Civil Writes Project Chapbook

★ The Civil Writes Project ★

The Civil Writes Project dares to confront the history of segregation through a series of interconnected programs leading up to Nobel Prize winner Toni Morrison’s appearance at Just Buffalo Literary Center’s BABEL series on November 9, 2017—exactly 50 years to the day of Dr. Martin Luther King’s historic speech on the very same stage at Kleinhans Music Hall. Buffalo is at a pivotal moment in its history, benefiting from an exciting renaissance even as the city grapples with persistent racial disparities, gentrification, and educational inequality.

Fifty years ago, Dr. King dared to imagine a future free of segregation.

Now, let us come together through literature to be inspired by Toni Morrison as we imagine the next fifty years.

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This chapbook collection features work by young writers and artists participating in workshops and events through Just Buffalo’s Writing Center—an after-school, creative writing center for teenagers. At the JBWC, we encourage young writers to use literature as a lens through which to process the world. These pieces, in particular, explore topics connected to The Civil Writes Project.

Learn more at justbuffalo.org

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“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.� ~ Toni Morrison

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NERVOUS BREATHING Birch | Grade 11

Nervous breathing is my reality.

I’m black and female and queer and muslim.

As such my days are filled with stuttered breaths and ironbound lungs I’ve shed my hijab, and I could avoid rainbows like the plague but the pigment is permanent My locs speak before I do they speak the language of centuries old strength and they communicate in vivid colour beauty often misinterpreted My beauty misinterpreted our beauty unseen outside eyes and ears have been obscured Those who make the blinds use the pretense of colourblindness like a mask a thin façade of equality

~5~

“I’m colourblind” as if perpetuating ignorance to the masses isn’t just allowing it to spread unseen “I’m colourblind” as when the majority embrace conformity those of us on the outskirts feel your unity You idealise lady justice with her eyes gouged out They say “she’s color blind” idealizing a form of violent self harm They say lady justice is covering her eyes like they aren’t systematically destroying her sight and covering the festering sores with a glorified bandaid

~6~

I’m… calling BS You sit in a sterile room, worshiping gods of aggravated sterility false tranquility under a guise of self made nobility You stay blind but my eyes are healing For once we’re invading our own space Expect us: Entering on a towering wave of melanated self love Expect us: Tearing down every glass window and ceiling until everyone can breathe easy And expect me: Standing in the doorway welcoming in the fresh air

after Langston Hughes’s “Justice” ~7~

AFTER BANNON’S “RWANDA LANDSCAPE AND MEMORY” PHOTO SERIES

Darren | Grade 11

What I call a puddle my eyes call a “reflection.”

And as my shadow dances upon it, the glistening water crystal clear, my friend laughing beside me, our shadows clasp hands in union A union we cannot forget.

The union that was missing as a mother choked to death, gas filling her lungs as she tried to find her child among the masses gathered for a shower.

The union that turned a blind eye when the Hutu struck cold, misguided revenge against Tutsi cries of “why” and bloody murder.

The union that boiled over as a war on drugs was called, the law cracking down like a whip breaking the peace and leaving a tension as thick as butter.

~8~

The union that divided as a billionaire won presidency, and fits of shock, awe, anger, joy, and amalgamations of them all simultaneously erupted across a nation.

This is a union we cannot forget.

And yet when we need this union most, as war threatens at our door, brothers and sisters point voices, fingers, and guns.

That is a union we need to forget.

written during a workshop taught by photojournalist, Brendan Bannon ~9~

NO PREMIUM TOPCOAT WILL FIX GENERATIONAL HATRED Angel | Grade 10

Berate me for something I can’t change for hundreds of years Then whips turn into dust but do they really?

Your eyes still bleed with the hatred of your ancestors An icy blue drink locked up as I die of thirst And you change our names to fit your agenda Gut out anything that doesn’t look like you leaving us a shell of what we should be Inflate yourself with the most top-notch oxygen A recipe passed down from Aswad to Steven as Aswad becomes Adam because that’s easier to remember even though Adam only has one less letter And everything we say has one less the power and the ground we walk on suddenly means one less than it used to

~10~

REFUGEE CAMP: JORDAN Ryan F. | Grade 10

This place, built in a barren wasteland is not home. Home is a choice.

We did not choose to be here.

We were forced here by forces beyond our control. Imprisoned in this forbidden land between worlds.

We are trapped.

after “These Kids Playing,” a photograph by Abdalghafar, taken while living in a Syrian refugee camp. Written during a workshop taught by photojournalist, Brendan Bannon. ~11~

ACCEPTANCE SHOULDN’T BE A SURREAL CONCEPT Hemingway | Grade 11

Who says butterfly wings cannot house galaxies?

I believe in the Universe over any Christian god.

There is more freedom there anyways.

Would we hunt each other so easily if we knew that everything was connected to everything else?

That everything could come back around to us?

In a world where fantasy stays fantasy, where not even Karma is held sacred, how can we believe in this perfect world we are all striving for?

There is no “we” in “I,” and I believe in an indiscriminate world.

Keep your excuses and justifications to yourself Because I was born accepting, and I have learned to believe in what others call surreal, watch— Let the universe christen me and call me its messenger—for I can believe things we can’t even dream of.

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WE COME AND GO IN STRAIGHT JACKETS AND SILENCE Ates | Grade 12

We come and go in straight jackets and silence, Though we scream out best we can. Questions And curiosities and catastrophes in neighborhoods of dust.

Sore mouths move, sore hands move, all hearts move pumping our indignities in unison, as though we were never even away from each other. As though our hands were intertwined, not confined Where are those black men you took for owning watches and talking to white women? Where are the Muslims you took for owning phones and oil deposits? Where are those indigenous People you took for being in the way of your wagons and bulldozers?

We know which dirt, which stone, which piles you threw them We scream ourselves in unison, glass bones and concrete lungs Until our voices make you prisons a fraction the ones you put us in

inspired by Terrance Hayes’s poem series, “AMERICAN SONNET FOR MY PAST AND FUTURE ASSASSIN.” Hayes visited the Just Buffalo Writing Center on October 19, 2017 ~13~

AFTER “THE DEATH OF OFFICER CRAIG LEHNER”

BY AARON LOWINGER Eden | Grade 11

drawn during Max Weiss’ Political Cartoon workshop, featuring a visit from Pulitzer-Prize winning political cartoonist, Adam Zyglis. ~14~

FOOD CHAIN Dwight | Grade 12

One time you said that we would be safe that we wouldn’t have to feel like we are being chased that we the people are one... but that slightly changed from being chased to more like being hunted set the birds free you see we have been brain washed that the protectors are the law enforcers but you see they are the ones that go above and under the law to shoot my brother dead you see trayvon is that brother who had a sweet tooth but the only sweet thing they could give him was an injustice bullet on a silver platter labeled Jim Crow but you see mike brown also suffered his fate at the barrel of a gun 1,2,3, bang who’s next you see this is not just a community thing this is world wide we all sit at home and cry because the protectors have cut the ties and our boys can not be immortalized but they need to be memorized... memorized for the injustice that has been bestowed on them memorized for their innocence being overshadowed by a racist judicial court slamming the mallet of a crusted systems view of a guilty man’s propagandic plea... this is not the classic story of the rabbit and the fox but this is the story of the innocent and the ones who are not they wear that shiny star on their heart and flag those two colors of justice and honor but where is the honor you see great power comes with great responsibility but all the responses are bullet holes and protest we need to unite for love for truth for our country to scream in one dying voice that we are sick of being the land of the free when we can only stretch our arms so far for justice we are being treated as a food chain we are the flightless birds locked up in chains and cages being tortured please stand with me as we all lay these hate crimes aside and we stop and listen and we all see who the real enemy is bring all races together because the elephant in the room doesn’t take a second thought before they let the heat blaze, BANG... now you tell me who’s the hunter and who’s the prey in this Food Chain? ♦

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WE, THE CITIZENS An Inauguration Blackout Poem Trinity | Grade 10

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“While we live in a hoarding society, where those who have resources hoard them, hide them in offshore accounts…in this room, and in the poetry community, we don’t hoard. When we read something that someone else wrote, it inspires us, it gives to us…We grow our poetry economy by freely giving and sharing, expecting nothing in return but knowing that there will always be more than enough, there is always more than enough poetry.” ~ Emily Anderson, Just Buffalo teaching artist

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USING MAGIC AND POETRY TO SOLVE THE WEALTH GAP   Aaron | Grade 12 & Hannah | Grade 12

Did you know that compressing your body into a small space hurts a lot? Yep. That’s what it feels like to be crammed into poverty.

Hiding from the government, the bills, the taxes.

Fear. Pain.

The weird thing about society is that when it explodes, I seem to implode. Did you know falling into your skin hurts a lot? Yep. I am stuck trying to decipher white and red blood cells, nickels and dimes.

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WHAT IT REALLY MEANS Ikuris| Grade 12

they say the shade of my face is what saves me a place at the station, and maybe the State Pen. and the fact that I’m black and I rap will perpetuate claims that’ll make people racist the first time I rapped back in Lancaster all of the kids there insisted that I started spitting some gang shit they said it’d be quicker at getting me famous they said if I stayed this invested and gave all the gay shit a rest got arrested and traded my textbooks for paychecks, and weight lifted, straightened up, prayed enough, maybe just maybe then I’d be successful excuse me I was just under the impression all I needed was a sheet of loose leaf and a pencil to be a contender but you seem to know better so tell me how I’ve been misusing my complexion in this music since I can assume that you’re an expert because you’ve heard like 2 songs by Kendrick!

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As part of JBWC’s The Civil Writes Project workshop series, we took a field trip to The Historic Colored Musicians Club Museum and were given a tour by club president, George Scott. Receiving its Act of Incorporation in 1935 and designation as a historical landmark in 1979, the Colored Musicians Club is the only remaining African American club in the entire United States and, as such, it actively encourages historical research and preservation of the history of jazz in Buffalo. (“Club History”) “Jazz was always about more than just syncopated noise or classy timeless entertainment. It was a movement about hope and the ability of men to work together to create something beautiful. It was about listening to what each other had to say in a musical sense and the human capacity to hear one another in complex ways.” (“Club History”)

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WALKING INSTRUMENTS Ryan M. | Grade 8

“The clarinets had trouble because the brass was cut so fine, not lowdown the way they love to do it, but high and fine like a young girl singing by the side of a creek, passing the time, her ankles cold in the water.”

—from Toni Morrison’s Jazz

the standing bass spoke deeply, giving advice to his child. he was never the focal point, but when he left, you could tell. he was a warm cup of tea, steaming in your hands. the alto saxophone spoke like a mother, wise and admiring. she was the mother who loved you no matter what, her touch soft, her fingers wrinkled. the guitar the boy who flipped his hair in the hallways and made all the girls swoon (and some boys, too). the piano spoke softly. like the shy girl in the back of the class, she didn’t speak much, but when she did, it was deep and thought-provoking. she was the one all the other shy girls had a crush on. she wore circle glasses and fishnets. she was a cup of water with paintbrushes and paint swirled in it.

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OVER THE RAINBOW   Rob | Grade 12

There is something in its somber hidden hues waiting for arching vows of compassion and better days under the skin of a drum

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THE TRUMPETS OF THE PASTRY Sydney | Grade 8

Mahalia Jackson’s voice, like velvet being tied to a cape on a kid with big dreams.

While he runs through the house, his imagination hemming his very soul.

The mother ices the cake with the silky sound of Doristine Tydus Blackwell’s wishes of courtesy.

She sprinkles the cake with trumpets giving the cake what it needs to be all tied together.

The piano is suddenly carrying the cake to the fridge so its precise icing stays put and the taste remains as smooth and inviting.

Preserving it for years to come.

Jazz has survived and it will exist forever.

It will never soil, be thrown away.

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“There are certain things in our nation and in the world which I am proud to be maladjusted. I say very honestly that I never intend to become adjusted to segregation and discrimination…religious bigotry…to economic conditions that will take necessities from the many to give luxuries to the few…to the madness of militarism, to self‐defeating effects of physical violence…In other words, I’m about convinced now that there is need for a new organization in our world. The International Association for the Advancement of Creative Maladjustment.” ~ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

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THE ADVANCEMENT OF CREATIVE MALADJUSTMENT   Aaron | Grade 12

oppression school board racism director president country history repetition civil war secession confederacy oppression slavery president anger hatred fear sexuality love repression intolerance unanimity conversion invisibility prejudice oppression repulsion denial defeat depression loathing emptiness negativity downward voices people hope future visibility acceptance love triumph heart soul victory power people one body heart mind unity strength love love love

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“I was going to help but the clouds got in the way.

There’re no clouds here.

If they put an iron circle around your neck I will bite it away.” ~ Toni Morrison, Beloved

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TO: AMERICA’S GHOSTS Trinity Ridout | Grade 10

How long has it been the same?

Why? Who taught you how to be alive?

Who taught you how to be dead?

Who decides what things are important for teaching, passing on, rooting?

Why is hate on that list?

How many clock ticks, rotations, revolutions around the sun will it take to make things better?

Why? Why? Why? Why did you do this?

Why did your ghosts do this?

Will I do it?

Will my ghost be like yours?

How much more room is there in the afterlife?

Is Heaven full? Is Hell?

Why? Do you regret anything? Will I? How do we fix this?

inspired by Toni Morrison’s Beloved in response to the prompt, “What do you want to ask America’s ghosts?”

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WHY COULDN’T THEY LOVE YOU BETTER? Hannah | Grade 12

Why did they always emphasize those words—“could not” like they were splitting open the second sandwiched between them?

Tell me the truth, Mama Why couldn’t they love me better?

I miss you, Mama I see the forgiven.

I see you.

When the night falls silent I ask you questions, Mama.

I see you in your dreams and graffiti the way you look onto every building you pass. But I’ve been

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thinking, Mama, maybe you’re different there. In your dreams I mean—maybe you’re different there.

Mama, I see you again.

When you open up your mouth to speak your tongue turns glassy and freezes in the air.

Everything glitches and then pixel by pixel you disappear.

Everything disappears.

I paint you like this with a glass tongue and static background.

I plaster it where Main meets Ferry.

Can you see it, Mama, can you see me?

inspired by Toni Morrison’s Beloved in response to the prompt, “What do you want to ask America’s ghosts?”

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THE RIVER   Lucy | Grade 11

They turn.

One after another against one another into each other.

They ride.

A current swiftly sculpting well-worn paths cutting tributaries, short cuts, eddy pools.

They know that gender is flexible fluid like a curtain of water cascading off an overhang One day it flows this way.

The next it’s somewhere in the middle or taking a different direction entirely We are flexible.

We bend.

The water parts around us like so many skipping stones in a stream.

We take it as it comes.

And we try to see each other.

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“Your problem is not… that your hands are tied to do something. It is that you were born to an island of greed and grace where you have this sense of yourself as apart from others. It is not your right to feel powerless. Better people than you were powerless.” ~ from Carolyn Forche’s “Return”

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YOU WERE NOT REWARDED THE RIGHT TO FEEL POWERLESS   Ikuris | Grade 12

doubt is a privilege Gods do not possess you are a bouquet of flowers that a single father hands to his only daughter on her graduation you are the greatest outcome of this major downfall, in an age of power, and separation

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ONCE WE SAVE US FROM OURSELVES   JBWC young writers collaboration

I will not miss the smog dark as the ocean infiltrating the black forest, the steel and rust.

I will not miss my face crammed into an oxygen mask.

I will not miss prairies collapsing into parking lots.

I will not miss hungry eyes.

I will not miss cries flooding the open mouths of empty stomachs in vacant alleyways.

I will not miss the greedy mouths of powerhouses that gobble up the good.

I will not miss factories filled with Bangladeshi workers surviving sweat, heat, 12 hour shifts, endless exploitation.

I will not miss my mother’s overworked hobble. ~

~34~

Today, we no longer take our lefts and rights for granted.

Today we stand as equals on mountains and yell at the top of our lungs from the bottom of our heart, an eruption of greatness, and the wind whispers its thanks.

Today we lay on clean beaches and the grass grows green for miles beyond our house.

Tonight, we will see stars we never knew were born.

We will lay by the window in an ocean of starlight that will pass right through us like we are nothing, clear as a cloudless sky, clear as water rushing against the shore.

~35~

HEY, LISTEN Rob | Grade 12

Hey listen we’re myths hiding underexposed skin and broken beads from yesterday’s bracelets Why are we biting our tongues to keep ourselves alone

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Cover Art Statement Lily Lettieri

My artwork is about what segregates us as both a people and society. Our country was formed on the basis of freedom but on the entrapment of others. My artwork strives to explore how we can overcome a history so ingrained in our nation. Our society operates on large-scale judgments about beauty and class derived from superficial and meaningless observations by the oppressive majority. Little Pecola from Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye also observes this in her formative adolescence seeing only depictions of white, blond women and nothing of her mother or sisters. She was supposed to view herself as less than, her fate sealed with the purchase of her ancestors. The ideal image of an unjust house upside down in its philosophy and reminiscent of a jail remains a theme in the capture of our brothers. This, along with a flag, separates us. “Heritage not hate,” they say. How are we supposed to overcome something that not all of us recognize? How are we supposed to find unity while being constantly divided? A cohesive hierarchy of males now being reworked as they are taken one by one back into slavery induced by their own government. New ghettos being created each day with the motivation of the American dream. We can ask ourselves ‘Who will survive in this America’? We know the answer. All is seen in the eyes of a child. ★

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★ Executive Director LAURIE DEAN TORRELL Artistic Director BARBARA COLE Education Director NOAH FALCK Writing Center Coordinator ROBIN JORDAN Book Designer JOEL BRENDEN Cover Artist LILY LETTIERI ★ Just Buffalo Literary Center’s mission is to create and strengthen communities through the literary arts. And for more than 40 years, Just Buffalo Literary Center has brought the world’s greatest writers to Buffalo, hosted poetry events and readings, and supported the development of young writers.

We believe in the love of reading, the art of writing, and the power of the literary arts to transform individual lives and communities. ★ THE MARKS FAMILY FOUNDATION THE RALPH C. WILSON, JR. LEGACY FIELD OF INTEREST FUND

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