Heels into the Soil: Stories & Poems Resisting the Silence

9 780578 867861

ISBN 9780578867861

90000

International Women’s Writing Guild

- Janee Osterheldt

“THERE IS NO VOICELESSNESS, SISTERS. There are just systems that suppress and silence and create the illusion that says our words don’t matter. Because the minute you discover your truth and begin to write your own story, the elders call to the water within you, they ignite the spellcaster inside of you, and as you ride your power you begin to radically imagine who you are outside of injustice.”

Heels into the Soil Stories & Poems Resisting the Silence International Women’s Writing Guild

2020 MENTORSHIP PROGRAM

WRITTEN BY THE MEMBERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S WRITING GUILD

Stories & Poems Resisting the Silence

Heels into the Soil

Heels into the Soil Stories & Poems Resisting the Silence WRITTEN BY THE MEMBERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S WRITING GUILD 2020 MENTORSHIP PROGRAM

Heels into the Soil

Book Printing by The Country Press, Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.

ISBN: 978-0-578-86786-1 Copyeditor: Angelina Vallejo Designer: Courtney Moy

Heels into the Soil copyright 2021 by The International Women’s Writing Guild. All rights reserved. This book was produced in partnership with author and educator Nakia Hill. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews and for education purposes.

Black Girl Magic

9

of Injustice

Interrogation

6

Foreword

1

Contents

Table of

Untitled

42

Dear White People

38

Letter from the Executive Director

32

Untitled

29

Untitled

22

PSA

14

The Space Between Us

62

Secrets in the Soil

61

The end from many angles

58

Justice

52

Of Blood and Bones

50

118

Root Chakra Check

To Our Readers

Untitled

116

Identity of a Daughter

112

Letter to Asiyah

108

Stepping Up to the Plate

102

98

Community

94

Dear White People

88

Letter from the Book Project Director

82

America

78

From My Roots, You Grow

76

Acknowledgments

130

Carving Space

122

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

FOREWORD

We cannot live in our richness until we write the revelations of our hearts.

1

We do not know ourselves until we know our story. We cannot live in our richness until we write the revelations of our hearts.

Gatekeepers, too often white and male, have shrunk our sisterhood and wrung out womanhood to fit into a limited view of what it means to be a lady. They have erased the beauty of our Blackness and the power in our voice. They’ve drawn us to sit at the bottom of their hierarchy. But dearhearts, our story is not theirs to tell.

Have you cast a spell lately, sisters? Words are not the nouns, adjectives, and verbs we speak. They are the ingredients of our story. We do language.

And when you do language, your narrative becomes yours to own.

-Toni Morrison

But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives .”

Foreword

“We die. That may be the meaning of life.

2

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Have you cast a spell lately, sisters? Your words are your magic to use.

Language, when it is yours, can break the bounds of what society said a woman could and could not be. Language allows you to dig your heels into the dirt supremacy sought to bury you in and bloom where our ancestors planted you. Your story, your voice, your language is where you keep the truth of you. And a woman who knows her truth is watering a revolution.

Heels into the Soil: Stories and Poems Resisting Silence is a book of freedom spells. For we do not belong to this country’s narrators. We belong to each other. Our stories, a harmony of many gospels and trap beats, are protest songs and victory dances.

There is no voicelessness, sisters. There are just systems that suppress and silence and create the illusion that says our words don’t matter. Because the minute you discover your truth and begin to write your own story, the elders call to the water within you, they ignite the spellcaster inside of you, and as you ride your power you begin to radically imagine who you are outside of injustice. You see yourself as free.

What words do you use to paint the multitudes of you? We do not have to believe the lies we’re fed about who we are. We can measure ourselves in our own words, by our own choices, by the long line of women from which we descend who knew they had magic.

What is freedom if someone else defines you for yourself and the world to believe? What is equity and justice without the language, without the story of past, present, and future? What is liberation without the language to color our lived experiences and mark our moments and time?

Jeneé Osterheldt

FOREWORD

3

Christie A. Cruise, PhD is an author, educator, and social justice advocate. In 2019 she released her first book, It Don’t Hurt Now: My Journey of Self-Love & SelfAcceptance. Her poetry and self-portrait photography has been published in Remington Review, Gallery & Studio Arts Journal, and Sunspot Literary Journal (forthcoming).

Christie A. Cruise

6

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Is not life something to be cherished?

Is not life beautiful?

Why would you want to?

Why would you want to?

because of the color of their skin?

INTERROGATION OF INJUSTICE

How can you justify the slaying of a people

to shield their eyes and face from the mist of the rain?

7

walking home from the store with candy and iced tea?

a tornado of thoughts interrupt my sleep, causing me to become a perpetual insomniac.

How can one discount human life?

How is it standing your ground when you stalk a child

questions swirl in my brain until

Hoodies can only be worn by white children

When did it become a crime to defend your home against unlawful entry?

Sleeping peacefully in your own bed in your own home is now a crime?

A neck is not a water hose.

Releasing your knee from it won’t cause the air to begin to flow again.

You do know what happens when a knee crushes a trachea, don’t you?

when it cannot escape.

to observe the water build up, wondering what will happen to water

in the way a child holds their foot on a water hose,

and with such ease, pressing down on flesh

of how one could keep a knee in the neck of another human being,

Is there even sense to be made

this free substance needed to sustain life?

Who is worthy to live, to breathe in air,

As my mind attempts to make sense of what my eyes see,

there are some things for which I am grateful for ignorance.

To say I want to understand would be false,

of Injustice

Interrogation

Christie A. Cruise, PHD

Or, is it that only some lives are counted as worthy?

Little Black girls have it hard.

women by the vagina instead of voting for the candidate who has one?

of emotional strength and resilience in the face of constant

to effect immediate change.

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

What else could explain society’s expectation

I only wish it were the one with the power

8

Little Black girls are expected to perform magic.

I guess one of us must be concerned.

childhoods, BLACK GIRL MAGIC

if little Black girls came through the traumas of their

It would be nothing short of a magic trick

adversity?

They are expected to be everything, except little girls.

These questions interrupt my sleep.

They are not safe.

I am afraid for little Black girls.

Magic

Black Girl

Christie A. Cruise, PHD

Why would you rather vote for a candidate who advocates grabbing

ty?

Why do you feel no remorse for committing such crimes against humani-

bathing?

that they have willingly left a city with sewage water for drinking and

How does one sleep peacefully at night with the knowledge

when children sleeping in feces and urine filled cages can be justified.

to find peace within their soul

I can only imagine to whom one must pray

to hunt their fellow human as if they were prey.

to convince themselves that it is reasonable

I can only imagine that one must lose a piece of their soul

9

despite the evidence of abuse so easily spotted in other little girls, ignored when it presents in them.

Yes, they are magic.

They create the illusion of well-being

when, in fact, it is absent.

Other little girls receive a grace little Black girls know nothing of, the color of their skin has erased their innocence.

Their trauma ignored

A society that wants them to disappear.

Abracadabra! Pull the curtain back.

No secret door or drop-down compartment.

After all, that’s how Black women behave.

They are expected to safely navigate

Not a healthy one anyway.

And, when they become women, the neglect and disrespect will continue.

when they are unable to successfully navigate

the landmines of sexual predators, of poverty, and of adults

with grown-up expectations.

10

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

I worry about little Black girls,

and their trauma manifests as bad behavior.

when they attend school,

BLACK GIRL MAGIC

They were once little Black girls too.

inflicted on them from every corner of society.

I am afraid for them

Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Atatiana Jefferson.

I am afraid for little Black girls who carry trauma

11

We need only to say their names to know how it ends for little Black girls:

No childhood.

I worry about little Black girls,

the family child molester and neighborhood pedophile.

even when they are 7 years old.

Little Black girls are responsible for their own safety.

because little Black girls are sassy and bossy,

Surely someone will take notice of these behaviors and understand.

in a society that wants to perform magic, too?

How can they maintain a sense of well-being

in the absence of safety and comfort,

of this life, unscathed.

Nakia Hill is a writer, journalist, and educator who focuses on empowering Black women and girls to use writing as a tool for healing + resistance. She was named a Boston Artist-in-Residence in 2018 by Mayor Walsh. Hill is the author of two books: Water Carrier and I Still Did It.

Nakia Hill

14

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Our innocence lay dormant

From being stolen from our mothers and our land

Is it too much work to protect us?

when we are constantly

We walk away because you refuse to stand in your rightful place

the same ceiling that we are

at the bottom of that that glass ceiling

Down

holding you down

You fail to lift us up

Burning our daughters traumas at the root

Fertilizing our wombs with holy water + oil

Protecting our sanctity

We are uprooting generational curses with our bare hands

What happens if we return home to ourselves?

What happens if we let go?

PSA

From villages, to continents, in the workplace and relationships

We have been carrying this generational trauma

without complaining about the heaviness

Black girls are raised to carry the world on our shoulders

Because you are afraid that we will walk away

You shoot us in our foot

We shield you

words we’ve never had in our vocabulary until today

Protect us

PSA

Nakia Hill

Our damsel is never allowed to be in distress

15

We pretend to live this life with ease And then get called out for speaking up when our kettle becomes hot and we start singing

Why don’t you look for us?

Why aren’t there petitions?

Why aren’t there policies?

Taking what is rightfully ours

But do you recite them?

16

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

est woman out of us

Due to us for the years and the time you wasted without making an hon-

Due to us for cooking food that we can’t even devour

Due to us for cleaning houses that don’t belong to us

Due to us for breastfeeding white babies

Due to us for stolen intellectual property

Due to us for wombs housed by masters babies

What happens if reparations are paid in full?

No knock warrant in sight

We will continue to kick down doors

You see our names

Do you rap our lyrics around your tongue like you do misogyny?

Redemption songs.

Where are the alerts inspired by our pain in our names?

Where are the bills?

We stand poised

We stay silent to avoid disappointment

We are silent to appease you

When we are missing

will benefit from our labor once again

and you, you, and you too

working tirelessly to shatter

PSA

17

Asiyah Herrera, 19, is an author, poet, and teaching artist.

The most important thing to her is writing. Before writing poetry, Asiyah wrote six novels. Her biggest aspiration is to publish her writing and work at a nonprofit like 826 Boston.

Asiyah Herrera

20

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

call

it

a

Have

funeral and birthday

a

to sleep a black woman and wake in a casket

Go

21

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Bondage, White power, A monster over man And which side of the whip Our bodies belonged.

Crowns crushed under foot, Decomposed into dirt, Cotton bled fingertips, The negro, No longer glorious.

Just an object, To be sold, stolen, bartered or bought.

3000 BC - Ancient Egypt Birthplace of Moses, The building blocks of the later Greek and Roman cultures and empires, Painted white in our textbooks.

But the color of sand and sun, Builders and inventors.

Black Pharaohs, erased.

Before Slavery, We were kings, queens And everything in between.

Queen of Angola Kushite Dynasty, Mali empire.

Musa Keita.

744 to 656 BC. Black gold, Sandstone and glory.

22

slav·er·y |ˈslāv(ǝ)rē | noun the state of being a slave. the practice or system of bondange of a persons or people.

Exhibit B: Slavery

free·dom |ˈfrēdǝm | noun One who has freedom has the ability to do what he or she pleases without being stopped or hindered by a separate power.

“You can’t separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.” Malcolm X

Exhibit A: Freedom

Asiyah Herrera

UNTITLED

23

24

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

There was a woman by name of Moses, And against the current, Towards the stars She lead them to freedom, The way Moses led the people of Israel, Across the ocean.

And a man by the name of Douglass, Who wore his fro the way his ancestors Wore their crowns.

And a woman named Truth Who laid bare justice, Excavating the bones of bondage In her thunderous voice.

ab·o·li·tion·ist |ˌabǝˈliSHǝnǝst | noun a person who favors the abolition of a practice or institution, especially capital punishment or (formerly) slavery:

Exhibit C: Abolitionists

To march, To speak, And light the flame.

To die, A King.

To be murdered for believing.

To be killed precisely at the age of 39.

Do you not find it strange?

X marks the spot To excavate the truth behind your beliefs, To let you speak for yourself, Dispel the lies that still tarnish your name.

Because history replenished itself by destroying Your name, Erasing your final years.

UNTITLED

25

“Even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream.”

Martin Luther King Jr

the rights of citizens to political, social freedom and equality.

civ·il rights |ˌsivil ˈrīts | plural noun

Exhibit D: Civil Rights

26

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Until what remained was simply X after your name, Until what remained after your name was Jr. However uneducated history - not matter how hard it tried could not extinguish what you incited Among the people.

UNTITLED

How to account for the Generations of families Destroyed?

Of the trauma inherited, Languages and lineages lost.

Of history obliterated and erased?

To become the curator, To preserve, Recover, And restore.

My family tree is making itself known to me one fragment at a time, Upon an unearthing of remains after cremation.

To prevent history from restoring itself, Feeding itself among our blood and bones.

To reclaim those very bones and wear them upon my head, like a crown.

a keeper or custodian of a museum or other collection

cu·ra·tor |ˈkyo͝ orˌād ǝ r, kyo͝ oˈrād ǝ r, ˈkyo͝orədər | noun

Exhibit E: The Curator

27

28

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

To allow their stories breathe within my every breath.

To put the ghosts to rest within a mausoleum of Sandstone, gold and glory.

No returns.

No receipts.

No exchanges.

UNTITLED

The only life a black body can hold is the one he was given.

How painful it is to remember that

Staining the canvas?

What would America be without both blood and body

And will be tomorrow.

Just as he had yesterday

A Black man was killed today,

Untitled

Asiyah Herrera

29

Without the opportunity to make America great again.

Feeding off the roots of trees watered with tears of blood.

As he will tomorrow As he did yesterday, To feed the beast living in the belly of its master.

Watch it swing.

Dance under the wicked branches

Sway under a cruel canopy

30

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

To create a kingdom atop a graveyard?

And isn’t it like the white man to build upon bones,

Bury us under the construction of a skyscraper,

Shoot us on the nearest street,

But lives on only to

What would America be without a reminder that the beast never died

Basking in the glory of his pedestal.

As if he were drawn under his own spell,

Enthralled by the magic his own hands sent forth.

A Black man died today,

for their sovereignty

Watch it hang,

Hang them in the nearest tree,

Isn’t it like the white man to be captivated by black bodies?

UNTITLED

To believe our blood to be their only sustenance for survival.

Have a funeral and call it a birthday.

Correction:

To tell us to cradle our own wounds,

Go to sleep a black woman and wake in casket,

31

plague its land?

Lies beneath the ground in burrow.

And isn’t it like the white man to write emancipation as a death decree?

What would America be without the opportunity to hunt the beasts that

There is a beast, who never slumbers,

32

Listen.

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

There are so

33

everywhere

many beautiful voices

IWWG Executive Director Letter

34

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

IWWG now shares the poignant and promising results of our pilot Mentorship program. I ask every one of you to read and reflect on this compilation of their writing. Their voices and words speak to all the possibilities for justice and equity. But also for the need to listen. So I invite you to continue reading, and listen and learn.

Parallel to the global crisis, the U.S. is witnessing a resurgence of social and racial inequities that cause us painful pause: Who are we as a country? Who are we as humans? Amidst the fear and anxiety, I recalled meeting with a writer in Boston and asking if she could help IWWG launch a mentor program for young writers of color. With the skillful and soulful direction of Nakia Hill, we matched mentors and mentees who wrote together throughout the summer.

Listen. There are so many beautiful voices everywhere and yet so many we never hear. In April of 2019, I became Executive Director of the International Women’s Writing Guild - IWWG. One year later, the world was torn by a pandemic, causing economic upheaval, personal loss, and isolation for far too many.

Michelle Miller LETTER FROM EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR

35

Ayelen Herrera

“We must be the change we wish to see in the world.”

-Mahatma Gandhi

Ayelen is a 15 year old girl who lives in Dorchester, Massachusetts with her mother and older sister. She loves writing, reading, playing her viola, and cherishes spending time with family. To her, justice is equality and true peace for everyone in the world. Writing helps Ayelen express her feelings and be creative. When she is not writing you will find her reading a book or enjoying a movie. Ayelen finds happiness in her family who support and love her unconditionally which makes her feel very blessed. She is inspired by the strong and loving women in her family. Her goal in the future is to become an independent innovator, touching people’s lives by making life easier forthem. Ayelen enjoys quotes and one of her favorite quotes is:

if you don’t, then no change will come. You have to be grateful for the little things your skin color gives you. Like respect and “purity.” Acknowledge the fact that you indeed were born into privilege and that so many others

with privilege in this world. Whether you realize it, like it, or acknowledge

it, it’s there. Honestly, it will probably always be there if you don’t end it.

We cannot end racism alone. We must work together.

isn’t ok.

achieve the same level of value that you might receive with just walking

38

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

road to success is easier because of the color of your skin.

DEAR WHITE PEOPLE

39

If you want to live in a little bubble of everything is great or everything

color and therefore treated differently than you which isn’t ok. Racism

were born with? We have to try harder, work harder, and be tougher to

around with your whiteness. You’ve been given a head start in life and the

you are better than us. It just means we were born with a different skin

Do you know how hard it is for racial minorities to get the privilege you

are not as fortunate as you. That doesn’t mean we’re less than you or that

judgments and stereotypes? You have to recognize your privilege because

is for some people to love their skin color or culture because of societies’

it is who you are and you should embrace it. Do you believe how hard it

into. But, you learn to love and appreciate everything you have because

No one can decide the skin or family or amount of money they were born

think that’s fair? How can we be silent?

you feel if you were killed just because of the color of your skin? Do you

Everyone matters in this world. Everyone deserves a fair trial. How would

don’t have a voice. But we do. And it matters. Everyone’s voice matters.

achieve their dreams. Without a chance of pleading their case. As if we

even a chance to make their mark on the world. Without a chance to

or appearance? Too many. Too many innocent lives, lost. Some without

Do you know how many lives have been lost just because of our skin color

Do you ever feel unsafe because of the skin you wear? Every day, you walk

Dear white people,

Dear White People

Ayelen Herrera

should all be treated equally, regardless. To be treated fairly.

everything will not work out eventually. The problem with racism isn’t

40

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

We’re all different, whether it be the color of our skin, the wealth we

Know that we can all do more to help end racism. Especially you.

because of who they are. We need your voice. Every voice matters.

that some people wake up scared just because of the color of their skin or

you’re scared of us or what would happen if you spoke out, understand

acknowledge it, the farther we can get on this journey of ending racism. If

see how you can do better. Because we can do better. We can. The more you

find out more, catch yourself, remember your mistakes from the past and

think you’ve changed something. No, educate yourself, read, learn, listen,

go to a protest or be against racism and then go home to your bubble and

movement yourself. Everyone has a role in this movement. You can’t just

Think about what kind of role and actions you have done to help this

less understanding, less love, and less success. Do you think this is just?

and excel just like you, we are given less. Less support, less opportunities,

Your fellow humans, POC

41

prejudices + ideas first.

need to get out of your white bubble, and see how some people, just like

DEAR WHITE PEOPLE

bringing justice. You can’t change society without changing people’s

Maybe in your world you believe it will, but not in the real world. You all

To an equal future,

yourself. It’s the very first step we all can take to ending racism and

you’re not helping. Speak out and act out. This can’t be fixed with silence.

you, are not treated fairly. Though we work just as hard and love and give

With all that being said, we leave you with this. Listen and educate

supporting the end of the-racism movement by staying out of everything,

just within our community. This issue starts with you. If you think you are

come from or the education we have, we all deserve the same chance and

will eventually be ok, stop, and look around. Everything is not great, and

42

planet.

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

to come. I want you to reflect on the part you have on bringing peace to our

see in the world. We must hold hands and listen to each other for change

Martin Luther King. This will inspire you to be the change that you want to

These quotes should make you think. From powerful influential people like

justice. Understand that peace cannot exist without justice.

deserve to be heard, we’re just as human as you. Read these quotes about

No justice no peace! We chant in the streets. Won’t people listen to us? We

Ayelen Herrera

UNTITLED

“You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad.”

-Aldous Huxley

“Seeing is not always believing.”

-Martin Luther King

“If you see oppression of the poor, and justice and righteousness trampled in a country, do not be astounded.”

-King Solomon

“When we all see justice, we’ll all see peace!”

-Micheal Franti

43

“True peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice.”

-Martin Luther King

“If you want peace, work for justice.”

-Pope Paul VI

always be a great illusion.”

-Dom Helder Camara

“Without justice and love, peace will

“Justice can not be for one side alone, it must be for both.”

-Eleanor Roosevelt

“We must learn to live together as brothers or we will perish together as fools.”

-Martin Luther King

44

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

“We must learn that passively to accept an unjust system is to cooperate with that system, and thereby to become a participant in its evil.”

-Martin Luther King

“We all live with the objective of being happy; our lives are all different and yet the same.”

-Anne Frank

“Comfort is the enemy of progress.”

-Selena Gomez

“The longer we listen to one another - with real attention the more commonality we will find in all our lives.

That is, if we are careful to exchange with one another life stories and not simply opinions.”

-Barbara Deming

“Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together.”

-Eugene Ionesco

“Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are” -Benjamin Franklin

“ I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them.”

-Charles Bukowski

UNTITLED

“Often people are waiting for a leader to come along, you don’t have to wait for someone else.”

-Bettina L. Love

“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.”

-Ayn Rand

45

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

-James Baldwin

“If we do not maintain justice, justice will not maintain us.”

-Francis Bacon

“Our lives begin to end the day we are silent about things that matter.”

-Martin Luther King

“There comes a time when silence is betrayal.”

-Martin Luther King

“Delay in justice is injustice” -Walter Savage Landor

“To ignore all evil is to become an accomplice of it.”

-Martin Luther King

46

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

“To know what is right and not to do it is the worst cowardice.”

-Confucius

-Indira Gandhi

“You cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.”

“There is an existential moment in your life when you must decide to speak for yourself; nobody else can speak for you.”

-Martin Luther King

“You can kill the dreamer but you can’t kill the dream.”

-Martin Luther King

“The time is always right to do what is right.”

-Martin Luther King

“Truth never damages a cause that is just” -Mahatma Gandhi

“It is never too late to give up your prejudices.”

-Henry David Thoreau

“We must be the change we wish to see in the world.”

-Mahatma Gandhi

UNTITLED

47

“It is from the numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

-Robert F. Kennedy

Camarah, 16, is a photographer and a writer. She wants justice for the black community in all aspects of life. She wants Black people to be able to do anything without society hindering or harming them. She wants to one day aid in changing the social and economic inequalities in America’s systems through her writing by highlighting it. When not writing, you can find Camarah drawing, reading or playing video games.

Camarah Oates

50

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Fundamentally,

Will change that

Or the outside,

And nothing on the inside,

We are human

Underneath it all

We are children of blood and bone

Or anything, really

Or beliefs

No matter skin color

Bone

Of Blood and

Camarah Oates

We are children of blood and bone

We are equal

Or below you

We are not less than

We are human

No matter what you say,

Your opinions will not change that

We are children of blood and bone

You are no different from me

OF BLOOD AND BONE

51

The sweetness of justice I imagine it’ll taste like the first bite into a piece of ripe fruit Or the sweetest of iced teas in the summer heat I don’t believe anything can beat The sweetness of justice

We will never get to see

We will never be set free

From the shackles of racism

And the hatred that plagues us as a people

All for the shade of our skin

52

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

For them to do what they did

Which makes it right

Because the offender was white

That trial

JUSTICE

I hope we get to taste

Is equality

Because we will never win

One day,

Unbothered by the harsh sunlight of the world

Will we ever get our moment alone in the shade?

Will it be in another century?

We so crave?

When will we get the equality

Without being brutalized?

For us to walk in the day

When will it be okay

Doing something they weren’t supposed to

They were probably scheming

Meaning

Justice

Justice

Camarah Oates

Because the other was Black

53

Jacquinn Sinclair is a Boston-based freelance journalist and poet. Her writing seeks to highlight creatives, organizations and initiatives at the intersection of art and activism. Jacquinn’s work has appeared in various publications including WBUR, The ARTery, Boston.com, DigBoston and The Philadelphia Tribune. When she’s not writing, she can be found curled up reading a good book.

Jacquinn Sinclair

56

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

57

That Justice is a blind goddess Is a thing to which we black are wise: Her bandage hides two festering sores That once perhaps were eyes.

- Langston Hughes

without audience without empathy or accountability and that too is another kind of dying

hot tears on cheeks,

knees on necks and lives stolen

by an America that declares it’s a meritocracy

but pushing ahead to a future forged by

good grades and better behavior

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

coaxed into boxes and into submission

pulsing with black and brown bodies

intent on a pipeline to prison

or wage war on a system

THE END FROM MANY ANGLES

we die often

waiting to benefit from the system

isn’t enough to battle batons on bones

plundered; blood wet and muscles torn

through police brutality, kicked, shoved and maimed

there are many ways of expiring

accosted in cities carved with red lines

decaying from disparities in healthcare

falling into widening wealth gaps

worn down by poverty’s plague

there are many ways to succumb

hear his dreams, but don’t recognize his humanity

promise a soul and never deliver

work a man and don’t pay

there are many ways to die

when I think of justice, I wonder if it’s just us

The end from many angles

Jacquinn Sinclair

forcing death from every angle

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

rendering death as judgement

of open-mouthed mobs

flattened by the footsteps

into blade-sharp grass

spilling our stories

into the pulpy earth

bleeds

the bark of ancient trees

let us walk free

though emancipation

SECRETS IN THE SOIL

61

Secrets in the Soil

Jacquinn Sinclair

years old. I turned the pages so carefully. I didn’t want to rip them. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to read them, so when I heard mama’s footsteps

she took care of an older white woman who had Parkinson’s disease. Often,

she took me to her second job with her.

age. The staircase was wide and creaked with every step. I got good at

in this home for several years.

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

skin had tan circles like polka dots on his body and he had the kindest

The man of the house, Mr. Dwight* seemed ancient to me. His pale white

loomed majestically, but inside, the space was gripped by sickness and

were peppers, tomatoes, greens and potatoes. We spent every Friday night

THE SPACE BETWEEN US

stair’s edge or tiptoeing in the middle of certain steps.

63

figuring out how to make the least amount of noise by jumping to the

The house scared me at night. From the outside, the Dwight’s home

end of the garden there were red and pink flowers and on the other, there

The house was in Chestnut Hill, a mansion with a beautiful garden. On one

books with yellowing pages. It felt like the books were thousands of

day job in Boston as an insurance claims manager and on the weekends,

coming towards our room, I’d rush to put the books under the bed.

TV. But often, I was captivated by the shelves bursting with first edition

house, Mrs. Dwight, I would stay in the room for the workers and watch

Upstairs, while my mother worked to feed and turn the woman of the

counter packed into little bags.

above water in mason jars and mounds of herbs from the garden on the

kitchen, there were all manner of growing things on toothpicks hovering

I was fascinated by the Dwight’s life. It was so different from my own. In the

workers.

up for her shift at night. Mr. Dwight was good to my mom and the other

birthday and whatever little details I let slip when mama and I showed

During the summer, I felt like my mom worked even harder. She had a

The Space Between Us

Jacquinn Sinclair

ice blue eyes. He didn’t talk much to me, but he always remembered my

other women who worked for Mr. Dwight were brown like mama.

I used to hold my urine because it looked like the family members in the

home. I would try to sit very still, but the sweat would run down my face anyway. The floor seemed to be a little cooler so I would sit or lay on the ground. When it became unbearable, my sister and I would open the refrigerator and the freezer and put our faces inside for a while. I’d inhale deeply and then pour myself a solo cup full of Minute Maid fruit

they were ready to come alive and pounce on me if I messed anything

up. There was also a big white tub as smooth as marble with its own

four feet that lifted it off the floor. I got in it once just to feel what the

cool porcelain was like against my skin. I had all my clothes on, but I

wanted to lay down in it fully.

apartment building had a red brick façade and each group of buildings had its own courtyard. There weren’t swings or anything in our court, but we had a brown, stone tortoise and short, barrel-shaped tunnels made

white walls, a queen-sized bed to the left of the door and a small dark

wood side table that the tiny television rested on. The wall to the right of

the door was lined with bookshelves.

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

*** THE SPACE BETWEEN US

65

lived someplace like that. But my mom worked two jobs. I wondered: did

to me, tired from working both of her jobs on the same day.

In the mornings, we would sometimes run into the next woman who was

paid rent according to their income. It sounded fair to me. I was glad we

that. I wanted to say goodnight when she crawled into the bed next

she have to pay twice as much?

the tortoise. My mom told me that the diverse families who lived there

Sometimes, I’d fall asleep before she finished working. I hated when I did

of concrete to hide in. They were painted brown and white to match

We lived in an apartment complex where all kinds of people lived. Every

lineup of TV shows in the room we stayed in. It was quiet with bright

While I waited for mama to finish at night, I would watch the TGIF

Dwight’s house. In the summer, the oppressive heat seeped into our

Two monstrous, crouching gargoyles sat in the bathroom. I was sure

punch before going back to my perch on the floor.

Our apartment in the South Shore was a lot smaller than Mr. and Mrs.

was a large rocking chair of dark wood, just like the banister and stairs.

I would pause. Then, I’d race to the bathroom on the right. Inside, there

***

for his wife, who was unable to talk or do anything for herself. Both of the

felt tiny beside them as I crept upstairs to the third-floor bathroom.

portrait were following me with their eyes. Once I reached the landing,

starting the day shift. The man of the manor had around-the-clock care

Huge oil paintings and portraits adorned the soaring, sky-high walls. I

sisters in an affluent neighborhood in southern New Jersey. My mom was convinced that I’d have more opportunities there. In hindsight she was correct. My dad owned a beautiful four-bedroom house. It was yellow with baby blue shutters and a two-car garage that sat atop an inclined driveway.

of an outsider I was in Mr. and Mrs. Dwight’s world. Their large house had

more rooms than people and rang with silence. In the few years that my

mother took me to work with her when I was a kid, I never reached the

end of discovering whatever I could about the house. There were so many

white doors with clear crystal-like knobs on them. I ventured into the

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

***

Sometimes she’d let me keep the money.

us go to the soda can redemption place to get the .05 cents per can.

commercial sized dryers. On those laundromat Saturdays, my mom made

didn’t have to go to the laundromat and fold clothes to the whir of the

fill up. But, no matter how long it took, I remember being so glad that I

the kitchen sink and we’d have to wait for what felt like hours for it to

to buy a washing machine. To make it work, she would hook it up to

Every Saturday we went to the laundromat until my mom saved enough

the Dwight's home, but the space was filled with the light of our family.

and spotless. There was no window above the stove or sink like in

Our three-bedroom apartment with its galley-ish kitchen was compact

THE SPACE BETWEEN US

67

In my room, the furniture was dark wood, and I had a full-sized bed. It

had lived much of their time without me.

of the hall. I felt the need to separate myself from this busy family who

beneath my feet. Often, I would escape to my room upstairs at the end

where the cream-colored tiles with maroon lines felt cool and smooth

I remember walking barefoot in the foyer and through the kitchen

the top of my lungs. I felt free surrounded by the art.

out running errands, I’d stand in that room and recite poetry or sing at

picture. The den was the best room in the house. When everyone was

surrounded by yellow flowers. Later, my stepmother gifted me that

and a computer. My favorite picture was of a brown skinned girl

was a den, which mostly housed art by African American artists, a piano

the foyer where pieces of mail would end up. To the right of the table

between our worlds was unfathomable. ***

Once you opened the front door, there was a table with flowers in

kitchen. There were so many things I never got to see. The distance

library, Mrs. Dwight’s room, our room, the upstairs bathroom and the

In high school, I went to live with my dad, his wife and my two younger

When I think about those two opposing worlds now, I can see how much

they did, and if it mattered. Some of the kids in that group had parents who were successful lawyers, neurosurgeons and podiatrists. Their houses were vast with pillared porches and sprawling lawns with tennis courts and pools. During the summers, some of those families headed to their second homes on Martha’s Vineyard. Each of their houses rivaled the Dwight’s and some surpassed it. I wondered if the same was true for their fortunes.

and clubs. My days were filled with school, basketball and piano lessons

from an eccentric white woman who had several pet cats. Once a week

she’d come to the house and we’d sit in the den and practice on the

wooden piano. She’d show me how to place my hands on the keys with

her bulbous fingers. She’d say “5,4,3,2,1 again 5,4,3,2,1,” as I’d fan my

thumb first and the rest of my skinny fingers one by one over the ivory

keys as she taught me to play “Ode to Joy.” I also took voice lessons

on Sundays and the sound of laughter from the kids outside. I missed her hugs.

and write poetry. I covered my folders; book covers and scrap paper

with my feelings. I spent a lot of time alone discovering and cultivating

69

mom’s pound cakes baking, her dancing and singing in the living room

I could. In between all of the singing, I started to journal more seriously

THE SPACE BETWEEN US

I was loved. I missed the brick and the concrete. I missed the smell of my

got into several groups in and out of school and performed whenever

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

I was far away from my mom and sister, where I knew for certain that

At school, I participated in the robust music program. I auditioned and

68

Despite all of these new experiences, I missed home.

place my tongue when singing and showed me the beauty of Italian arias.

me to opera. She taught me how to use my diaphragm, where to

***

I wondered if they could tell that I started off in a different place than

environment he planted himself in was shaped by various social circles

from an older, fair skinned African American woman who introduced

of place with these kids of privilege. All of them were very kind, but

Upon my arrival to my dad’s, I was thrust into a new world. The

American history and attended other organized events. I often felt out

museums, saw films like “Sankofa,” that centered African and African

dedicated to nurturing future African American leaders. We went to

fabric. ***

I was also in a group called Jack and Jill, a membership organization

the artist in me.

watch my peach comforter turn orange as my tears seeped into the

few months, I cried every night for my mom, my sister and my life. I’d

was the biggest bed I ever had all to myself up to that point. For the first

grandmother, whose family members were farmers, only went as far as the fourth grade. My mother finished high school before getting married and starting a family, and I was fortunate enough to finish graduate school.

othered, of being offered or allowed more. Internally, I raged at the

circumstances of my father’s carefully cultivated life. He was the sole

provider for a household of five. How could he amass so much while my

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

dance and sing in the living room like we used to when I was a child.

she’d have Diana Ross and The Supremes playing—her favorite—and we’d

Canada while eating some of her famous pound cake. In the background,

nights after work, we’d have steaming cups of orange pekoe tea from

were apart and spent the time getting to know each other again. Most

larger space filled with sunlight. We talked a lot about the 14 years we

with her. By then she had moved to another neighborhood and had a

I reunited with my mom when I finally returned to Massachusetts to live

THE SPACE BETWEEN US

71

selflessness is the richest gift I’ve ever received.

plenty. But I had to ask myself, am I poor? And if I was poor, what was the

***

she couldn’t provide, has allowed me to do and see so much. And that

as far as possessions. Before living with him, I always thought we had

cost of ascension?

Her willingness to let me go so that I could have access to resources that

somehow, his success revealed how little me, my mom and my sister had

My father’s house wasn’t as big as Mr. and Mrs. Dwight’s house, but

I remember most. Her endless toiling, her giving heart and her love are the

two jobs most of my life.

things that have and continue to propel me.

Of all the opportunities I’ve been afforded, it’s my mother’s hard work that

never had any help, she never took any handouts and always worked

mother worked so hard and so long just to end up with less? My mom

When I think about where I’ve come from, I remember that my

I wrestled with my feelings of losing my mother and my sister, of being

J.B. Hunter, Minvenet liqui blaboraectem restiumquae vernamus imusdae sape eos simet molupta tiassi volupta epeditium sam volore pligni qui velicipsundi cullicid utendis de venihil igendi con et vellaut autatus ium rae atiatempor solessi nvendunt ipsam, ut que cuptatur?

Evelias peditam anis utem ex eicataq uaestiur? Qui nis illest landamet aut alis sant officati corem reprae doluptaquid ut harcium dit utem serunda qui sit ut restia con cor reperibus eiunt est prem ut arum auda qui ipsunt

J.B. Hunter

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

75

I live in a land fertilized with the bones of my ancestors.

With your false history, planted in the minds of the masses, we fall

Concerned with the looting of stores, but it is our spilled blood you willfully ignore.

Convenient that our outcry was never heard unless it affected you.

When in reality, the pain of others should have an impact.

The fact that we are supposed to love one another but we never do leaves us trapped.

Cycles of senseless hate repeating for years, We are the last generation to bow down to fear.

As if slavery was accepted willingly.

We do not know a majority of our history but you proudly boast yours-

one filled with the pain of those who fought before me.

You find pride in your lineage while I do not know mine.

Proud of what we represent, you find discontent.

You are inconvenienced by our pain, yet inconvenience and oppression

are not the same.

We are not living in the past. Our troubles are a continuous struggle.

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

77

of labor that was not yours.

We are descendants of warriors and yet we are taught differently.

FROM MY ROOTS, YOU GROW

generations

With your false history, planted in the minds of the masses, we fall.

Generational trauma being broken by a new generation filled with people

Born into privilege for which others have worked for. Bearing the fruit of

us from dying.

Listen to our music, copy our style, but you do nothing to stop any one of

Our movement is not a trend.

Your performative activism has never helped, so why pretend?

upon to maintain,never to see their own harvest.

and died

Planting corrupted seeds into stolen land -- land that my ancestors lived

they never knew.

culture

I live in a land fertilized with the bones of my ancestors.

From my Roots You Grow

J.B. Hunter

who raised themselves out of ashes from a fire that burned out the

“O’er the land of the free” holds no meaning, At least not to me and my family.

Our skin is a weapon that is always locked and loaded, yet there is no

permit for it.

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

within it.

We have become indifferent to the world and the cruelties that exist

cannot afford.

AMERICA

Resorting to a hashtag to save lives, while our “protectors” are silent.

While millions witness.

Taking children and doing nothing to stop the villain

You give us a promise that you have yet to keep.

in your eyes.

Separating someone’s level of importance, based on the things they

America, the land of the free, how deceiving you can be.

“My existence is resistance!”, Is that why they hate me?

treated equally.

79

Punished for their resistance that only occurred because they weren’t

They are trapped by a government who never wants to set them free.

Cages aren’t the only place that our children are imprisoned.

of the oppressor.

We do not acknowledge this as the land of opportunity, but rather the land

nothing to call our own.

Brought into an economy to make it grow, and for centuries we have had

Our suffering did not worsen, it became documented.

We are criminals solely based on our skin’s pigment.

Convince me of your lives, and I will fight for the truth behind the hatred

How sweet your poison can seem.

You sing of equality, and we foolishly believed.

America, how cruel you can be.

America

J.B. Hunter

Society has turned a blind eye to the pain in black lives.

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America, oh how much I want to make it better.

A country capable of beauty shows nothing but cruelty.

AMERICA

81

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Say her name: Sandra Bland, Atiana Koquice Jefferson, and Breonna Taylor

hard to get.

83

We deserve justice. We are still seeking justice. Say her name: Sandra Bland, Atatiana Koquice Jefferson, and Breonna Taylor. When I think

Justice. She has always played hard to get. She is rarely fair. She lacks righteousness. She runs for dear life especially when Black people, Indigenous people, immigrant people, and fellow women, seek her for refuge. Justice, please extend your grace upon us. Why do you starve us of that right? Women find themselves gazing up at justice from the bottom of this glass ceiling. This glass ceiling exists because justice won’t grant us access to equality.

We have spent centuries smashing the glass ceiling with our bruised and bloody bare hands. Some of us have crushed other women with the heels of our shoes just to get to the top of that ceiling by any means necessary.

Letter from the Book Project Director

Justice.

She has always played

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

As I put the finishing touches on this book, I am in awe of what we were all able to produce together. It took us less than eight months to produce this book focused on justice through our eyes. On each page, you’ll continue to delve into reading more stories written by young girls grappling with the concept of justice from society and within themselves. There are some women who acknowledged their white

I found healing in writing. I vowed to God to make it my life’s work to share my gift producing books to preserve our stories. Heels into the Soil is the first book produced by the International Women's Writing Guild (IWWG). In the spring of 2020, I was asked to lead writing workshops for young girls during the Guild’s writing conference for the weekend. Unfortunately, the Covid pandemic forced the Guild to cancel their conference. The IWWG decided that they still wanted to expand their membership and programming to young people and members of color, so they invited me to partner with them to produce an intergenerational anthology inspired by my first book I Still Did It. As the book project director, I facilitated a six week virtual writing mentorship program. I matched teen girls with seasoned writers. The women and girls entered the virtual space eager to learn, build community, and they were open to becoming vulnerable on the page. The writers chose the theme of the book: justice. They also participated in writing workshops where they shared the concepts of their pieces, wrote first drafts, revised and completed their poems and essays.

of the betrayal of justice there are many names we may never know because their bodies, their cases, and legacies were buried in the soil.

Until Black women are respected and protected I will forever fight for justice until my dying day. Black women deserve to feel safe in our homes. Black women deserve to feel safe in our cars without the fear of being pulled over and not making it home.

LETTER FROM THE BOOK PROJECT DIRECTOR

85

privilege and publicly sought forgiveness from people of color. This book was courageously written. We hope that our body of work leads you to self reflect. We hope that this body of work sparks conversations amongst you, your family members, coworkers, neighbors, and friends.

If you don’t know where to begin, start right here on the pages of Heels into the Soil.

Nakia Hill

Marangela, 18, is a freshman at Wesleyan University.

She is fun, intelligent and inspires to be the best that she can be. Marangela is undecided on what she wants in the future whether it be with writing or not, but she enjoys using writing as an outlet to express what she is feeling. She hopes that her pieces will relate to others so they know they are not alone.

Marangela James

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

UNTITLED

89

picture. Yeah. You don’t understand and maybe you never will, but can

that is no more than a means to keep us below you? Do not tell me this

88

years of brainwashing that you have endured stop you from seeing a clear

more melanin in my skin enough to divide the world into subsections

resides in each and everyone of my neighbors.

you ask these questions because you wonder what it would be like to be

the challenges we face each and every day. Or maybe it’s because the

From the outside point of view it’s hard to see the heart of Mattapan which

beautiful dark chocolate complex too much for you to handle? Or do

it’s cute, but when a Black person has short hair we are bald? Is having

local shops that surround the area and the people it took to build them.

the fact that it is impossible to run a comb through these “naps”? Is my

skin doesn’t define who we are. Maybe it’s because you don’t understand

never understand what Mattapan is. Mattapan is the people. It’s the small

Is it funny to you that I wear head wraps at night to protect my hair? Or

this now make me ugly? How come when a white person has short hair

just Black people tired of fighting a war from decades ago. You will truly

Knowing it’s not. Or when the lights go down and you ask where I went?

Maybe this is because you won’t take the time to understand that our

about Black lives. You think we are just angry Black people, but we are

Do you find it funny when you ask questions like: Is that your real hair?

Black? Can someone really not love me because of my skin ? And does

you, but it is real life for me. You say, “All lives matter”, but could care less

never acknowledges this fact. Gentrification may be a foriegn concept to

committed at almost the same rate as black on black crimes, but the media

in our communities. It’s also no coincidence that white on white crime is

in an area full of Black people. It is no coincidence that violence exists

make anything grow. You call it black on black crime, but I call it crime

potential is waiting to be tapped into. With a little love and time you can

You see a broken down area of town, but I see a place with endless

them folks struggling” cause the way I see it, y’all are the ones struggling.

I wonder if you ever walked through Mattapan and thought “look at

think I don’t see what society says is a beautiful young woman?

that the U.S had their first Black president a little over five years ago. You

Dear White people:

Untitled

Marangela James

isn’t true because I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. You think it is just a coincidence

were a real thing that people actually believe in? And what would it be like to live it? I wonder if you just chose to not care about something because you find it easier this way? I wonder what you will teach your kids and what your kids will teach their kids for generations to come. It’s a never ending cycle of systemic racism all because you would rather shelter your children than actually educate them. Don’t think by sending them off to the most expensive boarding school they will have the best education because if that were true you would have actually raised leaders instead of oppressors. And the last thing I want to say is, “I can’t breathe."

A baby has no choice on how they come into the world. We’ve been

underprivileged since the day the clumps of cells in our mother’s womb

came together. We were taken from our home in Africa to serve oppressors

in an unfamiliar region. Our ancestors feared you. They were forced to

work day in and day out for no pay and no respect. They were treated

like animals for just having a little color, for having different facial

features and for having too much love in a world that hated them.

They were beaten, raped and killed. And because of this my generation

will be tied to this earth by the blood of our ancestors, so whatever they

couldn’t accomplish my generation will.

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

ground up? I wonder if you will ever give the power to the uncredited

I wonder if we’ll ever be accepted to a world we built from the

Dear white people:

#staywoke

is no such thing as being too young to know about something nowadays.

like you need to hear. We hope you listen and learn from us because there

UNTITLED

91

Marangela James

Our power comes from our tech savvy ways that people might frown upon,

but our generation uses these platforms to spread relevant news that people

Sincerely,

are a headstrong and determined generation that won’t and can’t give up.

We will be the generation to get rid of all the hate in the world. We

people? I wonder what the world would be like if equality and equity

you imagine being marked with that burden from the day you were born?

Elisa Rowe (she/her), is a neurodivergent immigrant, writer, educator, and poet. She was selected both in 2019 and 2020 to be a part of the Boston Mayor’s Poetry Program by Boston Poet Laureate Porsha Olayiwola. Her work can be found in Fathom, Sojourners magazine, and Boston City Hall. She has pieces forthcoming in Sugar House Review and SAND Journal Berlin. You can find her on Twitter @elisacwrites.

Elisa Rowe

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

our streets, lowering their bodies into a ditch.

summer preachers, rabbis, priests blessed

One summer the cameras came. That one

while stylists braid ladies’ hair.

pupusas, men laughing in chairs outside a salon

We are the forgotten West Roxbury. Arepas,

The coyotes sleep there during the day. The shaking ground, a lullaby.

I live in a sea of cemeteries, by an island of quarries.

rainbow slick oil, a barreling train underneath my house.

I sleep unsure if a quarry’s rumbles will spark

What I mean is, they still built the pipeline. Each night

or all the people I ask, won’t you help me remember?

Community

Elisa Rowe

how could you not have known?

then we are history. My city echoing back,

Me, learning that if justice is a trend

We forgot them, of course.

singing about light. They were arrested, of course.

COMMUNITY

Their swinging feet drumming a metal pipe, their mouths

95

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

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Their swinging feet drumming a metal pipe, their mouths singing about light.

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

By Elisa Crawley From “To Our Readers Regarding ‘ Scholls Ferry Rd.’ by Michael Dickman” by the Editors of Poetry Magazine

To Our Readers

Elisa Rowe

and that

TO OUR READERS

99

the editorial process , and we apologize. Our commitment to this work is ongoing and changes in the magazine’s structure and process

our readers. We regret not taking serious action sooner to interrogate

work to do in considering how poems center certain voices and affect

of racism within white families; this was a mistake. We clearly have more

and wrong. We published this poem because we read it as an indictment

This poem centers whiteness and employs racist language, which is hurtful

criticisms of the decision to publish this poem.

are grateful to readers who have reached out with their questions and

Black, Pacific Islander, and Asian people, and we are deeply sorry. We

such language is insidious, and in this case is particularly oppressive to

We acknowledge that this poem contains racist language

Leslie Neustadt Leslie Neustadt is a poet, writer, visual artist, and the author of Bearing Fruit: A Poetic Journey . Her work is inspired by the beauty and power of the natural world, mortal joys and struggles, and an unwavering commitment to human and civil rights. Leslie left a career in law as New York Assistant Attorney General to focus on her health after being diagnosed with blood cancer. She has found the restorative power of the creative process instrumental in helping her to thrive while living with chronic illness.

A passionate advocate for the rights of children, Leslie cherishes family and dreams of a day when every child will have the opportunity to reach his or her potential through unfettered access to good nutrition, healthcare, safe housing, and quality education. A board member of the International Women’s Writing Guild, she is honored to be partof its inaugural mentoring project.

Visit www.leslieneustadt.com.

Mourner’s Kaddish for James Chaney, Michael Schwermer, and Andrew Goodman, murdered while trying to register Black voters in Mississippi.

I’ve been rerunning the movie of my life as a 70-year-old Jewish woman

through the lens of white privilege. Of admitting that I have looked at life

justice, justice, shalt thou pursue,” as well as the obligation to perform, Tikkun Olam, repair of the world. I am involved with the social action

I learned that some people have black skin around the same age. For a

brief time, we lived as if we were wealthy. Ernestine came to live with us.

103

obligation to make a difference. I was raised with the exhortation,

stoned by three parochial students, who yelled, you killed Christ, you kike!

STEPPING UP TO THE PLATE

understand the sordid underbelly of American society and my

Ira, pounded on our door, head bloodied, screaming for help. He had been

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

marches in the sixties. He played a seminal role in my coming to

introduced to anti-Semitism as a four-year-old when my brother’s friend,

102

He knew the dangers of hatred and fascism and joined the civil rights

Both religion and race have informed my sense of social justice. I was

Rabbi Zimet escaped the Nazis and fled to America in the late 1930’s.

white bystanders rejoiced. I remember the day my rabbi had us chant the

Teshuva, the Jewish obligation to confess one’s sins and resolve to do better.

through a black and white TV.

and hoses wrapped in barbed wire. How tear gas clouded the air while

Saw state troopers set upon peaceful protestors with batons, whips

I was 15-years-old when I watched the events of Bloody Sunday unfold.

white and could pass even with my frizzy hair and Semitic features.

the stark contrast in how Jews and Blacks were treated. I was considered

me to pull down my bathing suit to show them I was white. I understood

Allowed. We were tan and the guard wouldn’t let us enter. My uncle told

I went to the ocean with my Uncle George. There was a sign, No Blacks

I was seven when I went to visit my grandparents in Miami Beach, Florida.

was beautiful.

I have spent my days since George Floyd’s death in reflection, making

Stepping Up to the Plate

Leslie Neustadt

She was the first woman of African ancestral heritage I met. I thought she

white skin. I realize that Americans of African ancestral heritage and other people of color, have had to cope with being judged on the basis

I understood that my education had been as segregated as in the South.

Meritocracy was an illusion.

every day because of police brutality. To be imprisoned in greater proportions than whites, sickened in greater numbers. To live in polluted areas. Isabel Wilkerson, in her new book, Caste , suggests that caste, in addition to race, is a useful way to see how much class and color have

father, who had a raging temper. It broke me open in a way that allowed

me to develop empathy. As Rumi wrote, the wound is the place the light

enters. However, over my lifetime, I allowed residual shame and PTSD to

stand in the way of my effective advocacy.

people of African ancestral heritage, and other people of color, who have succeeded. They have made invaluable contributions to our

courts could help dismantle systemic racism and sexism. We have failed

in a myriad of ways.

is richer for their contributions.

Stephanie Alston Nero, Uzuri Amini, Juanita Kirton, Cynthia Manick, and

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

STEPPING UP TO THE PLATE

105

racism, indifference and ignorance of white people, continue to corrupt

of Black poets, novelists, historians and journalists, as well as writers from

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But the vestiges of enslavement, the veneration of the confederacy, virulent

have read journals of enslaved peoples, and immersed myself in the writing

Pamela Sneed, as well as other teachers who helped shape me as a writer. I

technical and industrial advances as well as in sports. American culture

I have studied with Black writers at IWWG, such as Dorothy Randall Gray,

society. Opened our eyes with literature, music, films, scientific, medical,

There are hundreds of thousands of men, women, other gendered

at Temple Law School gave me hope that congressional action and the

Racism infuses all aspects of American society. Taking civil rights courses

in housing, education, health care, and employment. To risk their lives

a child that filled my marrow with shame. I was sexually abused by my

determined peoples’ opportunities in American society.

and experience erased. To be deprived of a multiplicity of opportunities

I was moved by the suffering of African Americans. I carried secrets as

of their skin throughout American history. To have their unique gifts

In focusing on white privilege, I don’t want to be judged solely by my

of Black, Indigenous, and other writers of color.

other cultures. I’ve come to appreciate the rage, brilliance and spirituality

studied with Black students and professors in college and law school,

Throughout my schooling, I was placed in enrichment classes. Once I

arm of Reform Judaism.

devastation, and climate crisis, demonstrate the danger of systemic racism and poverty. We are faced with a corrupt and autocratic regime that has

I weep for Black families for the anguish and anger they carry because of

white people’s prejudice and cruelty.

that women must play a central role in the fight for justice.

racism infects health care. I’ve had the means and opportunity to go to

empowering young women of color and encouraging the interchange of ideas. I am humbled by the brilliant young women and mentors, led by Nakia Hill. My searching self-examination has been fueled by my involvement in the mentoring program. I come with cultural humility, knowing that I must divest myself of white privilege if we are to create a just society.

I have been mourning John Lewis. He warned us that democracy is not a state, but an action. He risked his life for the right to vote. It is long overdue for us to cross thebridge with him and work toward the Beloved community envisioned by Dr. Martin Luther King.

His symptoms had been ignored. His illness misdiagnosed. His heart,

severely damaged. He had just been told he was dying. His life was no

less precious than mine. He died while I survived. The pandemic has

highlighted the egregious discrimination people of color and impoverished

people face in the health care system.

While we elected Barack Obama as President, systemic racism remains

firmly in place. The backlash that brought us President Trump is

terrifying. As if it was the last gasp for whites seeking to maintain

control. In 2013, the U.S. Supreme Court defanged the Voting Rights

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

voting laws that threaten the fairness of our democracy. It is the 55th 107

agency. IWWG, under theleadership of Michelle Miller, is committed to

was bowled over in his wheelchair, his daughters weeping at his side.

STEPPING UP TO THE PLATE

color, as well as other marginalized communities, are given power and

illness. One day I met a Black man and his daughters at the hospital. He

Act, and many States immediately re-established discriminatory

I am committed to ensuring that Black, indigenous, and other women of

cancer. Diagnosed early, I have fared better than 90% of patients with my

research meetings and learn about the nature of my rare form of blood

and immigrants. This election is the turning point in our society. I believe

Being ill with a rare illness has given me an understanding of how

fueled hatred of Muslims, people of color, refugees, the LBGTQ community

There is urgency in the fight for racial justice. The pandemic, economic

anniversary of the Voting Rights Act and the right to vote is imperiled.

going out to jog or walk to the corner store. As a mother and grandmother,

still have to give their children the talk. They face the possibility of death by

our society. No matter how educated, successful or talented, Black people

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

I often scare the lyric from my pen. While my keyboard sleeps,

but will it serve your voice?

Leslie.

Yours,

Asiyah, As-Salaam-Alaikum.

sliced open by being alive?

As a mentor, I questioned if I was up to the task, what with the pale

drape of my skin? The rhythm of my poetry may fit my tongue

What do I have to offer you but a heart,

Wordsmiths, we meet in sacred space.

LETTER TO ASIYAH

You entrusted me to witness your righteous anger.

Mama, Mama, Mama—Tell my kids I love them. I’m dead.

The horror of George Floyd’s last plea—

This spring, I couldn’t breathe.

He’s been busted, but he’s alive.

Ben, my baby, wears a hoodie at night.

I’m someone’s mama, too.

Privilege has given me flight: Leslie B. Neustadt, Esq.,

I’m always learning, Asiyah. Curious. And willing.

I, too, just want to live — wrinkled and wizened—and write.

Sick much of my life, this body is a riot, rebellious, then besieged.

But my arches have collapsed, my bones are turning to dust.

I’ve tried to find the path to your house.

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I talk to trees, hear stones whisper, believe in the divinity of sweet peas.

If only I were a hummingbird, I’d drink the honeysuckle dry.

The first time I heard you recite a poem, I was left breathless.

Shalom, Asiyah.

by Marj Hahne

After “Letter to Madeleine and Cassidy from Longmont”

Letter to Asiyah from Niskayuna, New York

Letter to Asiyah

Leslie Neustadt

I flit faster than my bird’s-egg body can handle.

Lara Miller Lara Miller, 13, is a Chinese-American middle school student, born in Jiangxi, China,raised in Southern California and Boston, MA, and currently residing in Providence, Rhode Island. She is proud of her heritage and committed to racial equity in the U.S. and around the world. She is a cellist and loves dance, martial arts and the serenity of the ocean in Martha’s Vineyard and Truro, MA. She is constantly inspired by the philanthropic goals of her mother, and the diversity efforts of the Wheeler School, where she is in 7th grade, in Providence.

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An intimate member of a lineage from Ireland to Denmark.

A stranger to my birth parents in the Central Kingdom

I am torn down the middle with no patch to sew me back up.

The blanket is torn, hugged by a patch.

Am I yellow or white?

Beautiful Country

Central Kingdom to

Carried with white arms from Zhong Guo to Mei Guo

Born in China, wrapped in a pale yellow blanket

Identity of a Daughter

Lara Miller

IDENTITY OF A DAUGHTER

And the Beautiful Country to bless me with holy water.

Waiting for the Central Kingdom to welcome its daughter

A pandemic of dynasties crushing nomads.

A virus of torn blankets, forbidden history, forgotten blood

Simultaneous worldwide transmission

Transmitted to America

Born among exotic animals

I came from wet markets

Civets and bats breed global panic

Wet markets smell of smoke and fire

Vulnerable to foreigners. Exposed to a virus.

I am unprotected.

A Great Wall protects dynasties from nomadic invasions.

A Forbidden City is inaccessible to ordinary citizens.

Blood matters. Belonging matters.

I am forbidden a history that belongs in my blood and bones.

American-Chinese

Chinese-American

113

Kristyna M. Young Kristyna M. Young is a photographer, photographer, filmmaker and artist. They have a passion for documentary and narrative filmmaking. Kristyna specializes in directing, production design, cinematography, lighting, and postproduction editing. They are currently broadening their creative expression by exploring new mediums and learning more in-depth about different artistic disciplines such as animation, architecture, creative writing, sewing, painting, and printmaking. Kristyna graduated from Boston University’s College of Communication in 2019 with a bachelor of science in film and television and a minor in psychology.

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Because they want to steal it for their benefit.

I’ll let you run with all your power and your might,

Because they want you to stay silent.

I’ll let you scream at the top of your lungs,

Because they want our roots severed.

I’ll be patient with brushing your hair,

Untitled

Kristyna M. Young

UNTITLED

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

1

Not always

I May not be able to see.

(and even sometimes, yourself,)

the surface, where others

You are expanding beneath

Do you feel grounded?

Root Chakra Check:

Kristyna M. Young

On the surfaces, you walk upon?

The textural changes,

ROOT CHAKRA CHECK

the remains of saying good morning to the earth.

Footprints on your yoga when washing away

Free feet only to leave slightly muddy

with your bare Fingers and

Or did you dig in the dirt

Are you wearing comfy socks?

Do you feel nourished?

2 Have you felt with your bare skin

The dew-covered blades of grass

Maneuvered themselves through

Have your toes touched the ground?

Can you still feel yourself expanding?

I feel. Can you?

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Do you feel secure?

Janika Oza, 26, is a writer and settlement worker based in Toronto. She has received fellowships from VONA, Tin House, and One Story, and is currently at work on a novel. She finds joy in growing food and nurturing community with other writers of colour.

Janika Oza

a name to the belonging, to the generations of movement and migration that have allowed me, for the first time, to come back.

When I share the image, I am aware that it is 4 A.M. back home,

Services stamp, as I withdraw the single sheet of paper informing me that

my work visa renewal application has been denied, a letter reminding me

that I should not have gotten comfortable here, that I cannot stay.

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push. In pushing, to cross borders.

present.

CARVING SPACE

boundaries of that space. To find the seams of the boundaries, and then

am consumed by the blank page, unable to see beyond the most uncertain

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

I know this is why I write: to make a space for myself. To discover the

on stable ground. I open my journal to write and find no words. Instead, I

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---

space of my own.

distance best friend. I am hungry for connection and belonging, to stand

That night, I Skype my parents, text my brother, call my long-

My ancestral village, I write. In writing, I make a claim to something. I put

My fingers are steady as I tear through the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration

that few will be awake to receive it. Still, I send it out, needing this

phone, my reflections slipping out as quickly as my thumbs will allow.

and family weddings. Instead, I make a tiny space from the screen of my

the moments I usually steal for writing consumed by family and weddings

weight of what I feel. For the last two weeks I have spent not a minute alone,

favourite photos of the village, write a caption that I hope will capture the

As we drive away through miles of desert grit, I slide filters over my

that is and isn’t mine.

mother if they feel it too. This is ancestry, I think, coming back to a place

the dust, the land all pulse as if alive, and I want to ask my brother, my

across the crumbling alcove where my grandfather was born. The stones,

my family’s home. There are no walls, and the light of the setting sun falls

In a village in Rajasthan, I stand amidst the rubble of what was once

The envelope is thin enough that I know what it will say. Still, I hope.

Carving Space

Janika Oza

---

smile and an endless well of care, says to me, you’re so cute. I can find you someone to marry. Then she opens her arms. A place for me between them.

I laugh, tears leaking from my eyes.

my eyes. I have never done this before, and I do not know if it will work.

But I have come to understand that my students, first-graders, five and six-

year olds, notice things like swollen eyelids, a voice rusted from tiredness,

violent as cleaving a country in two. My line of fathers settled in Uganda for generations before they were forced under a dictatorship to flee. Seeking asylum from a home they could no longer inhabit. These are histories I do not remember, though they live in my bones. Ancestry surpasses memory, I think, as I roll socks into neat piles, wipe the refrigerator clean. The weight of the suitcase in my hand is a privilege I am afforded because of my histories.

apple sauce and tell stories about my new kitten, as I do every day. Routine,

too, is the warm melt that settles over my chest, watching crowds of black

and brown faces eating, yelling, laughing. The school was founded by a

group of parents who felt that the city’s public schools were not serving

children of colour adequately, pooling together to build their own space of

focused support, care, and growth. This school is no haven, not sheltered

from the realities facing racialized youth in Boston. Still, it is a space that is

choices and the trauma from when there were none. I am finding ways to hold both.

privilege in this: I can finish the school year, pack my apartment, and

travel back to Canada, where my family migrated years ago. I can make

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

125

but decisions no less. When I write, I carry both the intention behind these

government has decided it no longer has space for me. I understand my

CARVING SPACE

of a job. A series of calculated risks, perhaps, decisions under pressure,

I think of this as I walk into the principal’s office to tell her that the

choices, take things, settle back into a comfortable life. Still, I ache. The

My parents’ choice to move to Canada, baby in tow, following the promise

leave India for London, searching for an elusive place to build a better life.

---

it is a space of survival.

I also come from a long line of choices. My grandfather’s choice to

British during Partition, my family one of millions displaced. A reality as

the tilt of my world. At breakfast duty, I wipe milk spills and tear pods of

theirs, a community formed around common needs and dreams. For many,

in Karachi, finding herself on the wrong side of the border carved by the

I come from a long line of displacement. My grandmother, a Hindu born

My classroom the next morning is alive as if a letter has not shifted

my hair.

---

of a life that I cannot take with me. The principal, a woman with a wide

The night I receive the letter, I place waterlogged chamomile tea bags over

a heavy heart. It is them that I think about as the leftover tea dribbles into

relationships, the places, the subway routes and daily details are fragments

---

my photo, my chai growing a milky skin beside me. Thank you for sharing , they say, grateful for your insights. Can’t waits to hear more. I am reminded of how I feel each time I publish a story or an essay, every poem shuttled into the world. Each piece a mouth. Each a shoot, roots burrowing back and face unfurled to the sun. In this scene I am surrounded, a forest of us.

There is no unity in our voices, but there is collectivity.

can be valued for their full selves. As a teacher, I worked to make my

classroom safe and familiar, filling the shelves with storybooks by Edwidge

Danticat and Yangsook Choi and Maya Angelou. As a writer I seek out

communities that value voices from the periphery, communities founded

on shared understandings, that choose to listen first, that strive to lift each

other up, that thirst for more stories, our stories, ours. This is sustenance,

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

CARVING SPACE

127

displacement means to hunger for belonging. My lineage tells me where I

to someone, something, as solely theirs. A belonging so expansive it defied

126

from a dictator, a thin envelope arriving in the mail. To have a history of

loud, here.

slipped down into the waiting soil. My mother grew up not knowing who

family, without having to lay claim

to define us. We find one another and press our heels into the soil, visible,

rained they threw their sleeping mats into the courtyard and, laughing,

in the space of a moment, a new border erected, a radio announcement

that wasn’t always ours. In writing, we resist erasure, the forces that seek

the lot. At night the siblings would sleep up on the rooftop, and when it

require walls, an innate knowing that each of them could exist in this

their own stories, offering their truths. On the page, we reenact the agency

of aunts and uncles who were all their parents, enough grandparents for

Fault lines live close. My ancestry teaches me how everything can be undone

come from. It connects me to the present, to so many others who are telling

dozens of cousins who were never anything but brothers and sisters; tens

was a borderless family and home. A space so much their own that it didn’t

Still I do it. It guides me back to my own histories, to understanding where I

mothers, fathers, siblings were fluid, interchangeable. She was raised with

---

it brings reflection, invites others to share. Always, it feels naked, unready.

My mother grew up with many mothers. In her family home in India,

her birth mother was, because that kind of claiming didn’t matter. Theirs

woman across the city, who I later meet over coffee and cake. Sometimes,

---

Sometimes, writing brings connection. An email sent to me from a

I catch a few bars of service and scroll eagerly through the comments on

As parents and educators, we build homes and schools where our children

nourishment. This is necessary.

---

is what it means to be free.

boundaries. I remind myself that this is where I come from. I imagine this

carving out a space for ourselves, swaddling our existence in community.

I do not say survival lightly. For many of us on the margins, survival means

---

---

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HEELS INTO THE SOIL

On the page, I continue. I write to belong; I write to endure. I write to stay.

They defy the logic imposed on us, that we must split apart to thrive.

borders, boundless, uninhibited by the confines we navigate every day.

and yet, has made me. If these spaces exist for us, they also exist beyond

soil under forest and rain filling oceans. A cycle that moves without me,

write in order to tell this story, but this story informs all that I write. It is

Each time I write, I tell this story, even when I don’t. That is to say, I don’t

refuse to disappear.

a space to fill and overflow. In telling our stories we resist the silence, we

the spaces between, we search for connection, for safety and validation,

uproot and resettle. Of choices, pressures, actions driven by survival. In

come from and I where I can no longer go. Each generation tells a story of

CARVING SPACE

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Boston College Neighborhood Fund

Beacon Hill Civic Foundation

Boston Mayor’s Office of Arts & Culture

International Women’s Writing Guild

Funding for this book was made possible by:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Kristyna M. Young

Jacquinn Sinclair

Camarah Oates

Janika Oza

Leslie Neustadt

Lara Miller

Marangela James

J.B. Hunter

Nakia Hill

Ayelen Herrera

Asiyah Herrera

Elisa Crawley

Authors

Acknowledgements

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132

Cathleen O’Connor, PhD, Chair

Nakia Hill

Catharina Coenen, PhD, Director

Angelina Vallejo

HEELS INTO THE SOIL

Executive Director, Michelle Miller

International Women’s Writing Guild

Cynthia Manick, Director

Courtney Moy

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Paula Scardamalia, Director

Leslie Neustadt, Director

Marisa Mok-Unger, Director

Juanita Kirton, PhD, Director

Designer

Kelly Dumar, Director

Christie Cruise, PhD, Director

Caridad Pineiro, Secretary

Copyeditor

Hope Player, Treasurer

Laura Kieley, Vice Chair

IWWG Board of Directors

Book Project Director

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We’re creating a place where we craft our stories, grow our souls, and change our world.

We’re also growing our digital village where we can gather in community from anywhere we are in the world.

We’re ushering in a movement of mighty, soulful women writers.

Together, we’re changing the way women writers’ stories get heard, crafted, and spread around the globe.

We refuse to let the voices of emboldened women writers go unheard.

We’ve been listening to women writers around the world. Many of us yearn for writing and publishing resources, friendship, self-expression, professional writing guidance, and development of craft. Many of us yearn for a community, but may not have the means or time to travel to a Guild event in person.

Now, after 40 years of enriching women writers’ lives, we are still growing and changing with the times. We have a robust membership, a membership publication, a signature summer conference, and a dynamic and growing list of established regional conferences.

We wanted to make a place where all women writers feel welcome, inspired, and empowered by skills, resources, and mentoring.

The Guild was founded in 1976. As a women’s writing guild, we are culturally diverse.From the beginning, we’ve represented women from many backgrounds.

INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S WRITING GUILD MISSION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

135