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VISIBILITY issue 02

CREATORS & CHANGEMAKERS OF THE SWARTHMORE INTERCULTURAL CENTER


Swarthmore College Intercultural Center 500 College Avenue Swarthmore, PA 19081 USA (610) 328-7353 SPRING 2017 VISIBILITY MAGAZINE ISSUE 02

Cover Art: "Climbing Out� The central theme is transforming oppressing through knowledge sharing. The outer layer represents the brutality of the mining industry, and especially the blood diamond trade in Sierra Leone, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and other African countries. It also represents the attempt to bury systems of violence under a facade of nicety and economic development -- in this case literally. The bodies in this image are humanoid, but many of the products we dig up are the compressed remains of previously living organisms. There are many kinds of death involved. Diamonds represent greed... but they also represent transformation under pressure, clarity, and the ability to cut through the hardest substances. There is no way out of systems of oppression by burying and ignoring the past. There is no ground we can walk on where there are no dark secrets under the surface. What we can do is remember the people whose sacrifices enabled the rest of us to go on living. We can make light with what we have and hold our lights high so that others may find a path or construct their own lights. -Yona Yurwit

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Acknowledgements For the second surreal year in a row, we are thanking our brilliant contributors — new and old — for sharing parts of themselves with us through art. Thank you to the beautiful folks of the IC Team and larger collective for serving as our heartbeat, as well as our homies from the Black Cultural Center, the InterfaithCommunity, the Office of International Students, and the Women’s Resource Center. We would also like to thank the Lang Center for Civic and Social Responsibility, McCabe Library archives, Swarthmore Communications, Alumni Relations, and of course, any and all of our readers for your support. Lastly, thank you to Mo Lotif for your endless magic. We love you.

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‘Zine Team Editor-in-Chief

JASMINE RASHID

Jasmine Rashid, class of 2018, is a Strategy Consultant for the IC Team who is majoring in Peace and Conflict Studies. She hails from New York and no, she is still not used to the cold and never will be. She hopes to move somewhere warm some day.

Layout Manager

VIVIAN ZHANG

Vivian Zhang, class of 2020, is the layout manager who is confused over her major. She is of the Shenzhen gang from China. She enjoyed every minute of designing this zine as if it’s a joint of legalized weed.

Creative Director

SAMIRA SAUNDERS

Samira Saunders, class of 2018 is a semi instagram famous islander who grew up in Dubai (@islandbisous). She is majoring in Peace and Conflict studies, and takes offense to Jasmine’s comments about the cold. Her hobbies include photosynthesizing .

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Letter from the Editor

This has been a long year. For those of us who embody a spectrum of marginalized identities, everything and nothing feels to have changed. We continue to demand to be recognized; not only for the challenges we face, but also for the alluring, tangible value we add to humanity’s conversation. I’m flipping between this issue of VISIBILITY and last year’s issue — our first issue — and recognizing how familiar the themes of struggle, understanding, confusion, beauty, politics, and hope really are. My continued vision for this platform is to serve as one small but reliable way to confirm that we can and will keep creating... from this strange micro community 11 miles southwest of Philly. My heart is full to be a part of our collective resistance. Thank you for joining us — we hope that as a reader you find yourself in some pieces, and recognize when you don’t find yourself in others. Here’s to another collaborative project of many.

With love and gratitude,

Jasmine iv


Table Of Contents Cover Artist Statement………………...………….………………………..…i Acknowledgements…………………………………...…………….........…..ii ‘Zine Team bios…………………………………………..………………...….iii Letter from the Editor……………………………………...………………...iv Table of Contents…………...………………………..………….…………....v Untitled……………………………………………………………………………........1 Sarah Branch ‘17 Creep….………………...….……………………………………………………...…....3 Aziz Anderson ‘17 Love Letter to Donald Trump from a Chinese Woman…….…………………....7 Vanessa Meng ‘19 A Rich Man’s Plaything……………………………………………………..………....8 Marissa Cohen ‘17 INK’D…………...…………………………………………………………………....…..9 James Garcia ‘19 In Remembrance: Letter to the woman from the girl…………………………..15 Lydia Koku ‘18 We Are Rewriting the Black American Story…….……………………..………..16 Tiye Pulley ‘19 Women of Color Kick Ass…..……………………………………………………….17 Jasmine Rashid ‘18, Samira Saunders ‘18 Poster Designs………………………………………………………………………...22 Dorcas Tang ‘19 Sweet like ah sugah, Hot like ah fyah….………………………………………….23 Emma Walker ‘20 Sigo Siendo…………………………………………………………………………….25 C. Santigo ‘18 Sculpture in the woods...…………………………………………………..…...…..26 Maisie Luo ‘18 Floating….………………………………………………..……………………...…….27 Allison Alcena ‘17 Tone…………………………………………………………………………....……….31 Tiye Pulley ‘19 Orange………………………………………………………………………...…….....36 Anonymous Uphold Indigenous People’s Rights………………………………….…………....37 Nerissa Nashin ‘19 Sentences and Serendipities……………………..………………………………...38 Vivian Zhang ‘20 Up There……….………………………….………………………………………......39 Abhinav Tiku ‘18

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Untitled……….………………………………………………………………………..40 Dyami Farnsworth ‘19 Makeup as Art.…………………………...……………………………………....…..41 Samira Saunders ‘18, Tiauna Lewis ‘19 Youx3……………………………………………………………………….……….....43 James Howard ‘18 Jane Eyre’s Diary.…………………….…………………………………………...…..44 Yin Xiao ‘20 Pallabi’s Dance……………………….………………………………………….….....46 Jasmine Rashid ‘18 Letter to the Community.………….………………………………….……….…….47 Kelly Hernandez ‘19 Blank Canvas………………………….………………………..……………….….….49 Lila Weitzner ‘19, Celine Anderson ‘19, Amal Sagal ‘19 September 10 Sky…………………………………………………………………....53 Poem by Anonymous, watercolor by Samira Saunders ‘18 The Intercultural Center………………………………………………………....….55

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Untitled

SARAH BRANCH

Alone

She clouded Cracked windows with smoke To calm the anxiety And to allow rest When sleep had begun To deprave her of herself

She found Late nights to be as sweet as cereal milk And early mornings to be as bitter as the fresh lime in her drink She finally Dreamt of traveling home Of searching for remedies Within her blood and her bones So

She dreamt Her mother brought her Boiled water for serenity And mint leaves for concentration And orange peel for empathy And cinnamon sticks for patience And

She dreamt Her mother drew her baths With Epson salts for cleansing And lilac for fragrance And skylights for visibility And bowls of Merlot for warmth And

She dreamt Her mother told stories Of melanin for strength And estrogen for resilience And coconut oil for ambition

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So

She cleansed her taste buds With Her mother’s water Her mother’s mint leaves Her mother’s orange peel And her mother’s cinnamon sticks And

She exfoliated her complexion With Her mother’s Epson salts Her mother’s lilac Her mother’s Merlot Her mother’s melanin Her mother’s estrogen And her mother’s coconut oil And

As she drifted off to sleep She heard her mother remind her “You will never be alone”

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Love letter to Donald Trump from a Chinese Woman VANESSA MENG HEY MR. DONALD TRUMP Want to Try my sticky pork chops Slurp my wet noodle soup Bite into my hot steamed buns Fried rice oil dripping Eat me

meat glistening

Out

Of this country DEVOUR ME DONALD I’ll make some special sweet and sour sauce all over you It’s MADE IN AMERICA Palatable! And you can use a fork to fork me, I know chopsticks can be difficult They might slip out of your hands! Don’t worry All they say about men with tiny hands is gloves! And I’ve got tiny tits for you too I’m considerate like that. Look at my eyes and don’t say my name Just call me by my parts – ARM LEG PUSSY tastes like: butchered Ch inese girl. With soy sauce. SCREAM CHINA CHINA OH, yes, SCREAM it like, You are going to, DEMOLISH ME FINISH ME MAKE ME—

CHINA

Great Again Oh this is a love letter by the way. I imagine this is how you

Love

Sad!

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Background (Happy Year Of the Rooster): Danqi Cai Maryland Institute College of Art ‘19

tiny


A Rich Man’s Play

thing

MARISSA COHEN

--Based on Sir Eduardo Paolozzi’s “I Was a Rich Man’s Plaything” Lady in a red dress spread-eagled on a fighter jet bombshell brunette in hair net girdled and stuck hot on the stove top — she even Screams While You Watch keep ‘em coming, yes panty-hosed sin in he els oh my yes confess we fight on the washing machine friendly fire on floor tiles we wrap back in cellophane mushroom clouds of smoke finger-cut rims of canned Spam H ormel Foods Luncheon Meat coffee-grind Yeswecan into rolled-up sleeves of biscuit doughboys to elroys pass mustard gas pepper spray bottle rockets in the icebox lipstick stain handguns

shoot sweet-syrup cherry bombs to serve at home egg-beat 1 Tbsp oil Imperial Sugar, a Bag Full of Recipes ex-mistress straddled on missiles move men to make america pie


I was 16 when I got my first tattoo. My friend took me to a sound proof music room at our boarding school and poke by poke gave me my first ink. I wanted something to symbolize the end of a period of struggle for me, and to remind me of the anxiety that came with convincing myself that I was stuck in that space. That night in my sophomore year of high school, I got a delta tattooed on my shoulder, a permanent symbol to remind me that change will always come. Looking back, getting my first tattoo was a rite of passage for me in which I came out with a sense of confidence to be my own agent for the change in my life. For this project, I wanted to take photographs of tattoos of people at Swarthmore because like ink on paper, tattoos write a hidden story of their own. Like photographs, there is an unspoken narrative with tattoos. Sometimes the story is hidden and revealed so some, but for others their story is for everyone to see. Tattoos invite other people to question the art we chose to permanently take with us everywhere we go and inquire about our decision to use our body as a canvass for art. For those I photographed, their tattoos were a decision to create something beautiful and a reminder of a previous time in their life loaded with feelings of grief, struggle, mistakes, happiness, excitement and anxiety. To those I photographed, thank you for sharing you ink with me.

INK’d ARCIA

JAMES G

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In Remembrance: Letter to the woman, from the girl --Free-write, after Rachel McKibbens 2014. It’s okay to love hardest the gravestone name or the image of drying blood or his mama’s can’t-cry-no-more tears-All that is left of him. It’s okay to make a noose out of the number of times you look at your reflection in the mirror and refuse to look back. It’s okay to bulldoze your concert hall of a body with silence, to glare at all the mourners, to love hardest the taste of your desert mouth, to fuck his brother and feel nothing It’s okay to leave without leaving. It’s okay to wake up the morning after To the mis-sound of his voice calling your name. To love hardest this noiseless moment. To turn your head and see that his brother Is also a forthcoming obituary, a black boy, afraid of himself. It’s okay to leave without leaving.

Lydia Koku

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TIYE PULLEY

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WOMEN OF CO

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LOR KICK ASS.

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POSTERS

A L

BY L

DORCAS TANG


Sweet like ah suga

h, Hot like ah fyah

I went home from school last winter And felt the kiss of my country Warm and sweet Yet suffocating She draws away And her lips speak In my mother tongue The aroma of home fills my lungs I step back and I wonder If that Was the only time she’d let

me

kiss

a

girl

I’ve fought many wars For and against my country Push and pull Her against me Me against her Us against the world I fight wars on sandy beaches Blood stained tourist paradise White sand’s not made for black flesh When you’re queer I fight wars for The right to my native tongue Stolen from my lips By the thief of assimilation So each white body Finds my fire easier to digest It’s funny how home and foreign Can feel so different Yet so much the same What does it mean when America feels home But Patois feels like childhood

like

I never understand the stories my friends tell me About growing up Cul-de-saced lanes and Kodak smiles

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ER

EMMA WALK


American flags o o z i n g t h r o u g h t h e i r t e e t h I grew up on bag j u i c e a n d g u i n e p I can still feel m a n g o d r i p p i n g d o w n m y f a c e On hot summer da y s How do I reconci l e o n e h o m e w i t h a n o t h e r ? I stand in the middle of a sweaty frat party And I can’t help but wonder if My country is Jealous of my lips against another woman’s Full of envy green and lush Like Poison Ivy growing From blood stained Sugarcane fields Home of my ancestors I’d like to believe they mourn My country’s mistreatment of queer They’re the only ones who know What it’s like

people

But sweet rebellion Tastes like rum burning the back Of my throat before I kiss my girlfriend Burning the fields of downpression Jah, Rastafari My country, Sweet like ah sugah & hot like a fyah Both at home And abroad My teeth bite into the sweet flesh cane and My gums bleed I can’t help but see the irony

of

sugar

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[4/30 – 3/26]

Sigo Siendo

People talk about being broken But I’m not sure I was ever whole Torn from a mother’s breast sent up river to la tierra of the free left el hogar of the brave Mother who bore me? Mother who bore me— Teach me the strength of your resolution Did you clasp my wrist when they came? Did you stare me in the eyes and smile or cry? Did you tuck my head in the crook of your neck one last time? Did you have any idea how hard it would be— for me too? I didn’t think about you much Before I learned to question el mundo of other words: ¿Qué estabas pensando cuando dijo “Te quiero” por la última vez? ¿Te dolió cuando me arrancaron de su mirada? Y Ahora tengo algunas palabras and maybe you’ll understand me now I’m And But And

sorry I forgot you nuestras words I’m learning to remember now I promise voy a hacer better

C . S an ti zo 25


Maisie Luo

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Floating

The night it happened was a dark and stormy. I was driving as fast as I could to get to the birthday party on time, but I didn’t want to speed in such heavy rain. My little Jetta was in need of new brakes, but that would have to wait until after I got a Christmas bonus. I tried to stop myself from making a mental list of what I needed to save up for. As of right now, my priority was making it to Sage’s birthday dinner before she would get there at 7. I had such a long day at work and truly didn’t feel like going. But Sage had been my best friend since middle school and we’d gone through so much together. Break ups, college, jobs, moving. On second thought, that was more of a reason why I didn’t need to go. Because she’d understand me being a little too tired. I felt so stuck at work and I didn’t know how to get out. With all these emergencies popping up, costing $600, $1000 at a time, I didn’t have enough savings to just quit. My coworkers were absolutely vile, and although I still believed in the mission of EduAccess, I barely spent time working with kids anymore. My job answering phones, sending emails to sponsors, planning banquets, wasn’t what I signed up for. I gripped the wheel tighter remembering how stuck I felt at my job. And it wasn’t just my job. It felt like my whole life was falling apart…or just stagnant somehow. Derrick had had it up to there with me. I was waiting for the day he’d say, “I want to see other people,” and not under the terms we agreed

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upon. No, he’d want out from me, sick of my crying, my self-loathing, and my mid-twenties agony. I glanced at the dashboard clock. 6:43. I probably had five minutes left before I’d get to the restaurant. Where I could be all smiles and laughs, hell – I might even feel a little better, and then I could go home and go the fuck to sleep. I kept pushing myself to spend time with people. It’d be good for me. I owed it to them. After everything we’d all been through together… In the distance, I saw a squirrel run across the road. I was far enough away that it crossed without becoming tire paint. But then – shit! A fucking deer jumped out, right in front of my car. For a split second, we stared at each other, its big eyes looking like voids. Like there was nothing behind them. I hit the brakes, which slowed me down, but the rain insisted I keep going. My back tightened, hands gripped the wheel as I tried to crouch. Kind of hard to do while driving and buckled in. At once, I heard a crash, heard myself scream, and began to black out. When I came to, I was in the hospital. I glanced at the clock against the wall. 8:03. Shit. I’d be more than late to this dinner. Maybe now I could just go home instead. I saw the paper gown draped across my body, white with little green polka dots. I had a dress with that same pattern when I was a little girl. I must’ve been eight or nine the last time I could fit into that dress. I wonder what Momma did with it. Maybe she gave it to Goodwill? Hopefully not the Salvation Army…then I realized. My eyes weren’t open. I had tubes coming from my mouth and arms. I was looking at myself, my body, from the ceiling. A nurse took my pulse – my body’s pulse, and shook her head slowly. It looked like she would start to tear up. I wonder if being a nurse made people immune to this kind of situation, this kind of pity. But I certainly was not immune. Once I realized where I was, I let out the loudest wail I could. My body didn’t look up at me. Neither did the nurse. Even though I didn’t have my body anymore, I felt

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the pangs of anxiety come up. What…what had happened to me? When could I get back into my body? Why didn’t I go to church with Momma when she told me to? Maybe Jesus could provide a helping hand right about now. Did…did this mean I was dead? The nurse called for the doctor. He said that they’d called Momma, and she was still on her way. They were honest. The situation didn’t look good. I had severe damage to my lungs, my heart, my brain. Broken bones. Yes, Mrs. Morris, I’m afraid that’s so. I wanted to be in my body. I wanted to be in my body, so that I could sob. So that my hands could shake and my breaths would shorten. I wanted to have a panic attack, just so I could feel something. Not be here, on this fucking ceiling, bodyless like the Big Face from Nick Junior. Except I didn’t feel bright. I didn’t want to make PB&J. I wanted to be alive. I wanted someone to hold me and say this was all a bad dream. That this was a bad nightmare, the kind that feels so real, I can touch and smell in it. The kind I get when I don’t ever want to get out of bed or even wake up. I looked down at myself again. My skin had a greenish cast. My face was covered in nicks, broken glass filling my acne scars. They’d already put my hands in my lap, folded them neatly, so they could slide me right into the coffin. Momma rushed in, Sage right after her. Great. I ruined Sage’s fucking birthday. When she saw my body, Momma fell straight to the ground. She collapsed on her knees and screamed loud enough to wake up the morgue. Momma, I’m right here. I’m here, please. But she couldn’t hear me. No one could, and it seemed like no one would ever again. Sage had her hands on Momma’s back, tears everywhere. Everyone else was probably in the lobby, questioning how a night of lobster dip and beer turned into blood and embalming fluid. This wasn’t what I expected, what I had hoped for. There was no life flashing before my eyes. I saw the life being sucked from my body, my broken chest rattling off breaths one by one. I saw Momma tell them

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to wait ‘til Derrick came so he could say goodbye. Overheard that it was time, none of my friends wanted to see me like this. I guess they’d wait ‘til the funeral. So there, with Momma, Sage, Derrick, the doctor and the nurse, I lay dead. I felt regret. I ruined Sage’s birthday. Her twenty-fifth birthday. I felt shame, that I died so young and so unaccomplished. Who would flip through my journals? Who would tell each person how I really felt during that last argument? Who would tell the kids at EduAccess after-school that Ms. Morris wasn’t going to come back? Who was going to tell me what I was doing, up here, on the ceiling? I felt my life get shredded in half before my eyes. Every eye in the room was wet with my potential. The fact I had such a bright future. How would Momma pick up the pieces? How would my friends recover? Would my exes come to the funeral…? They covered me with a white sheet, just like they do on TV. Momma and Sage stayed there for what felt like a lifetime, Derrick’s arms around them. They murmured things about loving me. I followed them to the parking lot, the four of us walking side by side.

. a n e c l A n o s --Alli

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—TIYE

PULLE

Y


Orange the juiced mist sprung free of the peel at each seam ripped open lingers now like a distant ghost or holy memory perfuming the air with what smells to you like citrus sin. with each tiny burst of sun sweet light you thank its mother tree and the man in Florida or California who picked from it the perfect form that now sits pulled apart in your hands mirroring your own.

-Anonymous

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37

NERISSA NASHIN


橘子同句子-Sentences and Serendipities-朋友:我吃你橘 子,吃完一个, 口里便有另一个的 味道,所以停不下 来喂— A friend: Your oranges--whenever I swallow one, alas-the smell of another lingers in my mouth. How is one to help oneself-空气在冬末春初, 像被冻过的蓝莓, 咬下去松松酥酥— Air in early spring, has the texture of refrigerated blueberries, spongy under your teeth-语言切忌顶针 因其 美全在朦胧 像临水 照花 像隔云追雾 你要秋水望穿 偏偏 神形俱散 With languages the most damned is to pinpoint a definitive, because it’s all about Narcissus gazing in the mirror and Apollo chasing after Daphne. All will be lost when it’s more than sought. The more you burn your eyes over one right word, the more dilute its inborn spirit and structure, like sandcastles licked away by passions of the seawater. 一枚字就是一坛 酒 酿了几千年的人 情世故 A jar of sake is each character, patiently brewed with rain from thousands of years of culture.

But alas--that taste of the rain rises from wells under that place, and returns back to its grave. Drifters don’t understand god’s blessing onto the land each time the rain falls. Most of them don’t pray. Some of them can’t pray so they don’t. A precious few I endear--they pray like a play, picking up wet pebbles here and there, kicking around, humming songs with no understanding of their prayers. The rest, they pray desperately to pray each day. 。In face of my mother language, I am a sinner bowing my head in meekness. Her words I didn’t listen to any! I watch those characters stretch under the pen, so dignified and free, like roots of a huge tree forever extending, never eager to exhibit, never afraid of fading. The elegance of her unspeaking sayings, her perpetual virginity and her laughter at the turning; of the silently aromatic chrysanthemums blossoming in deep mountains, the poet who deemed himself as herb the noblest and threw himself into a lake splashing thousands of years of ripples than to be tainted, and the singing trail in snow with a horse sweat-

ing, leaving behind a burnt-down house just now well-attended. . Too soon! Too soon have we declared Eureka, I pray.

VIVIAN ZHANG

睛蒙着翳儿看着了 毛茸茸的月亮,便 幸福地就此睡下。 大梦一场却惊觉自 己寒碜的肉体,一 丝不挂地脏了草 席。 Drinking, or writing, 冰水喝太急了,鼻 as an affair, is a 腔像进了一座尖顶 subtle prank played 冰川。 on you. Wrapped Too hastily I drank in the wind blowing that glass of cold around, you feel water, as if a tilted thyself swinging as iceberg silently if in a cradle, fully glided through the protected by a thick darkness of my nasal layer of fill quilt. The cavity. The screechy paradise of sleep echo sounds elseimmerses you, as where inside of my your vision blurs so encephalon. tenderly to filter the furry moon hanging 少年人是浓雾中行 above. But when 军的马,人人顶风 you pull your head 而行,因而见不到 up in the vanishing 其它。 swirl of dreams, Youth is the horse shocking is thy nude that proceeds in self-- an ungainly heavy fog against shackle, trampled by wind. To walk the rupturing wind. through the storm The meadow below they must hold you soiled and you closely onto every- the only perpetrator thing within, close spotted. their eyes so tight to And so you know, hear only their own the magic carpet has breathe. They nudge been taken away-each other only you laugh and get because they can’t moving. see. 清晨的弥撒,是为 花萼淡紫色轻笼芳 着伍尔芙的花。 草地春意,薄薄冰 The morning mass, is 片一层悄然裂解无 for Woolf’s grass. 声息。 Behind which people Blossoms of purple used to murmur, etheral descend before the bombs upon the spring in blared. meadow, lke thin ice cracking without a 酒凉薄,瑞雪罩。 sound gestural. When the wine is volatile, heavy snow 喝酒,起笔,就像 falls to cover the 是开场玩笑。在寒 ground. 风中自以为盖上了 一层鸭绒被子,眼 时间在不停旋转中

披散了头发, 无从消化自己 的巨人俯身痴望炭 笔生花— Time lets its hair down in the spinning unstoppable. The giant who can’t outrun his shadow bow to pick up the charcoal. 刚出蛹的蝴蝶,第 一次炫目于自己的 斑点,踉踉跄跄地 忘了飞行,在风中 一颠一颠。 Frail butterfly, first out of the cacoon, too much dazzled by sight of its own dashy dapples, forgets they are built to fly. His trail a proceeding of exclamation marks in the tumults of the wind. 橘子好酸,于是我 剥橘子的大拇指也 酸了— Sour is the orange that contaged my sour thumb peeling it--

张茜涵年十八疯人疯语 His crazy talk when she’s 18.


Up There Midday on the mountain and the man begs the boy to stop. “Hold up.” HIs breath is a rustle of air and snags AJ’s ear softly. He turns on his heel to see Kamesh, hunched, crumpling to the ground. AJ bounces on the balls of his feet and slides in his smooth sneakers to the man’s side—“Here, sit by this”—and he shifts Kamesh’s back to lean against a nearby boulder under a tired tree. Now lightly shaded, AJ sits beside Kamesh, on another rock, panting, hearing the bulbous muscle of his heart pound the inside of his sternum. He checks his own pulse with a finger to his jugular. Hasn’t slowed down at all. Not yet. “God, I miss the taste of Gatorade. Or Powerade? I knew the difference.” He yanks a plastic bottle out of the side-pocket of the backpack they had packed at the last minute that morning. It sweats in beads in AJ’s hand as he grips it with relief. He offers a swig to Kamesh, who refuses with a jerk of his head. “Water.” “Okay,” says AJ, returning to the bag, “here it’s, that’s no problem.” He unscrews the lid and peers into the canteen. It’s half-full to him. He leans Kamesh’s head back and tips what he thinks is a fair amount into his mouth. With his other hand on the back of Kamesh’s neck he feels a shudder, a symptom of the difficult strength it takes for him to swallow. Sadly AJ knows the tang of water left to warm in an aluminum or really any metal container. He hopes Kamesh can stomach the foul flavor he despises. But instead a cough rips from his chest and milky spittle dribbles spastically over his chin. AJ moves in front of Kamesh and grasping the rough hem of his baby blue dri-fit tank top he swipes his mouth clean. The round face he has seen many times is pasty, eyes that lit up at late-nite shadis sag with stress, teeth that severed red chicken from bone seem to wobble whenever a sound, however small, escapes his mouth. He rubs his lips. “You okay, Kamesh-uncle?” He tries to mask his rising concern. “Shall we go down? We can go down.” “No,” says Kamesh, looking at AJ, “we’re halfway,” before he returns to retching, doubled-over. “Here…put your…place your head on my knee. Come…alright.” AJ squints through a thicket of long eyelashes, smearing away the painful white light that only a summer sun can emit. On their left is the jagged mountain that rolls upward, known as Sanitas. To their right in the distance lies the green valley of Boulder. He takes a moment to revel in the beautiful sight for he had not seen it since he was but a child in another decade. For a moment he can’t believe he’s back here, in this strange predicament he never imagined. Sitting with his hand a comforter and thigh a pillow of flesh. Nothing left to do but wait out whatever worry. His tight eyes soon travel down the side of the mountain where he sees a line of hikers marching up like ants on a dune. Because his eyebrows caught the sweat off his forehead they begin to crust and he feels their weight whenever he stretches his sore face. Peering closely he sketches in his mind the mirage of two tall, lithe figures disappearing around a bend before they return to the path, fixated on their destination like all others on this day. An intermittent breeze sweeps the sienna dust that colors the trail and twirls it in tiny whirlwinds. Sometimes it blows past the two of them and sticks to their slick arm hair. “It is a hot day,” says AJ, reproachfully, with a tinge of anticipation as if it’s a challenge to overcome. He bends down to brush some dust off his bare ankles. He kicks a little with his left foot to stave off pins-and-needles. His low-cut socks ride rough on his dry skin. “Yes,” says Kamesh, “very hot. Very hot. Too hot.” Some saliva drips in strands from his mouth and makes the dirt wet and dark on the ground. Some falls on the side of the boy’s shoes. “Maybe we shouldn’t have climbed today,” says AJ.

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Abhinav Tiku


DYAMI FARNSWORTH I n my pai n tin g s i l ik e to i n v e s t i gat e a n d d e v e lop s urfa ce s . I l ik e to create p a in tin g s t hat hav e c le a r 3 d i m e n s i ona l s pa ces, bu t i n w h ic h th e v iew e r c a n los e t he m s e lv e s i n t h e sm a ll de t ai ls wh ic h mo v e th eir f oc u s f rom t he b i g p i c t u re t o t h e t h e m aterial qu a l ity o f th e w or k. I wa n t t o m a ke p i e c e s t h at i nvi t e t h e vi ewer to ex p l o re a n y p a r t of t he p a i n t i n g t hat s e e m s int erest ing ( I a l wa y s fin d i t v e r y c ool w he n s om e one di sco vers s om e new a s p e c t o f on e of m y wor ks t hat i ha d n’t no t i ce d bef ore). Bas ic al l y i l ik e t o m a ke t hi n gs t hat m a ke pe o ple a sk , “I wonder how t hi s wa s ma de? ”


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youx3 James Howard

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简爱日记 Yin Xiao 肖寅 --After Jane Eyre 1818 年7 月21 日 星期二 亲爱的日记: 上帝啊,你为什么要对我如此无情!为什么要摧残我脆弱的心 灵!今晨的婚礼本可以是圆满温馨的。那本应是我人生中最美好的 时刻,却被突如其来的那恶讯砸得粉碎。在教堂里,没有嘈杂喧 哗,没有盛怒争辩,也没有凄惨哭泣。罗切斯特先生公开承认了那 残酷的事实——他有一个疯了的妻子,被关在桑菲尔德府上。我们 的婚姻在法律上是不允许的。 现在我在自己的房间——孤独一个人——如往常一样,房间角 落里搁着一张床和一套桌椅。一切都是如此的寂静。每当罗切斯特 先生在我脑海中浮现时,我的心就无法平复。昨天,我还充满着期 待——梦想着我成为了他的新娘,他的妻子,他的人生伴侣——我 憧憬未来,一个一直陪伴在他身边的未来,过着幸福美满的生活。 但今晨的残酷事实如晴天霹雳,把我从美梦中震醒。我受到了 不公命运的打击和折磨。我变得苍白无力,未来黯淡无光。我问我 自己,我的热情去了哪里?我的希望去了哪里?我的爱情去了哪 里?我意识到我的热情消失了,希望破灭了,爱情死掉了。啊!难 道我再也回不到罗切斯特先生温暖的怀抱中了吗?是的,我再也回 不去了。我的信心已被扼杀,信念已被摧毁。他已不是我想象中的 那个罗切斯特先生了。 他背叛了他对爱情的誓言,他欺骗了我。他不可能对我怀有真 情,他只是一只纵欲的野兽罢了。那我 呢,我真的还爱他吗? 哦,是的,我还爱他。不管如何, 我都爱他。他勾起了我无尽的回忆和联 想。 他目光中隐藏着的爱意,举止中的 男子气概和言语中的坚定不移的爱情让 我难以忘怀。他让我相信在爱的面前, 我们是平等的。在他面前,我看不到上 帝的造物,而只是他的造物。哦不,我 不想离开他,我不能离开他。我还想张 开双臂拥抱他。 不,不行,我必须离开桑菲尔德。


我没有成为罗切斯特先生的新娘,我也永远不会成为他的人生伴 侣。如果留下,我将会成为他的情妇。那我和塞纳那·瓦伦以及 他其他的那些情妇有什么区呢?我必须永远与他分离,今生今世 都不能再面。 我必须开始新的生活。但我孤身一人该怎么走,又走去哪儿? 夜幕降临,呼啸的疾风狂躁地卷着落叶而来,我仿佛看见了那 棵被闪电劈裂的树,多么凄惨啊。 转念一想,如果我接受他的誓言,告诉他我还爱他,我就可以 留在这温暖的地方,一直呆在他的身边。哦,我同情他,他被欺骗 了,我可以感觉到他的心在流血,而也许我是他最好的止痛药。我 不能让他再自甘堕落了,包容他吧,宽恕他吧,拯救他吧。忘记过 去,将来的日子也许会更美好。我属于他,我爱他! 我正经历着一次煎熬:是屈辱的留下,还是永远的离开?哦, 我的天。上帝啊,这难道是命运对我们真爱的测试?难道是您对我 们不法爱情的惩罚?我已无可奈何,走投无路。上帝啊,我向您忏 悔,请您宽恕我那有罪的灵魂。上帝啊,我向您祈祷,请您指引我 这迷路的羔羊。 上帝说,我们是平等的。我到底是谁?我是一个有尊严的人。 我爱罗切斯特先生,但我更尊重我自己。我必须冲破爱的束缚,我 必须让我的心成为祭品,献祭给上帝。我必须永远忘了他! 当我们沉重的肉体挣脱死亡的枷锁,愿我们自由的心灵能在美 好的天堂相见。

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Hey! My name is Kelly “Taty” Hernández ’18 (now ’19). Over the summer and the fall 2016, I was away from Swat — because who wouldn’t want to be — working on a project I started called Revitalizing Arts with a grant from the Davis Projects for Peace. I went back to Inglewood and worked on an arts for social justice program with the Youth Justice Coalition (YJC) which served community members directly affected by the justice system. Art, when combined with the task of social responsibility, allows us to use our voices to speak up and speak out, breaking down the respectability politics that stand in our way of being heard. Through the program, we talked about race and class through art projects, visited artist studios, held an art festival, and talked to activist groups including

Andres, student, holding his artwork about identity and visibility outside of Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Black Lives Matter L.A. Co-Organizer, Shamelle Bell speaking at the arts festival.


Artwork at the Revitalizing Arts’ Unity in the Community festival.

Students visiting artist Patrick Martinez’s art studio. Martinez focuses his art on addressing police brutality among other social issues. 48


CELINE ANDERSON 49


AMAL SAGAL 50


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september 10 sky this night the stars shake in him like fireflies falling in and out of luminescence’ existence as if being were only affirmed by light. he fades plum to steely gray freshly bruised grainy and wet like un-developing film the convex curve of his glass dome pushing back against my eyes. the stars re-exist wriggling between the gaps in my hands like bright buzzing bees pinpricking my palms constellating his space. his face of a mirror is clay and haze the rippled plain of a lake reaching out in more directions than I know or can count on my incomplete fingers. cloud cover hugs the shivering stars and they fall out once more. up ahead the shadow of a tree painted black in the glow of orange streetlamp in the ghost of pathways deadened with people once whistling scarcely in wild wind fire and flower 53


skipping over skin like stones where dry grass presses thatched patterns in woven tones closing. he multiplies and unfolds expanding heat-space blooming in lilac between my eyes a system of globes and growing things gardening stellar soil and lunar tides behind a shattered greenhouse. i could fall in if i pressed my nose up on the glass.

Anonymous.

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The Mission “The IC engages and empowers our community through advocacy, dialogue, and support networks to influence campus culture and promote inclusivity and identity consciousness. “ Jason Rivera, Director Mohammed (Mo) Lotif, Assistant Director

The Team Jasmine Rashid Kyungchan Min Ivan R Lomeli Jun Rendich-Millis Zain Talukdar

Dorcas Tang Leslie Moreaux Janelle Pichardo Reyes Kat Galvis Rodriguez Nancy Sorto

Asma Noray Matthew C Chen Asraa Jaber Nyk Robertson

The Collective

ABLLE (Achieving Black and Latino Leaders of Excellence) AMENA (Arab, Middle Eastern, and North African Cultural Society) ARCS (Anti-Racism Coalition of Swarthmore) Colors (Queer Students of Color) DESHI (South Asian Students Organization) ENLACE (Latinx Students Organization) HAN (Korean Students Organization) HAPA (Racially Mixed Students with Asian Ancestry) I20 (International Students Organization) Kizuna (Japanese Students

Organization) MSA (Muslim Students Organization) PersuAsian (Queer and Trans Asian Community) QSN (Questbridge Scholars Network) SAO (Swarthmore Asian Organization) SCS (Swarthmore Chinese Society) SISA (Swarthmore Indigenous Students Association) SOLIS (Swarthmore Organization for Low Income Students) SQU (Swarthmore Queer Union) WOCKA (Women of Color Kick Ass)


VISIBILITY Issue 02.  

Issue 02: “The imagination must come before the implementation. Our culture is competent to implement almost anything and to imagine almost...

VISIBILITY Issue 02.  

Issue 02: “The imagination must come before the implementation. Our culture is competent to implement almost anything and to imagine almost...

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