Xpressions_Volume 1 by fashionmash

xpressions VOLUME 1 | INCEPTION

SPRING 2022

Xpressions Staff Executive Staff Halah Al-Ameen Ballard Pareen Bhagat Kathryn Chao Nicholas Fantauzzi III Kayden Hunt Tyler Layne Destiny Lewis Ann Licharew Chiagozie Onukogu Jaziah Planter Nina Scott Editor-In-Chief Ann Licharew Creative Direction Kayden Hunt Tyler Layne Photography J’sha Gift Corey Henderson Kayden Hunt Claire Burke Writing Halah Al-Ameen Ballard Lizabeth Bamgboye Kiara Garcia Kayden Hunt Tamilore Kolawole Tyler Layne Chiagozie Onukogu Raye Oji Treasure Rouse Adrian Tillman Taliajah Vann Mike Wax Jada Young

Modeling Halah Al-Ameen Ballard Jauntel Bennett Kathryn Chao Joyce Ebhodaghe Justice Haygood Corey Henderson Alicia Hyden Alexis Steele-Kubuanu Tyler Layne Destiny Lewis Ann Licharew Eliam Mussie Ogechi Nwobu Kabang Nyara Emaji Oliver Chiagozie Onukogu Jaziah Planter Angelina Ross Johnetta Sarkorh Myles Solomon Charisma Sumpter Adrian Tillman

Photo Editing J’sha Gift Kayden Hunt Tyler Layne Advisor Dana McMahan Design Kathryn Chao Nina Scott

Nina Scott

Head Graphic Designer

Tyler Layne

Head Creative Director

Kathryn Chao Head Graphic Designer

Kayden Hunt

Head Photographer & Photo Editor

Letter from the Execs By: Destiny Lewis

College. As naïve, young individuals, college signifies a new chapter of self-identification. The opportunity

to express ourselves. The opportunity to live in our truth with the support of our peers. We watch the comingof-age movies and read the books expecting college to be everything we imagine and more. Running in bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to give the experience all we’ve got, we forget about the hate, microaggressions, blanketed racism, and lack of support awaiting our presence as students of color. Despite the University of North Carolina’s “well-respected” reputation, we don’t expect the actions of the past to still affect the students of the future. With a color as dignified as Carolina Blue, we look beyond the questionable stares and sly comments. How could a school like Carolina be anything less than incredible? The famous Tar Heel brand fails to disguise the fact that our disposition as minorities represents our reality. Many students of color have yet to find their place at UNC. Seeking a space to broadcast our individuality was more difficult than ever. In 2021, Nicholas Fantauzzi III and Pareen Bhagat opened that door. As the founders of Xpressions, Nick and Pareen provided a platform for students of color to express themselves and bond with other like-minded individuals. Xpressions grew into an outlet for us as diverse creatives searching for the exciting and liberating experience we imagined college would give us.

“

We realized that there was a lack of diversity and inclusion that truly showed a safe space for minority students. I’m thankful that Dana trusted Pareen and myself with this organization and we have grown it to the point where there’s more opportunities for us.” - Nicholas Fantauzzi III

“

We created Xpressions so people of color had a safe space to express themselves through their clothing and culture. We wanted to create a space where the limelight is always on them. The name Xpressions is a combination of expression and fashion.” - Pareen Bhagat

This magazine represents who we are as Xpressions. We are determined. We are revolutionary. We are empowering, unique, and united. Xpressions is our home. Every single concept developed for this magazine tells an important story. The beauty, confidence, and culture students of color bring to UNC holds a level of significance too vital to disregard. By curating these photos, ideas, and poems, we hope to build a community of empowerment. We believe Xpressions will serve as a safe space for creatives at UNC. Our team members are beyond grateful for the opportunity to display the hard work, sacrifice, and love we plan to gift to UNC for years to come. With love,

The Xpressions Executive Committee

TABLE Black Girl Magic

Femme

Bratz

Barbie

CONTENTS Boogie Wonderland

U.N.I.T.Y.

28 38

Soul n’ Body

Roots

60 70

Supercalifragilisticexpialidociously Black By: Chichi Onukogu

New Year, Same Black Girl

Beowulf

How to be a Doll

Elegy to Idols

Adultification

Kill Me Now

Mind’s Forecast

Roots

Imagine

By: Kayden Hunt

Mental Brew

Dance!

By: Mike Wax

By: Halah Al-Ameen Ballard

Weathering the Heat By: Raye Oji

the B in Black is capitilized. By: Tyler Layne

By: Tamilore Kolawole

By: Tyler Layne

By: Lizabeth Bamgboye

By: Jada Young

By: Taliajah Vann

By: Kiara Garcia

By: Adrian Tillman

By: Treasure Rouse

Black Girl Magic Showing the power and magic Black women possess.

Models: Charisma Sumpter, Chiagozie Onukogu & Joyce Ebhodaghe Photographed by: Kayden Hunt Creative Direction: Tyler Layne

Supercalifragilisticexpialidociously Black By: Chiagozie Onukogu Black bold and beautiful is what I’m always called But sometimes I feel Blue dumb and ugly The light that people saw Is getting dimmer and dimmer by the moment The magic keeps on fading Where are you, I need you Who am I without you These spells I cast Are trying to help others But where is the potion to heal what I broke inside I need these thoughts and pain to disappear But they keep coming like cloth from my enchanted pocket Everyday is a little harder Trying to figure out how to use these powers But as I learn, I grow more confident Confident that I will use this magic to pull me out of the darkness Confident that my Blackness shines more bright the more I cast my spells Confident in finding the potions that light the answers I once couldn’t see This Black Girl Magic will be my saving grace.

New Year, Same Black Girl By: Kayden Hunt I’m a strong, beautiful, amazing and daring Black girl exquisite down to each and every curl I’ve been blessed And this happiness deserves to be expressed Because baby I’m Black and I’m back getting right like never left You can’t tell me NOTHING As a young girl I knew I didn’t need a license to have DRIVE I just needed to be ready when my time arrived Momma said “Every complexion is perfection no need for correction” So I just smile every time I look at my reflection Pops said let em underestimate your melanin, so you can embarrass them This Black girl magic will exceed your expectations, bright like a gem ‘Cause I’m not a realtor but I’ll still put you in your place If you’re not understanding, then here’s a little taste. Black is beautiful Black is style you’d never expect Black is power Black is Aretha Franklin R-E-S-P-E-C-T respect Black is strength Black is more than intellect Black is me …. and that’s 100% correct

scan to watch Kayden’s spoken word performance of this piece

Fighting the hypermasculinization of Black men.

Models: Corey Henderson & Eliam Mussie Photographed by: Kayden Hunt Creative Direction: Tyler Layne

Anyone can be feminine.

Mental Brew I’ve been cooking my whole life With ingredients I never asked for On rusted down pots And broken utensils It’s a miracle that I’ve lasted this long

Crafting up potions I pour them the kettle The beautiful hues of my happiness rise to the surface As my darkness sinks to the bottom So I mix them I mix up the flavors Until my confusion tastes like anxiety And I keep eating until my insomnia is full Leave leftovers to feed my ego Blow him up with enough carbs To run through this 24 hour marathon called life When there is nothing left I fill these holes in my stomach With candy No matter how much I eat It is never enough to scrub this bitterness off my tongue I feel my emotions in my stomach boil I smell layers of myself burn away As I become new What was once butterflies Has become ants Crawling through my veins Filling the sections of my mind As I search for something to fill the void Just one more drop of peace To satisfy these beasts that live in my head Before they swallow up the little bit of happiness I have left

By: Mike Wax

But on the days that I starve myself from these bad thoughts I remember Mental health is like cooking A never ending process Of trying new recipes to see what works best Making good days from scratch And flipping bad situations like pancakes It’s eating desserts that taste like a lot like self love While savoring warm moments with the woman I love This feeling in my gut Is like soup on a cold day When I talk about mental health People think of illness But these little things make my mental health The most important meal of the day Is my sleep I lay down and let my subconscious cook for me Because he knows that I am the master of this kitchen And each time it is delicious But these nightmares are poison They sink their teeth into me Dripping venom into my dreams They kill my goals and replace them with failures Strap me in For a rollercoaster that is fueled from my screams As we ride through the most terrifying parts of my mind

But these nightmares are poison They sink their teeth into me Dripping venom into my dreams They kill my goals and replace them with failures Strap me in For a rollercoaster that is fueled from my screams As we ride through the most terrifying parts of my mind These nightmares are a death match It’s me vs me And I feel my mind strangling my soul Bending my fantasy to the nasty truth of reality I wake up gasping for air Scrambling for something To quench this fear Only to be met with a warm cup of depression At the end of the day the pot is empty It’s a dark black hole with crusts of the old me And I just can’t help but find myself sinking into the void Brushing past good days And slipping into a nice space between my bed and me I lay there Force-fed hand-crafted lies Until I decide to hear the truth

And the truth is that I am the head chef Some days I’m a mess And other days I’m a masterpiece But life was never meant to be bland My mind is a meal that only I can understand A perfect product yet never finished And no matter how many times I have to start from scratch I always remember Mental health is like cooking

Models: Destiny Lewis, Kabang Nyara, Ogechi Nwobu & Tyler Layne Photographed by: J’sha Gift Creative Direction: Tyler Layne

Tapping into Sou l Cult ure

U.N.I.T.Y. Illustrating Black American culture that has been misrepresented and misconstrued.

Models: Dia Bennett, Justice Haygood, Angelina Ross, Halah Al-Ameen Ballard & Tyler Layne Photographed by: Corey Henderson Creative Direction: Tyler Layne

Beowulf By: Tamilore Kolawole

I remember it was a full moon, With a swift cool breeze under the clear night I remember that it was just us, two black bodies that looked blue under this moonlit sky Caught in a passionate conversation about music that made us feel something. It has been so long since I felt anything so you were my breath of fresh air. As the moon rose, so did the tension. There were fireflies flickering on and off signaling SOS in morse code. The cicadas in their multitude, sounding off this war cry as a warning signal. They knew something was coming. My instinct to run was buried underneath my desire to stay. I was entering a war, I did not have the battle plans for. While mother nature tries to warn me, throwing every sign Instead, I look to you, catch your eyes There must be something in the air As the irises of your eyes turn neon green, The hunger in your eyes was a primal lust for blood Something to devour. You wanted to take me whole, envelope yourself around me. But now I can’t breathe, you’re suffocating me my chest is caving in from all this pressure.. I’m choking on the half-truths and empty promises.

This. Is. guerrilla warfare. Still offering my grace to men that never deserved it This is not some fucking supernatural fiction we’re reading on Wattpad, This is my life, Constantly battling with dogs disguised as men So, as we pull away from this kiss, these lovebites you left on my neck are dripping with blood. The crimson red seeping through my fingers. Pleasure turned poison. Man turned savage, The fear wrapped around my words as I utter, please falls on deaf ears, We no longer speak the same language I see the corners of your mouth turn as you lick my blood from your fangs You’re getting off this Letting your carnage speaks for itself Women who got tired of making deals with the devil just to feel desired I need to leave, But I’m trapped in this space with you unsure if I can trust my own thoughts. I’m living my worst nightmare on repeat. There must be a hex on me leaving me chained to the monster in my bed. Your fingernails slowly elongating and sharpening digging into my thigh, The sound of your bones breaking one by one as you morph into this beast in front of me is deafening, I’ve lost all my senses to you. I don’t know who trust or how to love. So I wanna retreat into my memories of you, late nights drives and playful innocence. but I’m forced to face you, at this point, I don’t know if I was ever happy or simply holding onto hope. Cause you were never who I wanted, you were just a nigga that liked to play dress-up. So I’ll suit up. I am entering a war against a man turned animal, Prepare for my silver bullets to sliver their way into your heart, Baby, Your howls to the moon for your brethren will do you no good here Cause monsters are just insecure little boys when the lights are turned on And I train Lil pups/dogs for fun. So sit boy. Rollover boy. Play dead, boy.

BRATZ vs

Models: Tyler Layne, Kathryn Chao & Alicia Hyden Photographed by: Kayden Hunt Creative Direction: Kayden Hunt

BARBIE The alter egos of our childhood

Models: Jaziah Planter, Emaji Oliver & Alexis Steele-Kubuanu Photographed by: Kayden Hunt Creative Direction: Tyler Layne

“She’s a top-notch doll: boujee and beautiful.” We always question whether we realized if we have found ourselves yet. Sometimes we affirm to ourselves that we know exactly who we are and our place in this world. But sometimes, we question everything. Growing up, I was always unsure of the type of person I was. It was difficult discovering my personality, my sexuality, and even my gender identity.

But like most queer, Black children, I did not have the space to explore my queerness It was only until 11th grade that I understood I was gay, and it took longer to understand that I was not a man. I always hated being called a man. I mean, I never felt like a man. What was a man supposed to feel like? But like most queer, Black children, I did not have the space to explore my queerness—to understand myself at a young age in a healthy environment. I have this doll. It is not a physical Barbie or Bratz doll, but my personal internal doll. She is very apparent sometimes. She shows herself in

many aspects of my life, like when I feel pretty after filling in a few eyebrow hairs my face has to offer or when I am at the beauty supply store selecting which hair I’m buying for the box braids I plan on wearing the next day. However, she was not always so present and active. When I was a child, I do not remember her as clearly. We did not have the best relationship. I remembered she was shy. She was afraid of the way people would look at her or judge her. She was afraid of the fact that if she showed herself, her safety of life would be in danger. She was afraid to be shunned by the individuals she loved. And because I was afraid of her, I have not been the nicest to her. I wish I had encouraged her more. Cheered her on when she did not feel the prettiest or stuck up for her when she was being stepped on. But I did not. I realized I could not live without her. She has grown up now and she’s a lot more confident. She’s a top-notch doll: boujee and beautiful. Now she has tough skin. She’s bringing me closer to finding who I really am and for that, I am forever grateful. I am so proud of her and all her accomplishments. I do not know who I am yet or what I am meant to do. I question my gender identity often and that’s okay because I know that she is going to be there every step of the way cheering me on when my journey seems impossible. I will make sure that she sees that I am going to be the best doll I can be.

HOW TO BE A DOLL By: Tyler Layne 55

Elegy to Idols

By: Lizabeth Bamgboye

people who make men gods get cursed

i held these sunday school parables about plagued peoples close to my chest but the lessons lied dormant around my ankles like dust i prostrated at his paper mache throne heaving ash beating a sackcloth chest trying to quiet prayers i wasn’t brave enough to accept the answers to i pleaded to God for love i said no when he told me to look inward girls who can only see cracks in their divine figures dabble in blasphemy to find affection elsewhere we crave deities that answer in languages we understand even if the tongue is bitter i use my love and make mere men idols he spoke in a still small voice and that was enough to find my salvation buried in his bosom i could just touch him I would be healed this is how you make a man a god you follow the shadows of his hands as he moves you chase his quick-switch emotions like pillars of wind in a desert until his approval is gospel truth you break your bones to build a temple for his reverence it’s through him you breathe you move you have your being

but i would slip outside of his blind worship and his heart would harden and his face began to turn away i would fall at his throne again tongue leaden with penance leave my sense on the altar of his pride because how can his divinity be maintained without my sacrifice? so yes i was wrong i should have responded to your texts sooner how dare i wear that dress out in public yes i really meant yes I asked for it i liked it and when his hand moved over the deep of my mouth and hushed my protest i called the perverse wrong divine intervention the warmth of demons painted as deities was more welcome than loneliness but the trauma bonds we dip in gold and call love are just as cold false religion is a lover we blind our own eyes for because we fear being without it he was not God when you make abuse your cornerstone healing feels like apocalypse i still sometimes feel like an acolyte to ruins still mourn the parts of me i let die at the altar to finally leave false gods can teach the best lessons

BODY BODY BODY BODY BODY BODY

N’ N’ N’ N’ N’ N’

Models: Jaziah Planter, Joyce Ebhodaghe & Johnetta Sarkorh Photographed by: Claire Burke Creative Direction: Kayden Hunt

SOU L SOU L SOU L SOU L SOU L SOU L

Valuing our body, intimacy and our boundaries. This body is mine.

Adultification By: Jada Young Stealing is a sin, yet God stole my peace when he gave me breasts. He stole my parent’s joy when he curved my hips. Lying is a sin, yet When I was coerced into giving up my innocence in return for anxiety I was told it would keep me “safe.” When society ripped away my baby blanket, They replaced it with a rape whistle. When a line of cleavage poked through my Justice tank top The label switched from precious to promiscuous. Places such as school or church, went from safe spaces To barbaric hunting grounds Where I was the gazelle. In a matter of seconds my life turned From nervous for play dates, To fearful of date rape. I was only 12.

THIS BODY IS MINE. 66

Kill Me Now By: Taliajah “Teddy” Vann

Don’t make me wait for it. The floorboards look ripped up from here, And I can’t feel you smiling. Jagged nails are married to old planks and Roughness is making love to chipped wallpaper in this house where the Mirrors keep breaking. And I keep breaking. The thoughts reflected in the mirror’s shards snap me so violently that it’d be better to just Kill Me Now. I prefer you drag the canister through the living room first. Drench my favorite couch in gasoline and douse the shelf with every movie I still want to show you on it. Enter my bedroom and soak the carpet I won’t let you have your shoes on, And every cardigan I just hung up, And the robe hanging on the door. Burn the oxygen out of me as you strike your match. Every loving glance and nose kiss and consuming hug feels buried inside me like a box of trinkets shoved in dirt, And I can feel them fighting towards the surface to convince me that I’m crazy when I’m not. I see you dropping the match from the corner of my eye and wonder, Am I losing it or giving it back or both?

OUR R ROOTS

Models: Ogechi Nwobu, Ann Licharew, Adrian Tillman & Myles Solomon Photographed By: J’sha Gift Creative Direction: Xpressions

Mind’s Forecast By: Kiara Garcia

There isn’t a day she hasn’t tried to ruin one of my relationships She’s devastated any and every notion of love I had, made it so that I trembled in the midst of it, terrified of what was to be She had come into my life when I was young, She was the first to notice internal anguish of me yelling for my forgotten sense of self to return She swore to make sure that my value would never be overlooked, but at the time I didn't hear the whispers she made that I wasn’t to be looked at at all, that I must be hidden I wanted what she promised so badly that I ached for them So I carved a spot out for her in my brain, believing that she would alleviate that ache, that yearning, the pain Now, I can’t get rid of her My proclaimed protector turned torturer, Anxiety I had my first crush in 6th grade My heart would soar when it spotted any opportunity to speak to him, For it to just fall, when she would tell me, not be a fool, not to risk speaking to him, That he would never treat my words like they were his religion, never meditate on them like a saint desperate to reach salvation That He will not make my words his bible, would never crusade against those who dared to speak so little of his faith He would never make out his prayers to me, asking me to forgive his humanity Because he was burdened with the curse of man He would never view my head as his church, my thoughts as his scriptures, my mind as his most holiest of sanctuaries So I gave up

In high school, there was a boy who, when my eyes happened upon him, my fingers would start to tingle at the sight of him, Yearning to connect my palm with his shoulders, his arms, his legs But She punished me for those thoughts She would tell me, not to be a fool, not to dare touch him That the lifeline I extended to him, he would look at with disgust, And tell me that he’d rather drown than be rewarded my skinship So when I would try to reach my hands out to him, the tingles turn into tremors, my hands shaking like an unsettled tectonic plates,

had so little love for herself, He was enough for me to realize, that this time i couldn’t give in Anxiety, This demented union between me in you needs to end Im grabbing the knife, and i’m going to carve you out just as easily as you carved you in I was too scared before, scarred what would be left of me, And it might be the death of us both But unlike you, I can be reborn

So I would drop my hands quickly, because I didn’t want him to realize that I was a natural disaster I was an earthquake that would wreak havoc on his ecosystem, that my rumbling would destroy his planet Anxiety didn’t care who was in the path of her destruction as long as it meant isolating me, containing the calamity she herself created within me, making me a danger zone that all those I desired must stay far, far, far away from, away from the storm inside me that would inevitably explode So again, against Anxiety, I knew i couldn’t win, but this boy this boy who was willing to love a girl who

Roots. By: Adrian Tillman

As I write that word, I think of Alex Haley, of Kunta Kinte being brought to new, unfamiliar lands, the Roots of the past. Roots. I think of settling down somewhere, making a name for myself, putting down roots for the future. Roots. I think of trees, of flowers, of the splendor of nature. Roots. I think of music, the same hiphop that defines my soul, of Black Thought, Questlove creating pieces of art to outline and document the Black experience. All these thoughts, these tendrils of memory ingrained deep in my consciousness, my associations, swirled through my brain as I woke up on a chilly February morning. The tangled, twisted roots of thought kept swirling through my head as I got dressed. I stumbled over them as I walked down the stairs, down the hills of campus. The roots were weighty, heavy as the uncertainty on my mind. To go and shoot a camera? That, I was used to. To stand in front of one? Not in the slightest.

On the rare occasion I appeared in my own lens, there was always a level of control: I decided the shot, the moment, the good takes and the bad ones. To give that control up, to appear raw, vulnerable, natural, in front of someone else’s camera? It was nerve-wracking. I had doubts, I almost left as I waited for the shoot to begin. To take my mind off everything, I searched for flowers to photograph, hoping I could hide my nerves, those tangled roots, under petals and leaves. Once the shoot began, though, those roots became something different. As the vision was explained and executed, I began to see: roots nourish. Roots influence growth, taking in the nutrients around them for the betterment of their plant. Roots are always where the creation begins. We were shooting pictures in nature, sure. But we were also representing something. The pictures are vulnerable, delicate, sure, but they also show beautiful Black strength. They resonate with echoes of the years Black folk had to be strong to allow us to be here, to do this. Every time you look at this shoot, at the greens, browns, blues, the way the morning sun shines off beautiful Black skin tones, I hope it all helps you feel a connection through us. I hope that it helps you find your roots.

Imagine By: Treasure Rouse

I wonder how much privilege you must hold To own a big house in this town Is it a history of slaveholding? Or is it the masters refurbished house who named himself planter instead of master to make the history books more digestible Or was it daddy’s money? Did he fund the university you attend because no child of his will ever go somewhere less than white man skin? Was it trust fund baby or just white baby? Lately, they all seem to be taking the same currency, Black bodies mourning bodies Black bodies mourning poverty White bodies mourning….? What does the white body mourn these days? While people see the beauty of this campus I’m wondering how many of my ancestors Built this shit by hand If I moved a brick would I see their initials Or just the blood spilled from generations Of building a city they’ve never been welcomed in But let’s play pretend.

That my 6 times behind grandparents were slaveholders with a plethora of white families cultivating their lands Where white men are nothing but mere beast and their women bed wenches Have you not heard the cracka is the worst type of being. they are not human, rather farm animals breed them like dogs so we can sell their children Imagine if niggas was planters Cracking the whip on crackas backs and seasoning it with salt cause white bloody pain makes the big man get off. Skin their porcelain white skin for our furniture set, Bathe in their blood to keep the wrinkles off. Are the white people getting angry? Cause I got about 401 years of history that I can fucking talk about when black people talk about their pain you yearn to insert yourself in the conversation So let’s play with the roles

I bet you’re relieved this was just a poem. no one expected that the negro’s Who plotted the soil and built the town, would get this far. I bet its a relief, that while my family were disregarded by historians Yours was uplifted, applauded for their thievery. As I sit here on this bus Looking at these big houses that hold so much privilege in their standing.

Let’s pretend its you trying to get your seat at this table While we push you out with lynching, laws, dogs, fires, bullets from men in these repurposed cloaks Think about being scared to call 911 Think about how itchy the rope around your neck is as a crowd is cheering and laughing Eating popcorn while all you can say is “please let me go, I got babies at home” Before they let your body fly like a fucking flag In a cold air Imagine knowing its not your time to die yet Imagine you find your sons body floating in the ravine Imagine your daughter comes home with tattered clothes and knowing you can’t do anything because it was the white boys whose father Is known for wearing the cloak Imagine Imagine Imagine Being comfortable in a classroom where everyone looks like you Where you are taught about you is beyond the realm of chains and shackles Ugh… excuse me As I force myself to make space for the lack of white voices in this poem Because I know they are gonna complain about shit that happened 401 years ago. Imagine niggas saying that to you with a straight fucking face Unprovoked and sitting on their daddys money. Imagine the crackas rioting, imagine white lives mattering, Imagine crackas fixing they mouth to call niggas the oppressor.