something from the food trucks nearby, one food truck for each name. By the end of it, they’ve compiled something like a meal, something like a sense of self, or an absence of it, what’s the difference, really?

They’re thinking about California again, yeah? Yeah, there’s the terrifying yawn of the Cascadian fault, the San Andreas fault, the fault is not in our stars but in our selves, Brutus, and it’s always so hot there, but — it’s home. It’s the same as what they all say: you go home, or you make a home, and it’s just — for a long time, they thought they were never gonna get either one. And they all call him? her? them? “Fin” there, and it’s the end of a conversation that they never even had to have, and sometimes they try to tell themself that it’s not obvious, that they are easy to be around, easy to handle, easy to love. They try not to lie to themself, though.

When they get back to their apartment after another swing around the food court, poncho pulled up to their chin, they check their mail. And wished they hadn’t, huh? There’s a letter from Arthur on the top, and they —

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They glance at the canvas leaned up against their wall. They could sell that one, their nest egg, this one time. It’s an emergency. They should be able to leave Chicago. It’s not supposed to be home.

They’re not supposed to have one.

Hands tremble. Shut up. Calm down. Tilt your grin and wish, darling. It’s all about confidence.

They’re calling Hobbes before they know what hit them.

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Snow blankets once-green grasses of autumn. I follow you closely behind, filling your footprints with mine. Snowflakes land on outstretched tongues. Cold hands warmed by heated mugs of cocoa. Warm hearts beat in rhyme. You’re mine.

Children scurry by, joy in their hearts. We smile, anxious to have our own one day. Cool air surrounds us. I lean on your shoulder, soaking up your warmth, knowing you will soon be going home. Christmas tunes fill downtown, cheer visible on passing faces. Folks’ footprints lost in the chaos. Shoppers rush to find their treasures. We laugh at them, as love’s the best gift.

Snow blankets now quiet, footprint-covered streets.You kiss me goodnight.

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“Art is a passion of mine and I am continuing to do more work like this.”

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The fall leaves crackled underneath our heavy feet.

Autumn’s now present.

Sitting on porches, folks’ pumpkins smile widely, Red squirrels eating their seeds.

Sweet corn stalks severed feed humans and beasts, alike.

Farmers now may rest.

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“I wrote this when I was not so confident in myself. There was this girl that I liked. Deep inside, I knew that our chances of being together were very slim when it came to everything I was going through mentally and physically. I knew that there was no way for me to support or love her, so I buried my feelings and ignored her. There is also a nice amount of homophobia around me, so I felt lost and empty when I could not express how I felt.”

Before it was always the same Now it’s different And I barely know her name Now that I’ve written And they’ve told her everything I’m scared I really am But if she says something I don’t like Her image will go away Erased from my mind I don’t know what I’ll find For if it is wrong or right I am far from perfect In the past, I would cry For when one’s sexuality Is shamed and viewed as “abnormal” For my love towards a girl to be an insult For the scared Which is why I turn away at the sight of your light But a reminder from my past still repeats How love is scary Hove Love varies And How unexplainable it can be In human eyes

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I’m scared of the truth That you would not love me Or that this secret would just be too much But I’m also worried If I’ll be enough Can I be enough for love, For you and for us?

If there is a us, Will our future be unseen?

Together will we be cute, Or equal up to an acute?

Lost hearts Will you say something?

Could you love something?

Or be happy for me Like I would for you?

Can I be right with you?

If you say you like me too What should I do...

Be an embarrassment Or a burden to you?

Will we be like other couples?

Or will we be free to be human beings?

I hope you like me Like I like you Just enough to let our lost hearts bleed through ~

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As summer hangs her weary head She sighs & she pulls out the thread That stitched my wounds in early June Beneath a forgiving moon With every day you pull apart Unravel my fragile heart Goodbye o joy That made me dance with stars O summer You feel so far O good friend Why must you go & leave me buried in the ruthless ivory snow As white as pain As cold as man Gone is the loving artist’s hand That pained valleys in such luscious Green & lakes, rivers Aquamarine So I’ll lie in wait beneath grief-stricken trees Until I feel once more your gentle breeze

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“I follow a London-based Tamil photographer named Mathu, who was making a series of self portraits exploring her cultural bankground and reconnecting with her roots. One of these pictures struck me as a perfect unintended mimicry of the famous Mona Lisa pose and I simply had to paint her as such. It also helped that I had been in love with the structure of her face for a while and just needed an excuse to study it.”

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For a minute I thought this was it.

Like the moment I dreamed and prayed for was finally happening.

My face was swollen with heat Bright red and my lips in a full crescent from temple to temple.

I could already feel my eyes start to drool, and salt burning my skin.

I felt this cold shiver run from my shoulders down to my navel.

It hit every rib and then penetrated my lungs until it met my heart.

I wasn’t listening, only staring.

Once I composed myself, I try to collect my posture, But my dilated pupils only made me drop lower in my seat.

This is what I was waiting for.

This is what I thought about as I drifted off.

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The thought I replayed and was flustered thinking about.

The thought that made my subconscious preoccupied.

The thought that gave me that stupid smile while I walk.

The thought that made me rehearse in my mirror while wearing pearls and silk.

The thought that I was trying to overpower but still keep showing me what passion there was.

It was my little world. My own secret little world.

You were my secret.

Until I realized what was yours.

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Beautiful hour that they call morning, hear my song!

Light seeping through the glass; Buzzing of the alarm; Both take me from where I belong.

Here you come morning bright, opportune, and full of harm.

Take me back!

Take me back wondrous thing to that place you stole me from!

That place of horror and mirth, Place of possibility and soothing restraint, That place from whence you forced me to come.

O light, so bright, too bright for my reluctant eyes, Bury me again in the shadow of night; For in there lives some surprise absent from this bright place.

There is freedom and fear of the greatest magnitude.

Please wondrous morning, do not rise; Let me lie and sleep, I beg you, let me live once more in my dreams.

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“For generations African kids (especially in the diaspora) have been brought up with mentality that academics are everything in this world, that we have to work twice as our peers and nothing less than the top positions was acceptable. This piece speaks on behalf of those in the diaspora that have been tribal marked, not with lines to signify our tribes but rather goals and ambitions that don’t consider the choice and interests of the young. The old pledged but the young should get to choose our paths.”

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I fell in love with the taste of Hennessy I loved the comfort it brought as it warmed my throat Every muscle in my body relaxed and I was unarmed They said we were only going to have one drink But we finished the bottle I fell in love with a hit off a blunt The new feeling was a pulse of electricity My head left my body to fend for itself As the paranoia set in I did not know how to escape I became my own dealer Passing out parts of myself without charging full worth No one had shame in becoming a user So I began to use myself I fell in love with ignoring the directions Feeling as though I was still in control with only one hand on the wheel The routes taken were not particular wrong They only served as ill fit detours from the desired location I find bits of myself in the places I lost Now sober I seek silence Thinking now with a clear mind Seeing now with eyes that are not clouded I have fallen out of love

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Tomorrow is the gem of my existence I spend all of my todays digging for the precious stone Knowing I’ll find the worth in the day after today I embrace the dirt under my nails and the scrapes on my skin I know it will bring a better day Tomorrow I plant wildflowers on the dark side of the moon Vibrant yellow centers pour sunshine into the shadows I let the daisies pull me into their soft embrace The small green roots tie me down to keep me from floating away I know it is better here Tomorrow I pull back my lips like drapes Uncovering a dazzling smile that is no longer closed off I am an open window Light shines through me effortlessly A photo frame displaying a beautiful capture

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Tomorrow I fly on the wings of caffeine butterflies Each flutter a quick breath Tickling the lining of my lungs as wings act as tiny paint brushes creating a masterpiece I breathe in the darkness of today and exhale the vibrancy of all my tomorrows Today I am drowning in the deepest depths of water The desire to immobilize my limbs and sink grows stronger I hold on for tomorrow Tomorrow I am a vessel floating on the deep blue Cutting through every large wave that threatens my existence I hold on through my today For the beauty of my tomorrow

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“This is the acceptance of my neediness, my messiness, in realizing that I am just a human animal.”

Yeah I’m a dead weight Yell at me when I’m walking in your sick race Pick me up off the pavement Drop me into your bandwagon Drag me across your line in the sand You see yourself bowing on the stage But you’re all just sperm to the egg You see yourself with that reward I’d rather be a patient in the ward You’d rather see your fate in the horde Just trot to the stable on your high horse look at my bread on my table you lick the crumbs off You’re just the swine to my trough All sopping it up You think you got the cheese But you’re all rats racing Not that I’m especially different I crave my affection in descent I claim I’m an exception but I’m fictive I’ll feign for attention and I’ll listen But just as soon as I’m with them I’ll drop all my weight and sit down Cause I’m a dead weight I don’t exist for your sake I’m like this once I satiate Just let me lay in my own waste

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A hum so quiet it is almost impossible for the ear to pick up Hanging in the air like an unfinished thought Wrapping around the bodies filling the limited space between them Leaving only enough room for their heartbeats to coexist With every beat each heart fills a little more With every breath they were bound closer Sun spotted shoulders accompanied the wandering minds Fingers tracing constellations on skin as soft as flower petals Each spot a different star on the bodies which healed their own universe Feeling the gravity each universe gave into the pull allowing them to be tangled in each others forces The collision in galaxies resulted in something so pink and so sweet A delicate Azalea formed from the cold vacuum of space Creating a hum that hung in the air providing comfort to the empty shaking bodies The fragrance of the blooms fill their inner beings For they are not passengers anymore They own their bodies They own their souls As fingers interlock they know they are not alone anymore Together they are everything that has ever existed And everything that ever will

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“Moses the 7th is an extension to the 7 generations of Moses before him. The portrait emulates who Moses in 2021 is. There is a certain embodiment that many Black men in this country take on from being perceived as a threat while also a marketing tool at the same time through sports, entertainment, and media. But what is seen when there is no market being generated? His body is useless, volatile, a dangerous threat, a menace, a thug, a target. Suddenly he is a problem when there is no benefit coming out of his body. This 7th generation Moses encapsulates that narrative.”

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“This is my way of expressing the tension between the call of the void, the comfort and simplicity of non existence, and the color of life.”

I don’t dream when I sleep at night The day is enough for my beady eyes You know the push and pull of the covers The voice that holds you down to comfort Well sometimes I want to sleep forever That skinny dip in a placid lake That envelopes your skin and begs you to stay You can’t tell how deep it goes But you want to be weightless and just float Until a voice over the P.A. calls and says your time is up and do your job A cathode ray tube buzzes and a screen turns on The local news cast channel tunes from static The world is burning but pretend that it’s not Please pull me back into that void It was fine without all the noise Without the menacing eyes and the talking heads What? Who? Why? Where? When?

Before the questions it was simpler then Take me back to the delivery room Stretch me back into the womb Fetch my hat and get my shoes I’ll be sleeping but I’ll be back soon

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“Sleep is a very vulnerable state to be in. Being in that state in a Black body questions the validity of that sleep. Is sleep valid in the Black body. Is it an experience we are allowed to feel. What is the experience of sleep for the Black body. That kind of question circulates in the body that is presented.”

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On the first cold day of the year I’ll touch your arm or something & pretend it’s nothing But I yearn Like the horizon years For the sun to touch her lips When day fades to night & darkness snuffs out fear’s flame I’ll get closer As the first gusts of an icy wind Threaten to pull words from deep in my chest I feel like a fool Huddled under blankets Thick & smoldering When I could be in your arms instead Meandering down stuffy corridors Of stolen glances & quick brushes I can’t bring myself to step outside Where the frigid air stings sharp down my throat & rustling tree branches Send shock waves of loneliness through my veins On the first cold day of the year You’ll take up residence in every corner of my mind While autumn drags her bow across my tattered strings I can’t say everything So I don’t say anything

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The air seems to thicken Little greens gather in contemplation Under the blankets of your wisdom You stand guardian there Frozen as if in mid-conversation When flesh turned to firm wood I can hear your whispers Floating on the hums of insects Your ancient tongue seeps into my bones & fills my head with your all-knowing peace You do not mourn the fallen You smile at the new growth Ferns & ivies rising From the death & decay

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& you hold each other up Twisting & rising towards Sun’s embrace To grasp the arms of a suffering friend To keep them standing To keep them guarding little bear’s woods For just a little while longer This is what you told me “Do not forget We were here before the new world Crushed ancient truths in its pale fist & we are still here now As you search for atonement Beneath our sweeping boughs But most importantly” you said “We will remain here Granting our solitude to all who pass through If they would only quiet their minds enough To listen”

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Note: According to data available around February 2021, Filipino nurses make up 4% of all U.S. nurses, but 31.5% of nurse deaths due to COVID-19.

This poem uses words from “On Pandemic’s Front Lines, Nurses From Half a World Away,” by Aurora Almendral for the New York Times. * ‘Tita’ is the Tagalog word for “aunt” or “auntie”

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Call the aunt Who is at the bedsides Who is at the battlefield Who is from Baguio or Tagaytay or California Who is sending money thousands of miles home Call the beloved aunt who has no thoughts of giving up on work Her roots barred her from leaving Before she is taken away Ask her about the bedsides and the front lines Ask about her housemates, her compatriots Ask about what Baguio and Tagaytay were before she was called away from home Before they are swept away and you are too numb to burst into tears or to fight Call her home

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The trees are whispering You can hear them on the breeze That caresses limbs etched with years long gone They ache For their brothers & sisters Whose beauty, they know, will be ripped away By a harsh mistress Autumn For though she grants precious gifts of radiant golds & reds To children of oak & maple & cedar So too Does she bring them down With her roaring winds & her merciless rain Bleak boughs cry out their injustices Looming & leering Over a graveyard of crimson & orange Their pride lying crushed & tattered On the hard earth

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They stand shivering Vulnerable in the wretched chill That seeps into the ends of days As darkness clenches its fist Pale grey moonlight curls around barren branches Sketched with black charcoal By midnight’s heavy hand

Fingers outstretched Towards row after row of solemn brick Twisting, winding towards strange windows I turn my eyes to them But they avert their forlorn gaze I try to feel pity For these sullen creatures Wallowing in despair at their own plainness At their jagged angles & oblong spires That were hastily hidden underneath a beautiful quilt But I cannot For as I creep along the corridors Of my own memories laid to rest & my own thoughts steeped in worry I realize We all must learn To be without leaves

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“This is my way of reckoning with the idea of an isolating, dominating notion of success, and masculinity that I see others around me get swept in. This is the conflict within all of us, between what society most rewards us for, and who we most authentically are.”

I can’t just be a free spirited offspring Or I won’t amount to anything I want to grow up then I want to keep on growing I’m not just a human I’m a high rise building This world was built for real men This world wasn’t built for children Or that’s what the old man said I want to do important business things In my important business suit It’s just an urban jungle There is no jungle gym there’s a gym for the athletes But it’s for players, not playing We would run for running sake But now we’re in the rat race I want to be a grownup with steel beam shoulders That weather the storm

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With windows that look out but can’t be seen in I don’t want to be scraping by I want my head to scrape the sky I’ll only let the water cooler talkers in I look down and taunt the kids I look at myself so sophisticated Downing a glass of hard liquor by the sip I won’t let them respond to it I’ll just snicker in self importance I don’t stop to tie my suede shoes To bend down and look between the clover leaves of the meadow Rue Soil, blood, or oil resides in the doormat fibers Waste does not bring new life, it is refuse I did not see the deer dart into the forest edge Or the toads resting on the caps of mushrooms I did not hear the chirp of the tymbal in the cicadas’ abdomens Or the honk of the Canada goose I did not smell the petrichor from rain drops’ evaporation Or the Cedar’s pinecone juice

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I did not feel the brome grass brush against my skin Or my hair with a gentle breeze going through I did not taste the tartness of the thimbleberry Or the sweetness of a raspberry bush’s fruit I like my sterile balcony I like my protein smoothies I like to take a cold shower And put on the latest movie The essence of life is wrought with alchemy Rare metals are my beauty I collect them in my wallet And frame them up for viewing You either live up here Or you live below me There’s no common ground What is this children’s folly We are adulting We like dull things Polished with gold plating Your behavior is appalling You need to grow up like me

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Some people crave the sun But find home in the lack of light Stones were thrown bruising shoulders Nails ripped during the desperate fight Climbing higher trying to avoid the boulders Escaping the elements only to come face to face with the eyes of the beholder Just to see they don’t share the dreamy daze And despite the lack of luster, you allow them to lead you deeper into the maze Embracing every wrong turn as it swallows you whole Closing yourself becoming comfortably numb A lonely soul residing on the moon forever Wishing to see the sun So your shaking hands can steady You are on the moon And no matter how big or small the step You are still alone And no one hears the snap of your bones As you bend yourself into something you can not be You are the moon changing for the sun You are the moon changing for me

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I will let you Rip me apart Into shreds Tissue paper For a kindergarten art project I will let you Because you showed me the mountains You gave me a song I slept the whole way through Because I was small You can rip me apart Destroy me Like a child I’ll let you keep doing it Because you held me & cried for me I cried for me You don’t even have to ask I’ll let you Drown me

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“In the media, African-Americans are depicted in a derogatory manner.

Through imagery, African-Americans can change and challenge stereotypes, narratives, and perspectives. In this portrait, I wanted to capture African-American culture and the African-American experience. Visual media lacks black representation and fails to portray African-Americans correctly. Nonetheless, photography allowed African-Americans to be their authentic self and gave them the power and ability to create their image.”

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Acknowledgements I would like to start by saying thank you to all of the artists and writers who contributed to this edition of Cellar Roots. We are honored that you have shared your work -- your heart and soul -- with us. This magazine has been two years in the making, delayed by COVID-19 more times than any of us expected, and The Cellar Roots team thanks you for your continued patience and support through that process.

I would also like to give a huge thank you to the Cellar Roots team. Without you, none of this would have been possible, especially not during unprecedented times like these. Your dedication and hard work do not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

Another person that made this possible is Christine Uthoff, Faculty Advisor to Cellar Roots and the Eastern Echo student newspaper. Her consistent care and involvement help Cellar Roots grow and evolve, changing for the better. The Cellar Roots team is forever grateful for her investment.

Finally, thanks go out to you, the reader. Whether you are an artist or writer yourself, or just someone who enjoys creative work, your support of Cellar Roots means everything.

We hope that this magazine inspires you in some way, and means as much to you as it does to us.

Stay creative!

Sydney Keenan Cellar Roots Editor-in-Chief

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