Hope Blooms From Shattered Roots 2021

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Welcome!

This collection, presented by Just Buffalo Writing Center in connection to The Civil Writes Project, features work by young writers and artists living in WNY. Just as the journey towards justice must be a collective effort, this collection was born out of collaboration.

Many of the pieces here were written during a workshop series led by JBWC teaching artists Richie Wills and Robin Jordan, inspired by Water in the Desert -- a multimedia exploration of “hope in a time of despair” created by Ujima Company in collaboration with Squeaky Wheel Film & Media Art Center and Just Buffalo Literary Center.

With the need for equity and justice for Black people at the forefront of our conversations, these workshops acknowledged that, on some days, “water in the desert” might look like hope, like love, like limitless joy. On others, it might look like resistance, like the expression of outrage, or like the imagining of new ways of being.

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We hope this collection moves you, in spirit and in action.

Just Buffalo Writing Center

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Table of Contents Water In the Desert 6 HOPE As Resistance 9 On This Road 10 Slipping Through 12 a letter to sensitive girls 14 Silent Killers 16 Dear Liberty 18 PROMPT: America’s Job Application 20 An Ode to A Misplaced Object... 22 Trapped Voice 26 No More Hiding 28 Alone in a Sandstorm 32 HOPE As Joy 37 Worthy of Dreaming 38 You Are What I Love 40 Visions 46 Untitled 48 PROMPT: You’re A Part of Nature 50 Smile 52

5 The Muse in our Lives 56 Tango 58 Lovers Stuck in a Place 60 Me in Fifty Years 62 Don’t Lose Hope 66 PROMPT: Your Food Story 68 My Food Story: Alfredo 70 Laliya’s Alfredo Recipe 73 Dare to Hope 76 Enough 78 HOPE As Youth Led Movement 83 Unaware 84 The House On Fire Show 86 Is It SO 88 Lights of a Nation 90 Different Ships, Same Storm 92 registration 100 PROMPT: You’re Already In The Future 102 Checkered Sneakers 104 Contributor Bios 112 Designer’s Note 130 With Gratitude 132

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Water In the Desert featuring young writers w/ Just Buffalo Writing Center, young performers w/ Dunbar Project, and young filmmakers w/ Squeaky Wheel Film & Media Art Center

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“You have to act as if it were possible to radically transform the world.

And you have to do it all the time.”

—Angela Davis

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HOPE As

Resistance

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On This Road Maya Simmons “We know the road to freedom has always been stalked by death.”

—Angela Davis

as I walk this road, charcoal clouds loom overhead, and daylight never breaks, so I stumble through the dark. as I walk this road, lined by houses with broken boards, splintered floors, the shackles clink in rhythm, I remember there’s no time for rest. as I walk this road, the wind howls, kicking up dust that stings my eyes and blurs my vision, sightless, I press on.

11 I walk to unstitch, the fabric of this society, the very fabric that’s stuffed into my throat, muffling my screams.

I walk carrying the weight, of those who came before me, who were too battered and too bruised, to take another step. the weight of mothers who lost their babies to bullets and bombs, the weight of a people plagued with fear, then resignation turned to stone.

I walk, I leap, I scream, I run, down this road that gashes flesh, twists limbs, shatters skulls, and wraps its fists around our throats. yet I walk, a fierceness in my stride, and I don’t plan on stopping. you call it revolutionary, I call it trying to breathe.

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Slipping Through Keira Lorelei VanDerBeck

The pen is mightier than the sword yet we write countless letters and are still reduced to small fragments of battered women.

We are told to wait, while I know for certain that souls are being crushed by the thousands.

We have been born into a system set up to make us fail.

I’m sick of waiting.

I want to scream, to destroy, to make an impact.

13 Because right now my

voice is a grain of sand at the beach, a thought in no one’s mind,

insignificant,

a broken girl

trying and failing

to fix a broken wo rl

d.

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a letter to sensitive girls Emma

15 Layout Design by Leila: “I was inspired by the winding confusion and obstacles that the poem was expressing. I wanted to make a layout of the text that reflected an abstract map. The words act as barriers and the negative space is where the author leads us through the meaning.”

See the plain-text version of the poem here.

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Silent Killers Valerie Juang

Violence takes as many forms as there are stars in the sky, and so must resistance. Whether the two should ever overlap is a publicly asked question often used to diminish movements of real resistance and reinstate further measures of violence.

These questions are directed towards those regarded as leaders of marginalized communities, whose words will be referenced for generations in the proliferation or condemnation of justice: an unreasonable responsibility to ask of any flesh and bone being. Resistance will require force to be effective, and to imply otherwise is to minimize the current reality of violence.

17 Resistance can be a speech, a chant, a whisper in the night, or any other kind you’ve never heard of— but the effectiveness of any resistance depends directly on discomfort: one distinct form for each kind of violence.

Poison in our homes can not be swallowed, but to revoke what we are served means momentary hunger.

Silenced voices can not be ignored, but to amplify and to impact requires patience.

An investment of discomfort for actors and reactors is necessary to affect change. In hindsight, it is always a small price to pay for justice.

I have always believed that hope is a silent killer; it allows you self-misguidance to nowhere. When movements are criticized for their force, you can see the shackles of hope cuffed tightly to the limbs of progress. The “forceless resistance” is a hopeful but lethal fantasy, a dream you follow six feet under. Rather than follow, why not build your dreams?

Escape into the world you have always wanted to live in.

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Dear Liberty Theo Bellavia-Frank

Every 10 days a country celebrates their freedom from British rule. And every day countless people celebrate the fact that they woke up with their freedom intact, and every day countless people celebrate the fact that some day they may have some freedom to celebrate. Every day is a Yom HaShoah, a day not for celebrating but for mourning and for never forgetting. Forgetting the tragedies, forgetting the travesties, forgetting the blood that was spilled, forgetting the ignorance, forgetting the saints, forgetting forgetting and sitting idly by, forgetting all the days and nights that were so terrible that no one remembers their name, forgetting Poland.

19 Did you forget Poland, America? You rise up your saints only after they are vilified and you hang around your necks the deadly cross. Did you forget Auschwitz, America? You sit and watch like you did not know, like they did such a good job of hiding their protests in the streets. Did you forget to forget, America? Did you forget you weren’t supposed to remember when we told you they were killing us and you said not to be afraid. To not let our lives be controlled when we forget that forgetting is a sin. Not cheit, as missing the mark requires aim. Not pesha, no, a rebellion is not strong enough. America, when you said you loved Israel, did you remember avon? An inequity, a moral failing strong enough to incite the wrath of God. America never fasted, never washed and only rinsed, America, you are not absolved of sin. Is Liberty dirtied, or were you never quite who you pretended to be?

Most Sincerely, Someone Unvilified

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PROMPT

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America's Job Application Elle Bader-Gregory Write a résumé for America. What job does America want? What is the country’s history? How would it describe itself? How would America answer general interview questions? Where does the country see itself in 10 years?

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An Ode to A Misplaced Object, Followed By The Absence of Other Things Liam Rio

after Future Curators’ The Presence of Absence Exhibition

23 Dear, i, the singular, imperfect, in this case uncapitalized melodramatic piece of a poet.

Talk more of happy things.

As the poet is too often guilty of abusing the use of sad. And- too often guilty of abusing the use of mad. And- too often guilty of abusing the use of simple rhyme, repeated lines.

And the practice of using sharpie to turn poisons into fine wines.

That quite honestly never seem to age that well.

That lose their touch with time.

As poems are often ugly snapshots of things, naked, unholy, and unfortunately mine.

24 From yours truly, I, fully capitalized and waiting to be followed by an absence of hopefully, many other things.

Now, out of the corner of your eye you see a red door, it has run away, it is sad, it is lonely. and it is red.

You see a boy. He is waving goodbye.

It is sad, almost lonely. and he is dead.

But you turn, to look at a home, left choking on the wind.

You walk to the home.

You almost pity it.

And maybe that is why you take that first step to peek inside.

Where you find this house is quite beautiful.

25 And you are almost tempted to stay.

So you take a seat, and you do stay.

Just long enough, until you then begin to realize you are cold.

And you don’t like the cold.

So you apologize.

And leave.

And out of the corner of your eye you see the house.

It is sad. And now lonely.

But you just tell yourself you did the best you could.

It was cold.

Author note: This poem explores the fragility of compassion, how many will rush to aid, but then far too early wain in their support. In activism, in friends, how so many never seem to stay when they realize change, demanding change isn’t glamorous, and being a friend isn’t always easy.

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Trapped Voice Shuna (Bushraa Choudhury)

Over the years my words faced uncertainty and remained choking in my throat.

I’ve tried plenty of times to ombre them from deep blue to soft pink.

Only to realize the softness is an illusion.

Throwing them away only led to stress, and I’ve found silence was not the answer.

But the trembling voice inside was still afraid a whiff of failure might follow.

Dripped tears would not blink away what my soul needed to say.

And regret still has time before it is written on me.

I can still see the old inside.

It’ll only get better when I learn to speak.

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No More Hiding Cyd Dickson

My name is Cyd. Not the name that often rolls off your tongue when you address me -your child not your daughter whom you pride yourself in raising -a successful woman.

I am Cyd, the child you always try to force silence upon.

The one you reject as yours.

29 “I don’t know who Cyd is but I know Ciara, my daughter.”

“You will always be my daughter.”

“Why can’t you just accept the way God made you?”

“This non-binary,” “This agender stuff -is all just a philosophy -a practice.”

“You’re just confused.”

“You don’t know who you are.”

“Stop letting people define who you are.”

“Just be yourself.”

Well ma, the problem with your statement is that: The only person looking to define who I am is you.

You cannot tell me who I am because I am me.

Yes, I came from you, but you do not define me.

I define myself.

And, no I am not confused!

I stand tall before you now not shedding a tear not flinching at the ignorant words that come from your mouth not arguing with you.

30 I am who I am and there is nothing you can do about it.

So, slap me, beat me, tell me I am invalid, tell me I am confused, kick me out for F*&#’s Sake!

If you cannot accept me for who I am, if you cannot love all of me, even the parts you do not understand or agree with, you do not deserve me.

I am tired of the pain and looking for your approval and acceptance which I will never get.

I am my own person, and I am perfect just the way I am.

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Alone in a Sandstorm Zelda Abramovich Change comes fast, and yet never in time Every second you are learning, yet you never know enough The road less traveled is always the one you get stuck on All signs point toward hope, yet people still get lost Wandering in circles around a square Impossible not to catch on the corners Time is running out,

but the clock never stops ticking

Each second another sliver of soul chipped away

33 Waiting for someone to make a difference and piece it back together Are we ever truly broken or can we ever really be fixed

Does a cast represent a sin or a sign of healing You can't have a rainbow without the rain and yet we are drowning in it A neverending flood with no ark in sight Only at night can you see the stars and yet we are blind

34 Stumbling aimlessly through the dark grasping for a steady hold Still the blind find their way and the drowning learn to swim Clasping hands we rise above our evils bandaging our fellows’ wounds Helping them drink, pushing them through the desert until they make it to water Alone in a sandstorm, we find the courage to resist

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“Audre Lorde taught us that caring for ourselves is ‘not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.’”

—Adrienne Maree Brown

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HOPE As

Joy

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Worthy of Dreaming Keira Lorelei VanDerBeck I dream

to create

for no other reason

than my own satisfaction.

I dream to not need validation,

to just breathe.

39 And know that even if no one likes my creations,

I am still valid.

I dream

to realize that I can have more in life

but I don’t need to I am still worthy.

I dream, to create to see myself as being capable and worthy of love.

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You Are What I Love Zanaya Hussain

after Aracelis Girmay’s “You Are Who I Love”

41 You are A tower of book spines, each rung filled with a new journey.

Paragraphs that are train tickets.

Periods that are friends.

The rivers of a language, the emphasis, the individuality, the identity.

Beckoning me to hold onto my mother tongue.

42 Black-andwhitecheckered board that becomes a dance floor for an army.

Dandelion seeds that hold wishes.

Coin tosses. Cat whiskers.

A chiffon, a jersey, and silk covering, of beauty. of modesty. of a sense of self.

Tucking back the peeking baby hairs

43 The music of bangles pushing up against one another, announcing that dadi is here.

The smell of flour and spinach that invites the embrace from nani.

The laughs of the little golden boys and girls running in the empty parking lot who remind me that youth is fleeting.

A speckled salt and pepper beard that consoles me about life’s infiniteness.

44 A past,

a present,

a future.

45 Tan lipstick. Ombre tips. Graph paper.

Leaders who hold livestreams.

Policy makers who fight for us.

The souls lost, and the ones we must protect.

The ones we must give a plate to.

Our shared table.

The black and blue ink of a pen, gliding across the page, into patterns of poetry.

And into loud voices of Freedom.

Is what I love.

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Visions Aleigha Floyd

after Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variation 3 “R.B.T.”

Layout Design by Ray’Cora: “The inspiration for the layout of the text was a simple thought for me. I wanted to create a flow with the words that was reminiscent of wind. I wanted the shape to look like wind blowing over water, or through grass. The natural observations in the poem were the inspiration for this.”

See the plain-text version of the poem here.

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Untitled Zelda Abramovich

Your snow capped mountains that scratch the sky and tear holes in the universe Your swerving valleys and cruising plains, hills rolling over and over making you dizzy I adore your tiny paws and silver slivers of moons Your blanket covered shivers and your condensation covered palms, iced tea in hand I cherish the distractions you provide, the laughter that rings in your ears even after it has died in the room

49 Your make believe animals that stop to greet you every day, with their own soft kind of love The suns on your bedsheets, the golden hue tingling your slipper-covered feet Your soft green colors that send in light tasting of flowers I delight in the architecture in your mind, always always spinning up the tallest staircase or through the weirdest shaped window Your unbelievable addiction to strawberries I relish the crunch of leaves, the change of seasons, change you are not afraid of Your hats and scarves piled high, a mountain of their own they tear your proverbial universe, a battle between mess and the love for these pieces of cloth which might really be stars

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PROMPT

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You’re A Part of Nature Danny Merlino Write as if you’re a part of nature that has lived through all that has happened during the COVID pandemic. Maybe you’re a tree planted on the sidewalk in New York City, or a pebble that has been kicked around. What have you observed?

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Smile Nzingha A smile A simple expression of emotion that means one thing but also a million others A smile can be felt from your mouth to your eyes to your fingers to your heart And even though the world is a whirlwind of chaos my smile remains Although I’ve been witnessing my genocide my smile remains

53 Although the sun no longer shines and my window is only covered in dew my smile remains People keep asking how I’m so narcissistic how my bubble never pops why it doesn’t pop why my laughter never ceases why my jokes are neverending They ask me why I don’t fight for the cause but instead I smile and laugh along to the same jokes we’ve already heard I smile in solidarity with my brothers and sisters who are no longer living

54 I laugh for my brothers and sisters who have lost their air and for my brothers and sisters who spent their last minutes feeling their air emptying from their lungs as they begged and cried trying to take one more breath just to discover it’s easier to not breathe sometimes I hope for my brothers and sisters who have spent their last minutes hoping just to watch their aspirations dissipate into a pool of water I resist for the lives that have come and gone And persist for the ones in the making

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The Muse in our Lives Aniya Palmer and Daltin Danser artists & peer educators with Teen Reality Theatre

The encroaching darkness of a world under restriction.

We have been subjected to our homes, our outside lives have been kept away from us for almost a year and some of us have not even made it.

Horizons, once beckoning me, now feel more like they’re hiding something.

Somewhere out there hides the arms that now can’t hold me, attached to someone as scared of their mind as I am of this world.

57 Music has been instilled in me since I was young, so it's hard to imagine that there would be something else that could help me through these tough times. But I have actually had two things keeping me going. My family has also been there for me; both have spoken to me and helped me when I needed them the most.

Now deprived of touch, I must find what is gained in isolation.

Music always brings my family together so during this time we have really relied on each other and music as our special thing to keep us going.

That is all I need. When this is over, if you're still here, I will rejoice.

For now I will let the music carry me.

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Tango Ayden Link after Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variation 4 “W.M.B”

who says neverland is behind the north star? neverland is behind your eyes lifted by your brief glance to this forbidden land we run and laugh here lay on mist-soaked grass that smells of summer dusk the north star twinkles from our island

59 too in love too naive to acknowledge the danger, the hatred that surrounds us like quotes from “the book” these few moments with your head on my chest are sacred until your eyes turn the other way to cross the street from where we were standing

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Lovers Stuck in a Place Angel Barber

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Layout Design by Jermel: “I wanted to lay out something that seemed both claustrophobic and disjointed at the same time. The poem gives out a sense of displacement and confusion but in an orderly way that will just come to a conclusion.”

See the plain-text version of the poem here.

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Me in Fifty Years Birch Kinsey I will live a fulfilling life. I know that life will become history, weaved into the narrative legacy of so many black women before me.

I am walking a path of regeneration. There is nothing more heartening than knowing I stand with superwomen on the shoulders of titans. Women like Fannie Lou Hamer and Ida B. Wells have paved the way for the Leah Pennimans, Geo Hernandezs, Birch Kinseys of today. Nobody can tell me I can’t do it because I’ve seen myself reflected in women who can.

I will have so many stories to tell but each and every one will begin with the earth.

63 Imagine yourself traveling along a dirt road.

The place you’re in carries the sweet scent of petrichor and chicken manure. You slow down because this is a community where children can chase a ball anywhere it rolls without fear of getting hit by a car— yours included. You pull up, stop your car at the big house, and an old woman beckons you. She sits dignified in a rocking chair her daughter built with a hot cup of tea and an undeniable air of authority. You don't mess around with her. Her grey hair is loc’d down her back, her breath smells like liquorice and herbs, and there are no shoes in sight. She knows this patch of earth, she knows its beauty and its monsters, and she knows where every sharp pebble lives. She has no need for shoes. She leans forward in the rocking chair and rises when you notice her hands: they are veiny and knuckled and have callused many times over. She sees your glance and with a voice like a wool sweater she begins to tell you her story. Her name is Samiyah Birch Kinsey and her story is my story.

64 Every story I tell begins with the earth, every dream I have begins with nature, every step I take is towards stewarding this beautiful planet we share.

Today I am not an old woman, I’m nineteen.

My hands haven’t slain the demons hers have, and my legs haven’t led me to my comfortable farmhouse. My face is in its first lifetime and she has lived many. And I will get there soon.

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Don’t Lose Hope Anika K. Ahh, we really are a selfish creature.

Otherwise, how can we waste food when a starving person is dying?

How can we ignore when an orphan baby is crying?

How can we sleep peacefully at night, when our homeless brothers or sisters are praying?

I also had times when I almost thought that I was done with my life.

Yes, I was so busy with my life that I never felt happy inside!

I never felt that I had it good enough.

Sadly, I'm not the only one!

Until one day I realized how lucky I am!

I have so many precious things that someone else might not have: money, shelter, food and more importantly education.

67 Isn’t that enough to live a happier life?

SO When you’re surrounded by an unknown dark When you’re lost, don’t know which way to walk When every door is locked, don’t know where to knock When your back is against the wall.

When it feels like you’re under a rock.

Even these hardest moments can’t break you apart, if only you’re brave enough to fight back.

These moments never meant to break you rather they meant to strengthen you.

So, don’t lose hope, push yourself as hard as you can.

Breaking the rock, go out, see what's waiting for you!

Explore yourself, explore the world, remember that there is no limit to what you can do and what you cannot.

Where are you?

Don’t you see that the whole world needs someone like you, who can fight until the end?

Don’t you see how lucky you are?

You have so much that you can offer.

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PROMPT

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Your Food Story Massachusetts Avenue Project Youth We make deep connections through the food we eat. Our memories, experiences, and preferences make up our food values. These food values are important to our daily lives. They help shape our personalities and forge connections with people and places. We learn so much about each other when we talk about what we eat, what we ate, and what we want to eat.

For this prompt, we invite you to recall and share a deep connection to food.

Trace a favorite food back to your earliest memory of it.

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My Food Story: Alfredo Laliya K. A food that forever has a soft spot in my heart will have to be alfredo.

if I’m

doesn’t matter

It

upset or sad, I can always go for some alfredo,

because it’s so versatile.

especially

71 Another reason why pasta, alfredo to be specific, has such a sweet spot in my heart is because I

couldn’t always have it. For starters I’m lactose

intolerant but that wasn’t gonna stop me from doing nothing. real reason why was because we couldn’t always afford it.

I

The

didn’t make alfredo until my mother went to Africa leaving us alone with my father and his card.

72 My

the

mom used to do all the grocery shopping so she had initial and final say on what we eat.

I started doing

After

grocery shopping I was able to cater to the needs and wants

it

my siblings and I. I always used to idolize alfredo, mainly because was

of

one of those dishes that seemed boujee. Kinda like a pair of jeans. You can dress it down or dress it up.

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Laliya’s Alfredo Recipe The way I make alfredo varies and I prefer to make my sauce, but you can choose to use the premade one. The ball is in your court. Have FUN ^_~

Ingredients: •Pasta of your choosing •Cheese •Cream of chicken •Cream mushroom •Meat of Your choice

1) Boil the pasta in salted water with a dash of oil.

2) Marinate shrimp and/or chicken in seasoning overnight.

(I like to use salted lemongrass and cajun seasonings.)

3) The next day, pan fry the marinated shrimp and chicken til tender.

74 4) Strain the pasta, leaving a cup of the pasta water for later use.

Time to make the sauce.

5) Put 2 cans of cream of mushroom to 1 can of cream of chicken into pasta with the reserved water.

6) Add grated parmesan cheese until desired consistency.

alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo alfredo

7) Now add cooked shrimp and/or chicken to pasta and mix well.

8) Plate the pasta and top with leftover shrimp and/or chicken. Garnish with chilli flakes, cilantro and freshly grated cheese.

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Dare to Hope Aleigha Floyd

Some people eat and when they eat they eat good mashed potatoes and gravy clear plate full belly enough food to scrape their plate eat the meat and leave the gristle ‘cause they just don't like that part and some people choose rent over rumbling bellies can't stop the ringing in their ears from the hunger

77 and they want they want for all the finer things in life like a home food and respect they couldn't afford the electric bill but they can still see the light you can't buy love and they've got it in abundance they say ‘cause they've got family you can't tell them nothing ‘cause they're rich rich in faith and everything else that matters you'll never hear a single complaint leave their lips they've got hope and that's all they need

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Enough Nzingha

It's easy to feel small in a big world And it's easy to feel tall in a shallow pool But how do you make yourself feel big in said small world?

How do you show everyone that you are comprised of pieces of a puzzle just waiting to be solved?

How do you show the world that you're a candle waiting to be lit?

Ready to spark to show your fire?

79 But what do you do when you show your fire?

What do you do when you know your time will run out?

How do you do everything you've ever wanted, when you want more than what you may have time for?

How do you forgive yourself for all your mistakes?

And all the things you never did?

What do you do when you feel the fire dying?

What do you do when the water is running dry and there is no more shallow for you to stand in?

Do you recount the time you’ve wasted?

Or do you sing for the time you spent?

Do you look at yourself from good?

Or evil?

Have you done enough?

80 Or more than enough?

Or too little?

Did you love enough?

Is everything measured in terms of enough?

Or do we break the measuring cup?

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“one thing is certain, if we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy, and change our children’s birthright.”

—Amanda Gorman

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HOPE As

Youth Led Movement

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Unaware Keira Lorelei VanDerBeck

Layout Design by Jermel: “This one hit home at the hope and hopelessness of its message. The strength and realization of that strength through seeing your weakness. I wanted to create an image with the words that appeared to be a plant or natural form that was balanced but vulnerable.”

See the plain-text version of the poem here.

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The House On Fire Show Teaching artist Kyla Kegler visited the JBWC to lead writers in a workshop connected to House On Fire, an experimental drama about climate justice and young people that culminated in this threeepisode web-series. JBWC writer, Keira Lorelei VanDerBeck, was one of the script writers on the project, which featured more than 40 young artists and climate justice activists.

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Is It SO Theo Bellavia-Frank

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Layout Design by Tyler: “The inspiration for my design for the text in this poem mainly came from my new found love of digital illustration and the uneasy content of the poem. Using a drawing that I broke apart into the shapes you see, I wanted to reflect all the uncertainty the author was conveying.”

See the plain-text version of the poem here.

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Lights of a Nation Anika K. after Amanda Gorman

The hill we are climbing.

Looking for yellow light[s] with closed eyes.

It isn’t always easy to see the bright.

Education is the light, where our motherland gets her life.

Although some think it’s a choice, in reality, it’s a privilege.

91 They say, how lucky you are -you, who have never suffered in her life I say, how lucky you are you, who suffered and realized the importance to living a life like a kite Shall we meet in the light, feeling bright?

If only we tried all together with a clear purpose and dedication, expecting our uniqueness and diversity, creating a new environment where we are equal and fighting for all.

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“We never thought that our worlds would grow larger during a pandemic that confined us to our homes.... Together we became a powerful community of students eager to learn from each other.”

—Lula & Sam

Different Ships, Same Storm

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from Different Ships, Same Storm In the early summer months of 2020, JBWC writers began taking part in Different Ships, Same Storm, a project that connects students all around the world using the art of photography and writing to help express and share their personal stories during this global pandemic.

Students from Buffalo, New York City, Portland, Los Angeles, South Africa, Siem Reap, Port Elizabeth, Cambodia, Kefar Saba, Israel, and Tampico, Mexico participated to explore themselves and the world around them.

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Untitled Aleigha Floyd

Will she remember the days when mommy couldn’t work?

Remember it as the time when everyone was yelling At the tv At the computer At each other

When she was yelled at to keep her mask on though it made her feel like she couldn’t breathe

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Her schoolwork grows dusty because no one has the patience or time to help her with it She’ll be behind next year

But is it really behind if everyone else is playing catch up too

It seems like she’s always getting yelled at I hope that’s not what she remembers Or maybe she won’t have to remember because it will still be her reality

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We Are With You Zanaya Hussain

Even if we aren't able to relate to the pain of someone else, if we recognize that there is pain then we must help.

Being an ally is to teach, to support, to love, and to not expect anything in return.

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Unfamiliar Streets 05/19/2020 5:16pm Elle Bader-Gregory I have been watching my community lean into a celebratory sense of hope, but the people and the pavement seem odd and fragile.

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registration Danny M.

? k r o w e

g a l l vi

m w ho

uch

r e g on

ll a sm h a av in s et ign

ls l i w

l

he ye ve r

wo r

ke d

rich white men in rich white trucks yell i yell we all yell who are we yelling at? god? the police? the air? i sit on the sidelines and beg for people to vote

?

101 i’m 16, why should i care? i care because i care for them i care for you and i care for my future

but it’s hard to care when all i can do

is wait.

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PROMPT

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You’re Already in the Future Danny M. Don’t write about your hopes for the future, write as if you’re already in the future. What does it look like?

Who do you see? Is it what you hoped for?

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Checkered Sneakers Zanaya Hussain after Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variation 11 “G.R.S.”

Tripping

Tripping

Tripping

Maybe I’m walking too fast.

My thoughts are moving faster than my feet.

105 There is a heavy weight on my chest, the feeling of doubt creeping in.

Does it matter if I have a goal, a plan, if I have no time?

And my sneakers are betraying me, yet my shoelaces are tied?

Maybe if I was more honest with myself. Maybe if my confidence weighed more than the insecurity. Maybe if my bookbag was just a little bit lighter. Maybe if my scarf wasn’t slipping.

Tripping

Tripping

Tripping

106 Why can’t I seem to stop dragging my feet on the ground?

The pit of my stomach whispers in my ear every night, “You should slow down!”

But I can’t hear because I am catching wind.

What good are feet when you have wings?

Flying Flying Flying

We must surpass rocky pavement, leap over broken glass, and grasp our dreams.

The pit in my stomach needs to be reminded that my mind is strong, strong like a rushing current determined to echo the sounds of crashing ripples.

107 And when it is doubted

my eyes do not jerk tears, my heart does not waiver.

Power was blown into the heart by my mother's mother.

No,

We rise up!

Flying Flying Flying

108 I work when there is sunshine and only rest when there is starshine.

Because my ancestors scold me every morning,

we never give up

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Contributor Bios Angel Barber is a sophomore at Buffalo State

College, he is interested in film, fashion and psychology. His favorite film is The Love Witch directed by Anna Biller and his favorite color is light blue.

Anika K. is a creative and highly motivated high

school sophomore, passionate about photography, animation, poetry, and abstract painting. She is focused on creating artwork that showcases her views, love of nature, the world, and childhood obsessions. She considers herself to be a passionate community activist with the ability to motivate and inspire individuals and promote significant and positive changes.

Aniya Palmer is a 15 year old straight cisgender

female who goes to Buffalo Academy for Visual and Performing Arts. She is a 10th grader and a Vocal major at her school. Her passions in life include singing, dancing as well as acting. She has always been good at writing since she was a kid and is interested in becoming a radiology tech when she is older.

113 Aleigha Floyd is 17 years old and in 12th grade at Buffalo Academy for Visual and Performing Arts.

Ayden Link is 17 years old and appreciates

cilantro, black coffee, and sunsets.

Birch Kinsey is a 19 year old Buffalo-based just

transition advocate and artist. She is a farmer and oldest sibling who just wants her baby siblings to grow up in a less stressful world. However likely that may be, Birch believes you create the world you want to live in and she does that with all her might.

Cyd Dickson is agender (meaning they do not

have a gender/gender-identity). They use she/they pronouns. They love music and have written a couple songs (lyrics). They write poetry. The key is writing from the heart. They are interested in being an advocate and maybe an activist and writing in the newspapers about issues they feel are important and things that are not always talked about but need to be addressed, such as psychiatry in mental facilities and the treatment they received there and how they were not being heard nor understood and basically disregarded and given up on.

114 Daltin Danser is an 18 year old playwright and

poet who is about to head off to college at The New School in NYC. He has been a member of Teen Reality Theatre since sophomore year, writing plays with other teens to educate on sexual health. He is an amaetuer historian, a linguistics nerd, and a Clueless aficionado. You can find his poetry at @danserpoetry on Instagram.

Danny M. is a junior at hamburg high and a youth

ambassador at the Just Buffalo Writing Center. They center their work around grotesque imagery that masks the emotions they’re conveying.

Elle Bader-Gregory is a Junior at The Park School of Buffalo. Elle enjoys reading, writing, and running. She attends the Just Buffalo Writing Center often and loves to share art and conversation with other young writers.

Emma is JBWC Youth Ambassador and a junior at Nardin Academy. She reads voraciously and spends time with her family.

She wants to bring greater representation into the film and literary communities.

Jermel is a senior at Burgard high school. He loves

music and watching wrestling to pass the time. He is currently completing a project that explores the

115 aesthetics of money and the use of it in hip hop lyrics entitled Bule Money. The digital publication will be coming out late June.

Keira Lorelei VanDerBeck is 13 years old and an 8th grader at East Aurora Middle School.

Leila is a 7th grade student at Buffalo Academy

for Visual and Performing Arts. She is a veracious creator who is interested in exploring as many forms of expression as she can get her hands on. She is currently working on an upcoming digital publication in the Film and Photography class at BCAT, that explores the tainted lens of history through a unique collage process she developed.

Liam is a sophomore at City Honors Schools and a

Youth Ambassador for the Just Buffalo Writing Center.

Maya Simmons is a senior Afro-American Studies

major, English/Spanish minor at Howard University in Washington, DC. She has worked as a poetry editor for Howard's Amistad literary journal, and as a staff writer for the student newspaper, The Hilltop. In an effort to combine her passion for creative writing with her passion for social justice issues and activism, Maya plans to pursue long-form journalism in the future.

116 Nzingha is a 16 year-old junior at Frederick Law

Olmsted #156. She is a musician and singer, as well as a poet. In her spare time she loves reading, writing, listening to and making music. She loves to combine her love of music and writing into songwriting, but primarily writes poetry.

Ray’Cora is a Junior at Bennett High School. She is an avid painter, poet, lyricist, and writer. She has recently started to incorporate her writing and visual art into a digital platform to use them together. She is currently finishing up a new digital publication entitled “Good, Not Good, Good” that combines her poetry and new painting collage techniques.

Shuna (Bushraa Choudhury) is a student

Illustrator, graphic designer, and of course a poet! Her hobbies are growing sunflowers, hiking, and recently she’s been getting more into photography.

Theo Bellavia-Frank is a sophomore at Amherst

High School, where he is a member of the Quiz Bowl, drama, D&D, and a cappella clubs. He is a youth ambassador at the Just Buffalo Writing Center and teaches poetry to children at Temple Beth Zion.

In addition to writing, he likes to play Dungeons and Dragons and video games. He is fascinated by science fiction, high fantasy, undeserved redemptions, and stories of all kinds.

117 Tyler is a senior at Bennett high school. He loves music (late 90’s rock/rap) dancing, making impressions and sound effects. He is about to graduate and attend Villa Maria this coming fall. He is currently working on an abstract digital drawing and capture publication entitled DYGO, DYGO, DYGO.

Valerie Juang (she/her) is a Psychology student

of the University at Buffalo. She works at Planned Parenthood within Teen Reality Theatre and coorganizes for the WNY Youth Climate Council.

She believes sincerely in the impact of grassroots community initiatives and the importance of artivism within advocacy. She places youth leadershIp, intersectionality, and intergenerationalism at the core of her work and is always open to helping other youth become more involved in advocacy. You can contact her at @valeriejuang on Instagram or vjuang@buffalo.edu with any questions about the organizations she works for or social justice at large!

Zanaya Hussain has been a featured writer for

WNED, Variety Pack, and Lit City Voices and attends the University at Buffalo as an International Studies major. She believes writing is power, and hopes to wield her work to make the world more welcoming.

Zelda Abramovich is a 14 year old writer who

one day hopes to have her novels adapted into Netflix shows. She loves writing poetry and fiction.

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a letter to sensitive girls Emma DeRose

little girl, little girl more spirit than body forever at the mercy of forces greater than yourself don’t you know that bad things happen to those who keep good things inside? i know you from the way you trail the halls limbs leaden face plain and mild you don’t cause a stir you are fury itself once risen from the ashes of your mother’s womb naked entirely until you learned to find solace in the shelter of modest clothes and simple habits

119 you cannot reclaim your past instead you bury it you open your heart to others only to feel the raging clout of scorn and derision tolling within your consciousness seeping into your marrow with all the cunning of a snake letting it bite you constricting every airway every thought everything every thing you seek healing you seek kindness until you found you’ve created a monster from the heat of your anger from the piercing fragments of every little lash and blow you didn’t want to let life pass you by you wanted to be it you felt a calling deep inside and you followed its trail gilded and gleaming filled with hummingbirds and blood and you found yourself in a deep dark wood

120 that others claim you germinated from the chaos of your mind a mind you can never escape a place you didn’t choose so from the top of your lungs you shout and you shout and you shout because that is all you know how to do because you believe that you can turn a stone into bread bread crumbling from the cries of others like you in eternal thanksgiving giving giving giving back forever amen and oh how you raise them from the dead oh how they join you in song there’s such a symphony and you feel every breath and every string binding your very being and every wave of sound roiling like a cataclysmic roar and you know this is power this is the power of feeling this is the power of overthinking this is the power of knowing you are weak but with a single shout you can raise an army

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Visions Aleigha Floyd after Variation 3 “R.B.T.” by Edward Elgar

Bluebirds sit in the tree shedding warm light upon my face, it bends.

Joy swells within me.

Rolling hills shelter bumblebees.

My boots skipped and clicked down the rocky road.

The wind resisted and pushed away.

Sand filled my face.

The day got darker than shut eyes but I pushed my weight; I went forward.

123 And wasn’t it pretty when the midnight sky dipped in for a bow and stole a kiss?

20,000 stars twinkling in her eyes reflecting off the lake.

The only sound between us the flutter of a june bug’s wing, fireflies attempting to emulate the constellations above them, cool breeze dancing along my skin carrying whispered promises.

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Lovers Stuck In A Place Angel Barber

For a while now, longer than we’d ever thought comfortable, our home has made time stand still.

Friday pushes the same sludge through grates as the sewers did Monday; in the midst of our rapid movements, my lover and I find no normalcy.

Hours, marked by the larger hand of a circle, are no longer welcome in this household.

We find solace in suspension.

The curve of the 2 and the 3 are the same, and we reminisce on the days they were different.

When lounging in our morning bed was a sin, and the lights were off by 9.

My nose has lost its edge.

The smell of unwashed cotton wafts around, as my lover is reborn in a cocoon of blankets, and laundry gets done less and less.

This is the power of imagination.

Where I crawl beside my cocooned lover, and gaze into reborn eyes that glow the same color as before.

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Unaware Keira Lorelei VanDerBeck

I am unaware, blissfully, dangerously unaware, I learn some, I think I know all, I have hope for a doomed future, I learn more, and more, I am no longer blissful, I sit thinking, knowing nothing I do matters, I am still dangerous, I live, I better understand, the world isn’t over, it very well could be, but it is up to me, to have hope,

127 and be terrified, not save the world, but just be someone who cares, and spreads the message, and doesn’t let the world wash away.

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Is It So Theo Bellavia-Frank

Oh, is it so that we can still see the sunset?

Are these the vibrant reds that came before?

Did my ancestors, on this day, look down and did they pray that their descendants may see thee evermore?

Were these oranges still here half a year ago?

Did the same howls resonate within the dogs?

I feel something in my bones, and somehow, I now know the golem’s footsteps thunder still in Prague.

What is this noise that rises from the silence?

What stirs within my ever-questioning mind?

Revealing the sword in the stone as we clear the violence; like fog, it dissipates with oaths unsigned.

129 Walls are crumbling, hearts are tumbling, and everything is perfectly still.

The dolphins have returned to the Mediterranean Sea. They bark and trill and flap their fins awhile.

And the ripping inside me means that I am tearing at the seams, that I am making space for something that is long out of place.

So I escape to this hole that is the perfect shape to open wide, and sing a song, and smile.

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Designer’s Note Bayard The display typeface used in this book is Vocal Type Bayard. Vocal Type Bayard was inspired by the signs used in the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. The typeface was named after Bayard Rustin, a leader in the Civil Rights Movement, a gay rights advocate, and a close advisor to Martin Luther King Jr.

PT Serif The body typeface is PT Serif. PT Serif is one of three fonts in the Public Type font family. These fonts were created by the ParaType design agency for the 300th anniversary of Peter the Great’s orthography reform. PT Fonts were created with the intention of supporting minority languages of Russia, variations of the Cyrillic alphabet, and the Latin alphabet.

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Resistance Potentilla

Joy Gardenia

Perseverance and Ambition Kalmia

I hope you enjoyed this chapbook as much as I enjoyed playing a part in its creation.

—Mathieu Liu

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With Gratitude Many thanks to the young writers, teaching artists, volunteers, and alum of Just Buffalo’s Writing Center. Many thanks, too, to the following partners who helped make this chapbook possible.

Located on the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee, Just Buffalo Literary Center’s mission is to create and strengthen communities through the literary arts. We believe in the love of reading, the art of writing, and the power of the literary arts to transform individual lives and communities.

Learn more at justbuffalo.org

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