SUMAYA KASSIM
Prose Editor
SEAN WAI KEUNG
Poetry Editor
CAITLIN CLANCY
Art Editor
PHOEBE BROADFOOT
Illustrator
NATALIE CHARLES
Content Manager
Dear Reader,
It may seem futile, almost insensitive, in times like these, to spend time writing, drawing or reading While our team were reviewing and editing the pieces we received for this issue, wars and genocides were being inflicted on innocent people particularly in Palestine, Sudan, and the Congo and the chasm between what we are all witnessing and the work we are doing could have discouraged us from publishing this issue and any subsequent ones For what, really, can art do in the face of such ongoing horrors?
There is no easy answer to this. But, as our team pored over the pieces within these pages, we were reminded of the power of artistic expression, for a free world is a world full of art We were struck by how full of hope writing can make us feel, how images can soothe the soul, how stories can revive the softness within ourselves and each other Art is one of our reminders to be resilient, to belong, to be at peace, and it can be a means of getting there
So, with this full heart in mind, the whole Middleground team thanks you for being here, and wishes you a year of gentleness and hope, both fictional and real.
Happy reading, The Middleground Team
I scrub loosely
Trying not to stretch, smear, smudge
Further
But it’s not working
They told me this would work
A little harder
A little longer
A little deeper
Circular motions
Back and forth
dab dab dab
No
That’s not working
Soak
Warm hugs turn cold
Prune, brittle, frail
Return to life with aplomb
But still there
Cold turns soft hugs
Wrapped up tight
This was the embrace I was told about
In storybooks of people who don’t look like me
With families not like mine
Houses I’d never know
And I melt into that soft hug
Melt into myself
Realise I didn’t need to scrub
Circles
Back and forth
dab dab dab
Dry
Home dry
Where I belong
In a bowl or glass, combine shaved ice, condensed milk, the cool slip of coconut jelly
Layer tapioca and jackfruit, pinipig and bean Sugar palm, gulaman
Recall childhood, summer, the fast version: avalanche of crushed ice like rock crystals dispensing from the freezer, while outside sprinkler water vaulted for sky, daubed sidewalk below patterns on concrete a benediction of endless time
Remember kakigōri, snow-soft piled high: bounty from weekend pilgrimages outside the military base, when the sea breeze called us outward and away beyond the boonies, beyond the seawall and the soba shacks.
Remember Okinawa: when we were sixteen and had time for zenzai, hot on ice, sticky lahars of black sugar and salt melting down our hands, down our throats, while the ocean murmured beyond the hills
Children of nowhere, we borrow culture: pluck places like berries off the bush and tuck them, precious, in the waiting pocket of our memory
Is home airports and highways?
Or a sandy pathway to the sea instead?
As foamy wave curls into the distance, the tang of salt on tongue and the long barrel of life compressing to freeze us here, in time, like a photograph
My first trip to Maui I learn a story: in the markets of Quiapo, outside Manila, Japanese migrants once hawked sweetened beans on ice 6
to the people of my mother’s homeland. The ice is supplied by the Insular Ice and Cold Storage Plant of Ermita, built by Americans to provide comfort to their troops stationed in the Philippines Confluence brings occupation and dessert, cool and sweating on busy hands
On a Hawaiian beach they tell me I look local; like brown almond eyes and the kink of half-Asian hair can make me a home
I linger long in the notion as I burrow toes into sand, watch the edges of the island for sea turtles and think of distant shores that once felt like mine
Halo-halo, or: mix-mix
Belonging is a dream but it can also be this:
A cold glass on the counter filled with good things a return to the purple of yam and the small sweet oceans of melted ice on milk; texture and taste boundaryless and infinite.
Home can be us, can’t it just you and me here, and all the places we’ve ever been, standing in the kitchen together inside this one moment existing
Beside the utensils that groomed us amiss Ma forks my braid to a cornrow, wear kitchen salt on my hormones to sugar the temper
being comely here demands rebellion. so, we choose instead to be fed fat for marriage. I charcoal Ma's slender shape with hurting hands. her image, unspooling in shaded pigment. in place of loving my loin, I invest in knowing how this body would turn out
a girl ago, I witness Ma zip & unzip her breath: a deathless exercise towards wearing a sari, while tucking in parts of her loin eaten by henna
Ma allows me this sight yet, does not grant answers to the stain stewing from my lap, to my reason for being domesticated, while our males roam freely without a price tag sizing them up for purchase.
all these to say, I am still my mother's child, aware of only what Ma approves
I go headfirst into a hijab, in the full glare of a long line of suitors, skin soggy in satin that reeks of camwood
jettison my place, at the fireside to grow a new name Pa, manifesting from the backyard to greet my lack of surprise I've lived his name to a grudge my palm itch in the loathing
I wish for the warm embrace of the males sharing my bloodline. I say this with a conviction beyond gender, & I would be remembered as an asset the dollar rates, inflating my worth
I imagine a time when the word woman would be less transactional, & a sizeable male, in the shape of fiancé yanks the thought off like a dress in our leaving, a thumb press against my chest, in search of teenage temper
I own this bile for the crime that keeps a moustache. this heart, incapable of words. this is how we memorize to say ‘speak', before being spoken to.
My mother hardly ever tells me about her childhood Sometimes I think it’s because she nevergottobeachild Whenshewasgrowing up,shewouldavoidgoinghomebystayingat friends’ places. It taught her what a normal familylookslike Howdinneriseatentogetherat thetable Howtousecutlery Howclothesare washed and ironed How birthdays are celebrated by putting up decorations and blowingoutcandles.Howpeoplecomforteach other with a hug Mundane and self-evident thingsformost,butnotformymother.Notfor ourfamily
Myaunttoldmethatherfather,Pappie,was alwaysworkingtwodoorsawayatnumber6 As aSurinamesemaninTheNetherlandshestood out because of his dark complexion. The only white thing about his appearance was his doctor’scoat,butsecretlyalsohisbehaviour He adaptedasmuchaspossible,soasnottolook outofplace
“DoctorWekker’spractice,howmayIhelpyou?” MymotherwouldanswerthroughtheBakelite telephone. She was already an accomplished assistantAllofthekidswere
Number2,4and6:thefirstthreehousesofthe streetwerethebackdropoftheWekkerfamily's pastHermother,Mammie,wasrarelyathome
Shewasbusykeepingupappearances,asshe was navigating the cold white streets of The Netherlands The outside matters the most to her
InIndonesia,hermotherland,shewasknown astheRoseofAmbon Beingthemostbeautiful girl of the island of Ambon granted her this nickname Here, in The Netherlands, she had becomeatoughbusinesswoman,teachingher children to never rely on anyone. She bought housesandflatswithPappie’sdoctor'smoney, refurbished the complexes and then rented them out She became so successful that she evenstarteddoingthisabroad
Youcouldsaythatwasadmirableforawoman in those days But it meant that my mother becameindependentfromdayone.Neitherher father nor her mother were present, as they werealwaysatwork Beingtheninthofeleven children, she also quickly figured out that she had to fight for attention Rarer still was the warmth of parental love. Harsh hands, granite. jawsandangrytonesmarkedherfamilyhome
Soshewouldalwaysgotofriends’housesafter school and compare She saw that people ate tomato soup, stew with mashed potatoes and sausages seasoned with only salt and pepper. Shelikedthesimplicity
ShefoundherwaytofitintoDutchsociety To
fitinmeanttospeakwithoutanaccent,tobe individualistic, to focus on a doctor’s career, to learnaboutDutchfoodandtoforgetabouther rootsThat’swhatshedid
Butnowshehasadaughter Andthisdaughter wantstoknowmoreaboutherrootsAdaughter who wants to understand why her mother behaveslikeawhiteDutchperson.
But we only talk about work, we don’t talk abouttopicssuchasidentityandfamilyhistory. When I ask my mother a question about the past,shesayssheknowsnothing Shesaysshe can'ttellmeanything,thatIhavetogotomy unclesandauntsformyquestions Itfrustrates mebecausemymotheristheclosesttomeand I want to know her perspective on and experiencewithourroots
Iwanttoaskhertonguewhyithaslivedin silenceforsolong Iwanttoaskhereyeswhy theyhavelookedawayforsolong.Iwanttoask herheartwhyithashiddenpainforsolong I want to ask her skin why it has avoided the warmthofthesunforsolongI’mansweredwith noanswers
Icanfeelthetollit'stakenonher.Hertoneis alwaysrazor-sharp Herbreathingdwellsinher chest.Herfrownlinesgrowdeeperbytheday. Sometimes I wonder why she hasn't started biting her nails She is always stressed, always irritated Shegivesthekindofhugthatdoesn’t feel like a hug One where your bodies barely touchwithanuncomfortablepatontheback.
ButhowcanIblameherfornotknowinghow to embrace with a body that has never been held?
Iwanthertolearntobesoft Iwanthertopick up her parents’ dictionaries in Sranan and Bahasainthelonelycornersofthebookshelves, todiscovertherichnessofherparents’cultures andtolearnmoreaboutwhereshecomesfrom HowpeopleinIndonesiaalwayseattogetherin acircle,howinSurinameyouarealwayspartofa largercommunity Thehugisembeddedinthe waytheyinteract.
When we talk about the third and fourth generation,Iwonderhowfaragenerationcan claimaculturalidentitywhensomuchisalready lostinonegenerationlikemymotherIcansay
thatIammixed,thatIknowhowtocookrice andspeakafewIndonesianwords Beyondthat, Iamnotmetwithquestioninglooksfromwhite Dutch people. Unlike my mother and most of myfamily,Iamperceivedasfullywhite Allmy uncles, aunts, cousins and even my sister are blessedwithmoremelaninthanme NotthatI wanttoreducetheconversationtoskincolour, but I move differently in the world than someonewhoisobviouslymixed Asapersonof colour,youaremoreoftenfacedwithquestions about your roots, you are forced to move throughtheworldinacertainway
I am Dutch-Surinamese-Indonesian, but I normallysaythatIamDutchwithSurinamese and Indonesian roots. I struggle to claim a certainculturalidentitywhenIdidnotgrowup withthosecultures Itmakesmewonder,when canoneclaimaculturalidentity?
Ican’tchangemymother’schildhood Ican’t change the ingrained colourism within my familyandthestoredepigenetictraumasofwar I can’t change my mother’s harsh coping mechanismstoforestallracism Ican’tmakeher questionwhysheactslikeaDutchwhiteperson ButIcanchangethecircleofsilence,theblank papersandthehardenedbodies
Iwantmyfamily,includingmymother,tobe proud of our Surinamese-Indonesian heritage Thoughweareliterallyacolonialproduct,that doesnotmeanourrootsaremeaninglessinthe coloniser’s land, The Netherlands Yes, the suffering inflicted upon colonised peoples, like myfamily,hasimpoverishedtheconnectionto therichnessofourculture YetIandwithme, people from my generation, are now standing uptobreakthesilence
Ihopeformymotherandmyfamilytobesoft, befullyseenandbethemselvesdowntotheir roots.Idosobyaskingquestionstomyfamily, listening to stories ready to be told, writing it down so it doesn’t get lost and by replacing anger with compassion, with softness. And though I know that I will never find all the answers,Ihopetohaveaskedallmyquestions withinmylifetime
That last strand of chaunsa flesh my teeth tear off the guthli, reshaping our mouth, trickling charge through a body to a brain, into synaesthesia I don’t remember rubbing your feet to distract you from braiding my jungli hair I said, ‘I miss you’; I meant it, but it’s changing shape You can’t be seen, surely?
‘Mi’ tumbles off our tongue and not ‘Mum’, that kind, predictable, inward smile– are they your lips, too?
Amla-glazed hands slicking our choti back–the charge held together in indoles, is it wandering aimlessly into our nostrils? I don’t recall you beckoning me to eat andaa and badaam I thought I missed you– I did mean it, but you can’t be sensed? Can you?
Charge along a choti in our back, passing on electrons to heave our chest and throat, to spread frisson, when something moves the vocal folds in Asha Bhosle’s body, trilling out pressure waves– those first few notes of Dil Cheez Kya Hai, pulsed– no; they pulse on the bones in our ear. it was playing– no; it’s playing while a maami flipped– no; is flipping a roti on the tava. I meant it, but are you missing from me? Can you be heard? Are you in the rests after the notes?
I don’t remember being devastated –nauseated– by Devdas when we went the cinema–not a synchronous nor a sorry tale of what was to come, no Charge ran– no; runs– in a body we called– no; call yours– no; mine– no; ours?
You’re beaming hyperphantasmically out of the magnolia, giggling in a gloop of atta in the webs of my– no; your hand If you were, are you still? Are you answering me?
Five months of Mum buried within you in Hyderabad–did you feel half my eye –half my brother’s, my sister’s– buried even deeper? Where are you buried now? Inertia? Wilting plants, sad strangers, lonely friends? In what turns us from a sand spec to this? The scars on my arm?
I see you bow when you pray; you’re out of time I’m moving– am I bowing?
Are you what’s between the shapes of these letters, written with our hands? Many of us say we have 99 names as we move, elate, grieve, through here One of us, we called –call– Wahdani Is Oneness hard both to release and to hold?
I have never felt more Moroccan, and less Moroccan, than I do as I write this
I recently became a Moroccan citizen at 33 years old. It took three round trips from Glasgow to London, an Atlas Mountain worth of bureaucratic paperwork to surmount, and convincing my dad to come with me so he could finally renew his ten year out-of-date documents too, but I did it I have a Moroccan National Identity Card and a Moroccan passport They’re Moroccan documents with a Moroccan name on them and they’re mine! Legally, I could not be more Moroccan So why do I feel Moroccan*, with a classification always needed?
Aside from saving a whopping 30 Dirhams (roughly £2.40, ker-ching) on a ticket to visit Le Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech, what has this accomplished? This milestone has not made me feel more Moroccan It has only enlightened me to how fragile and contracting the connection is to my Moroccan roots *
I didn’t think that this juxtaposition could be topped from a moment last summer during a holiday with my family in Marrakech “Kidayr?” I asked my cousin, who was studying abroad, on a video call.
I had spent much of the holiday, and the preceding weeks, learning and rehearsing new vocabulary in Darija (Moroccan Arabic). When I say new, I mean more than the dozen or so words and phrases I had accumulated since first visiting in 2007. I was fed up with my thoughts, opinions and personality being lost in translation due to a lack of common words, or my inability to work out what to say quickly enough before the conversation had moved on
Taken by surprise, my cousin inhaled, his mouth slightly agape I too am taken by surprise That wasn’t the reaction I expected Did I say it wrong? Had I used it in the wrong context? Was the website I was using all an elaborate trick to embarrass tourists in Morocco? Why would me asking my cousin how he is in Darija, rather than French or English, elicit this reaction?
“Yeah, I’ve been learning some Darija!” I laughed it off, suddenly apprehensive of uttering any more of the new phases in my back pocket
Of course, this was a pleasant surprise for my cousin Rishaad was finally speaking like us! Yay! Yet his response felt more like an indictment Was I that much of an outsider that using basic small talk in our native language was something to congratulate? Here I was in my aunt’s house in Morocco, surrounded by Moroccans at every angle, country as us?
including myself in self-view of the video call
Why did I feel like the odd one out when my cousin wasn’t even in the same country as us?
*
Last year, before my Summer trip to Morocco, I lost my mum suddenly to cancer. With that loss, I felt that same fragile and contracting connection but to my Scottish roots. She could no longer tell me her childhood stories while flicking through photo albums She could no longer take me to her hometown in the Scottish Highlands and show me where she grew up She could no longer explain who this person in our family tree was and share anecdotes about them She could no longer influence how I could carry forward our shared heritage
My mum would often ask me why I was less interested in doing these things with her and instead seemed to be more attached to the Moroccan half in me. She could look at photos of me on Agadir beach in the 35-degree sunshine or eating copious tagines lovingly prepared by one of my aunts and come to an educated conclusion
My mum’s insecurity probably began during the Men’s Football World Cup in 1998 Scotland and Morocco were drawn together in Group A Picking sides was almost like picking a favourite parent as a nine-year-old I opted for Morocco as my second team behind England because Morocco are the Atlas Lions and England have three lions on their shirt (you know the song, right?). Scotland only has one lion on their badge I guess I really liked lions back then My choice was vindicated with a 3-0 win for Morocco against Scotland Did that mean that I shouldn’t have visited my mum’s hometown two and a half hours away from my house for the first time until after she died?
No, it wasn’t heat or food or football that drew me towards Moroccan citizenship I’ve always been more attracted to claiming this side of me because it was unknown.
*
I’ve lived in Scotland for 20 years My parents separated when I was a teenager and I moved up with my mum from Yorkshire, where I was day
up with my mum from Yorkshire, where I was born Scottish culture, colloquialisms, accents, humour and landscapes surround me every day I have Scottish family, best friends, co-workers and a fiancée Ah ken that I belong tae Scotland In contrast, growing up I knew almost nothing about what being Moroccan meant I learned my first Arabic word (As-salaam Alaykum, a greeting meaning ‘Peace be with you’) not from my dad or a family member, but from Youssef, a Moroccan man who lived down the street from us
Being half-Moroccan therefore felt special for a kid in a suburban UK town I could be the boy with a Muslim parent in RE class I could be the tanned boy with hairy legs in PE class I could be the boy who ate dates as a snack I could be the boy whose surname didn’t fit into the box in forms something that’s exasperating now but was oh so droll back then.
It felt good to be the odd one out at home in the UK. I had this other alluring, yet peripheral, world that I technically belonged to but couldn’t fully fathom
The first of my Moroccan relatives I spoke to was my uncle Hicham on the phone when I was 11 The broken English and awkward silences reflected the state of my relationship with Morocco The first time I met one of my Moroccan relatives was when my aunt Khadija visited Yorkshire when I was 15 Playing the perfect teenager, I moped through the entire interaction. I showed none of the innate fascination or pride I had in our common culture. The first time I was able to visit Morocco wasn’t until I was 18 I got sun stroke in Tafraoute, my family’s home Berber town in the Anti-Atlas region of the Atlas Mountains Even an American student I bumped into could speak the Tachelhit language of my ancestors The guilt of discovering this has remained with me
It didn't feel good to be the odd one out in my other home, Morocco
*
Since losing my mum, and losing what comes with her passing, I’ve leaned into my Moroccanness like a crutch for my grief
How could I preserve and enhance my Moroccan self, whatever that was? I needed to better appreciate and embrace my heritage with my 19
self, whatever that was? I needed to better appreciate and embrace my heritage with my dad, while I still could My love for two parents and two cultures became funnelled into one
Becoming a Moroccan citizen was never the destination But a dual nationality seemed like a decent, if a little desperate, first step to not being the odd one out. Although, it's not until you start to pursue something that you realise how little you actually know about it.
I now have a right to reside in Morocco but no ability to speak the language of my fellow citizens I have a right to work but no real concept of what I am skilled to do there I now have a right to vote but no understanding of the history or political trends of the country I have a right to citizenship but no licence to bypass my route to cultural integration I’m still an outlier, even if the law says otherwise
As mixed-race people, we need to have more self-forgiveness for our imposed ignorances. It's not our fault if we have been deprived of one half of ourselves, if we have been raised with fragmented identities, if we feel imposter syndrome Our identity is a personal, fluid, lifelong narrative of self-discovery We all get there at a different pace and by different methods There’s no shortcut or shame to be found here
I didn't need a piece of plastic to become Moroccan because I already was Moroccan I may not know enough about the customs, the culture, the traditions, the values, the religion, the languages, the country’s history, our ancestry. But I haven’t needed to for my family in Morocco to show me unconditional love and acceptance
They take me into their homes and treat me like a son or a brother They share Arabic memes with me that I don’t understand but it makes me feel included They invite me to the mosque for prayers that I don’t believe in but I want to appreciate They make sure I don’t get ripped off in the souk They buy me rice cakes because I (tearfully) can’t eat wheat and thus can’t eat the staple foods of Moroccan cuisine like khobz, Msemmen and couscous. They want me to ask them how they are, whatever the language They think of me as Moroccan, documents or not, and I’m learning that it’s fine for me to do the same
the same
I don’t know what it will feel like to be as Moroccan as I am Scottish or English Having my first full conversation in Darija? Inshallah, one day Not getting charged the tourist price for a taxi in Marrakech? No ID card or passport will convince one of those men to offer me a discount. Maybe it’s okay to simply sip on a mint tea every evening from the mug that my aunt Latifa gave me.
I've come to realise patience is more important than any piece of plastic Just keep putting one babouche in front of the other
Luna sits in the back corner on the second floor of the busy coffee shop near a window that looks out at the Golden Gate Bridge Her nose burns from the perfume of the women at the table next to her She lowers her chin into her tall mug, breathing in the nutty, caramel aroma of her Americano, and focuses on her laptop screen.
Run through the presentation one more time, then you can turn to updating your website And you still need to finish your speech for the Green Energy Summit
She checks her email for her consulting company and finds an email from a city in the Midwest that’s interested in wind and solar
Nice It’s like your friends keep saying, Luna Striking out on your own was the best career decision you ever made
PowerPoint loaded, Luna taps the mouse pad, clicking through the pictures that explain how much energy the solar fields will produce. Then she clicks through options for how the auto company that hired her can market its greener factories and proposed hybrid plug-in truck to a pool of customers not typically interested in the American company’s offerings
They’re in the tough spot of not wanting to entirely rebrand They can’t alienate their base of cowboys and patriotic consumers who don’t identify with environmentalists
identify with environmentalists
Luna bites her lower lip
I keep coming back to wanting to revive the old World War II patriotism of thrift and conservation for the good of the country But that’s too much to try to sell in a soundbite or a set of photo ads.
Sitting back in her chair, Luna takes her coffee mug in both hands and sips, closing her eyes as the bittersweet flavor rolls over her tongue
Keep it simple, Luna Baby steps It’s a big deal that this company is going green at all
Opening her eyes, Luna spots a light-skinned black man in an open-collar blue shirt, navy suit, and walnut brown shoes He sits on a long bench seat that occupies most of the back wall with half a dozen little square tables in a row in front of it
He looks so familiar.
Chin lowered but eyes raised, watching, she takes in his sculpted mustache, close-cut hair, and blue-framed glasses The man places his coffee on the table, sits down, then pulls a laptop and legal pad from his messenger bag
He’s quite handsome She looks at his brown belt, flat against his stomach And fit
She closes the PowerPoint presentation, opens Google Domains to update her website, and holds her breath as the perfumed women rise to leave Thank goodness Exhaling, Luna glances
leave Thank goodness Exhaling, Luna glances back at the man as she waits for the page to load.
Chadwick? No. Couldn’t be. You’re in San Francisco, Luna *
Chadwick opens his laptop and checks the spreadsheet of submissions for the special issue of EcoFrames Magazine on drought He pulls up the next short story submission in the queue, titled ‘Thirst,’ and begins reading a story on avocado farms in the California Central Valley. After three pages, he jots a couple notes on his legal pad. ‘No intrigue. Shows the wrong things, tells the wrong things. Firm rejection.’
Next, he dives into a story called ‘Somali Summers’ about a Peace Corps volunteer who witnesses the effects of climate change on a cluster of agricultural villages It’s not a bad story, he thinks as he replays the plot And it’s well-written But it’s a story I’ve heard a hundred times On his legal pad he writes, ‘Reject with invite for future submissions”
Stretching his back then taking a sip of his black coffee, Chadwick spots a middle-aged, light-skinned woman with curly black hair held up with a large clip. She wears eyeliner and mascara, is thick in the legs and hips, filling out her black suit and grey blouse Her dark, oval eyes reflect the computer screen Recognition dawns on him Luna? Holy shit Is that Luna?
His mind floods with images, settling on one The high school cafeteria A long white table with his theater friends The smell of fried food and the raucous chatter of his classmates There, at a big round table with the other members of the Science Club, enshrined in a halo, her long black hair falling around the sides of her face Luna
Note in hand, Chadwick stood and looked at the young woman he’d had a crush on since the fourth grade Luna Smooth skin, freckled cheeks, thick eyebrows that angled at the edges Numb, feet dragging as though walking through a swimming pool, he’d somehow managed to cross the cafeteria to her table Breathing short through his nose, becoming dizzy, his heart stopped as the members of the
dizzy, his heart stopped as the members of the Science Club all turned to look at him.
“Hey Chadwick,” Luna’s best friend Darlene said, smirking.
“Hey”
“Why’s another theater kid coming to the science dorks’ table?” Darlene asked, elbowing Luna
Head cocked, Luna blinked at Chadwick as he handed her the note then turned and hurried away as she unfolded it
In what felt like slow-motion, he sat back at the table where his theater friends grinned and his best friend, Julio, gave him a fist bump.
“Phew,” Chadwick told Julio, who pointed at Luna walking toward them in her denim jacket and torn jean shorts.
His throat caught as she smiled, handed him the note, then returned to her table Her friends laughed as she sat and Darlene bumped shoulders with her
Chadwick looked down at the folded-up note knowing that he’d never again experience the same excitement he was experiencing right then, asking someone out for the first time He opened the note and held it under the table.
Will you go with me to junior prom?
If my parents will let me. Ill ask tonight.
Chadwick smiled
“What’d she say?” Julio asked “She has to ask her parents”
“Yeah, man That’s a ‘yes’”
A horn beeps somewhere on Masonic Avenue below. Chadwick snaps back to the present. He shakes his head at his computer.
Here she is, twenty-five years later.
*
Luna tries to focus on her work but can’t Should I go over and talk to him? What would I say?
Luna was back in the 11th grade, having dinner with her parents Distracted, mulling how best to broach the topic She’d never gone on a date and she wondered if it might prompt a weird talk about premarital sex from her super Catholic parents
She took a bite of roasted chicken and rice and glanced at her father. He was droning on about the big project he was leading at Exxon-Mobile to establish new offshore oil drilling sites near New Orleans
“You okay?” her mother asked, startling Luna “What’s on your mind?”
“Um” She glanced at the china cabinet set against the dining room wall, filled with her mother’s collection of ceramic and silver knickknacks
Her father set down his knife and fork They clinked as they slid toward the middle of the plate.
“Someone asked me to the junior prom.” She clenched her fists under the table. Her parents looked at each other.
“What’s his name?” her mother asked “Chad Garcia”
“Hmm,” her father nodded, then so did her mother, a twinkle in her eye
“Anything serious?” her father asked “No”
I’ve only had a crush on Chadwick since forever
“Have we met him?” her mother asked “No. He’s just a kid I’ve been classmates with since elementary school.”
Her father rubbed his chin. “Will some of your friends be going? And some of his friends?”
“Yeah, yeah I was planning to go with my Science Club friends I’d just have someone to dance with”
Her father nodded “Okay You will be home by midnight”
Luna smiled “Thanks”
After dinner, Luna worked on homework at the little desk in her room Gloria Estefan’s music played softly on her stereo system on the shelves on the wall across from her bed among her collection of books. In her pink and black pajamas, she tapped her slipper to the rhythm and finished reading a chapter from her history book
She startled at the sound of her father’s raised voice from the kitchen Getting up, she walked to the door, opened it, and peeked down the hall Her parents sat side by side at the dinner table, a book in front of them
“Calm down,” her mother said “Calm down?” her father replied as Luna walked down the hall to the living room.
As she neared, she saw that they held. Her 10th grade yearbook. What the hell?
Her father glared at her, shaking his head “We cannot allow you to go with this boy”
“What?” She lowered her eyebrows “Why?”
“Go with someone who isn’t his kind”
Her mother frowned
“His kind?” Luna asked, voice rising “I assumed he was one of us”
“He’s half Black, half Latino So what?”
“He’s a Black boy,” her father replied “Un negro” “Tranquilo, ” her mother said, putting her hand on his arm.
“No.” Her father stood from the table. “No, no, no.”
Luna’s mouth went dry Is this really happening right now? “He’s a good kid”
Her father raised his hand and made a slicing motion in front of his neck “I have spoken No Junior Prom”
Luna burst into tears and hurried back to her bedroom *
Another short story loaded on his computer, his pencil raised over his legal pad, Chadwick reads, glances at Luna, then shakes his head The story is called ‘Death in the River Valley’ It’s about the Phalgu River that runs through Gaya in the Indian state of Bihar The river is said to be cursed to run dry every year, and the farmers in the river rely on wells that must be deepened each year The story follows a family’s efforts to drill deep enough to find water for their rice paddy field In the end, the family sends two sons to Banaras to work at restaurants to raise money for the petrol-powered pumps the family needs to dig deep enough.
Chadwick jots on his notepad, ‘Strong plot Accept with line edits’
He leans back against the bench and spots Luna still working at her laptop He frowns,
Luna still working at her laptop He frowns, replaying the turn of events that transpired between them
He was back in the theater dressing room with its long counters, chairs in front of mirrors set beneath their little cubbies
Chadwick and Julio were changing into their costumes for their rehearsal of Westside Story. “What did the note say, vato?” Julio asked.
Chadwick shook his head.
“You’ve been quiet since she gave it to you at lunch”
Chadwick secured a clip-on tie for his part as Bernardo “She said she can’t go That’s all I guess her parents said ‘no’”
Julio clapped him on the back “Sorry, holmes That really sucks”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like me”
Luna’s best friend Darlene listened nearby, adjusting her short wig for the part of Anita. She sighed and then strode over. “She’s had a crush on you since elementary school, stupid.”
Chadwick and Julio turned to look.
“Huh?” Chadwick asked
“Her parents won’t let her go with a black guy” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms
“Are you serious?” Chadwick clenched his teeth and his stomach tightened
“Damn,” Julio said “What’s with racist Latinos?”
“Fuck her,” Chadwick said and turned around to look at himself in the mirror
Julio and Darlene exchanged a look Julio shrugged but Darlene frowned out of one side of her mouth.
“It’s not her fault,” Darlene said. “Whatever,” Chadwick said *
Luna types ‘Chadwick Garcia’ in the search bar at the top of her Facebook page Just like after my divorce when I looked him up on MySpace, she thinks, remembering the excitement she felt seeing that he still lived in Austin and the disappointment when she clicked through his profile and photos and realized he was married. She finds him right away and clicks on his profile Probably still happily married with a pair of cute kids, she thinks as she scrolls through his photos
Huh She’s gone from his photo feed She clicks on the ‘About’ tab and finds that he’s single He’s the lead editor at EcoFrames Holy shit I placed an ad for my agency there
*
With his Facebook account loaded, Chadwick does a search for ‘Luna Fernandez’ and gets a long list of hits. I’m such a loser, he thinks as he scrolls through This is just like how I looked her up on MySpace when I had cold feet before my wedding She was married with a kid That kid would be grown by now But I don’t see a ring on her finger, he thinks, glancing at her left hand
He finds her profile and scans through her pictures, finding a bunch of her with her daughter and none with her husband He clicks her ‘About’ tab and it doesn’t have any relationship info.
“Oh wow,” he whispers, noting that she owns a green energy consulting company.
Renewable Energy Solutions Where have I heard that name? He clicks open a pdf of the last issue of EcoFrames Magazine and clicks the advertisements section Yep Wow She placed an ad with us Small world, he thinks, then frowns, remembering their time in high school
*
Quit acting like a schoolgirl and start acting like a successful, confident, middle-aged curvaceous bombshell, Luna thinks to herself. She smiles as she updates her relationship status on Facebook to ‘Single’ She finishes her coffee and shakes her head
Just go talk to him Sheesh It’s meant to be You both work on environmental issues You’re both divorced You both relocated to San Francisco from Austin What are the odds?
She takes a deep breath and glances at Chadwick again
God, he’s even hotter than he was in high school. * She’s even prettier now than she was in high school, he thinks and shakes his head as he
school, he thinks and shakes his head as he navigates back to Luna’s ‘About’ page, finding that her relationship status now says ‘Single’ “Huh,” he says out loud, closing his computer and scooping up his legal pad, placing them in his messenger bag He downs the last of his coffee Quit acting like you’re in junior high, he thinks as he stands up with his bag. Come on, man. You don’t want to get involved with a woman with a racist-ass family. Enough, Chadwick You’ve got work to do
He looks at her and their eyes lock
She already hurt you once She didn’t even have the decency to tell you the truth, he thinks *
Oh my God He’s coming to talk with me Okay, Luna Hold it together, she thinks and crosses her legs.
He lifts and lowers his chin at her, his face showing no emotion. Then he turns and heads down the stairs.
Luna’s lips part as she watches him disappear
Rain like molokhiyya (But you don’t remember how to make it)
Rain like
The sea with my name
To the planet with your name
From an old song
The voice from the rain says “Bid Farewell to your love”
Bid Farewell
The texture and color of molokhiyya
Like algae in a slow river
Slow
Slow
But all growth (Stars?) Growth (Stars)
All growth Is slow
Like molokhiyya
And like stars
Now, I dance
And in the rain I put on a pocket
And find there
Faith
At the same time
The rain puts on a pocket
يازﺮﻄﻣ ﻪﻠﻤﻋﻒﻴﻛﺮﻛﺬﺘﺗﻻﺲﺑ(ﻪﻴﺧﻮﻠﻣ)
ﻦﻣﺮﻄﻣ ﻲﻤﺳاﻊﻣﺮﺤﺒﻟا ﻚﻤﺳاﻊﻣﺐﻛﻮﻛﱃا
ﻪﻤﻳﺪﻗﻪﻴﻨﻏاﻦﻣ ﻞﻗﺮﻄﻤﻟاﻦﻣتﻮﺼﻟا: ”كاﻮﻫعدو“
عدو كاﻮﻫ
ﻪﻴﺨﻠﻣنﻮﻠﻟاوﺲﻤﻠﻤﻟا ءﻲﻄﺑﺮﻬﻧﻲﻓﺐﻠﺤﻄﻟاياز
ءﻲﻄﺑ ءﻲﻄﺑ ﻮﻤﻧﻞﻛﺲﺑ (؟مﻮﺠﻧ) ﻮﻤﻧ (مﻮﺠﻧ)
ءﻲﻄﺑﻮﻤﻧﻞﻛ ياز ﻪﻴﺨﻠﻣ مﻮﺠﻧيازو
ﺺﻗراﺎﻧا،ﻲﺘﻗﻮﻟد ﺐﻴﺟﺲﺒﻟاﺮﻄﻤﻟاﻲﻓو كﺎﻨﻫﺪﺟواو هﺪﻴﻘﻋ
ﺖﻗﻮﻟاﺲﻔﻧﻲﻓ ﺪﺟﻮﻳوﺐﻴﺟﺲﺒﻠﻳﺮﻄﻤﻟا
And finds Me
Remember a heart is a small place Where it’s possible to live Live And Home country bread And molokhiyya And rain And live And And Finished Finished And We begin
ﺎﻧا
ﺮﻛﺬﺘﺗ ﺮﻴﻐﺻنﺎﻜﻣﻚﺒﻠﻗ ﻪﻴﻓﺶﻴﻌﻟاﻦﻜﻤﻣ
ﺶﻴﻌﺗ
و يدﻼﺑﺶﻴﻋ
و
وﻪﻴﺧﻮﻠﻣ وﺮﻄﻣ ﺶﻴﻋ
و
و صﻼﺧ صﻼﺧ
و اﺪﺒﻧ
Rishaad Aït El Moudden (he/him) is a BritishMoroccan fundraiser in the arts and education sectors. He was born in Leeds but has lived in Scotland for 20 years. When he’s not writing funding applications, he writes about fundraising on his Substack, Rishtricted Reserves. He loves films, bouldering and Leeds United. Rishaad holds a PgCert in Arts, Festival and Cultural Management from Queen Margaret University and a BA (Hons) in Acting for Stage & Screen from Edinburgh Napier University He currently works for a university in Scotland and is a charity Trustee
A half-Filipino Third-Culture Kid, Lori Arden Snow spent her childhood moving from place to place, living for short spans of time in the Philippines, Japan, Turkey, Germany, New Mexico, New York, and Okinawa Currently she lives in Berkeley, California, where she works as a video editor and writes when she can, after work and in between edits
Mary Barghout is a mixed-heritage EgyptianAmerican writer and multidisciplinary artist whose work seeks to complicate linear linguistic notions in favor of creating libratory spaces that acknowledge colonial linguistic pasts while moving with a spirit of playfulness towards/creating multidimensional futures Her work has appeared in Mizna, Azeema magazine, the Saint Paul Almanac and online at mixedmagco and at therumpusnet and is forthcoming in the 2023 Cracked Walnut Poetry Anthology You can catch her before she quits insta entirely @mghouti88
Lauren Lee Cory (she/her) is a Scottish Cantonese illustrator based in the UK She recently graduated from Kingston University’s BA Illustration Animation course, and was noted as one of ‘10 UK Illustration Graduates to Watch in 2023’ by the Association of Illustrators Her work explores identity by looking at the changing urban and rural landscape and how this can reflect our sense of belonging. More of her work
is available to view on Instagram, @lovelylawn.
Jessy DeSantis (they/them) is a product of Revolution Their Nicaraguan Indigenousdescended Sandinista Mother meets a white American anti-imperialist engineer postNicaraguan civil war With similar ideals, they fall in love and the rest is history Jessy shares their complicated racial history through this twoportrait Family series, from one end as The colonized and the other as the colonizer They connect the contrasting two through nature Jessy resides in Baltimore, MD, USA and is a mother of two young children
Amii Griffith is a multidisciplinary writer with over a decade of experience in film and television She is a Soho Theatre Writers Lab alumni as well as a Film London short film fund recipient Amii recently started developing her practice as a poet, performing on various occasions including a Noël Coward anniversary event at the Actors Church and for the Blue Plaque unveiling for Richard Price in Newington Green Meeting House Amii has just completed an MA in Script Writing at Goldsmiths UoL and is currently working on a Heritage Lottery funded short film which she co-wrote and produced
Like many Liverpudlians, Ruqayyah Moynihan’s dad is of Irish descent. Naani was Upite, Naana was Sindhi; they arrived in Liverpool in '63. Dad reverted to Islam to marry Ruqayyah’s mum. Ruqayyah was named so partly as a peace offering. Ruqayyah coaches, writes, and educates on healing, particularly from intergenerational and systemic trauma.
Rigo lives in Amherst, Massachusetts with his family His creative writing has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, THEMA, and A Thin Slice of Anxiety Under the name Jason Rodriguez, his academic writing has appeared in such venues as Race Ethnicity and Education, Whiteness and Education, Review of Radical Political Economics, and City & Society. A multi-
instrumentalist and singer-songwriter, Rigo is querying a number of novel-length works, is a member of the rock band Black Door ’74 (https://blackdoor74band.com/), and also performs music solo (www.rigoartist.com).
Nnadi Samuel(he/him/his) holds a B.A in English & literature from the University of Benin Author of 'Nature knows a little about Slave Trade' selected by TateNOquendo (Sundress Publication, 2023) His works have been previously published/forthcoming in Suburban Review, Seventh Wave Magazine, North Dakota Quarterly, Quarterly West, Common Wealth Writers, The Capilano Review, Arc Poetry, Poetry Ireland, New Orleans Review, Westerly, PRISM Magazine, The Spectacle Magazine & elsewhere A 3x Best of the Net, and 7x Pushcart Nominee He won the River Heron Editor's Prize 2022, Bronze prize for the Creative Future Writer's Award 2022, UK London, the Betsy Colquitt Poetry Annual Award, 2022(Texas Christian University), the Virginia Tech Center for Refugee, Migrants & Displacement Studies Annual Award, 2023 and the 2023 Stacy Doris Memorial Award(Fourteen Hills) San Francisco State University Review
As a queer person born in France from the Vietnamese diaspora, XM Tran’s artwork explores their mixed identity They focus on the question of belonging and dreaming of better futures, and on creating new ways of expressing the multiplicity of the self. XM mainly uses linocut to express their art, a technique that has particularly been used in revolutionary circles for the advance of social struggles since the 1900s. This art allows the handmade creation of unique artworks in series.
Sacha Celine Verheij (she/her) is a photographer, editor and spoken word artist. As a queer creator with Surinamese-Indonesian roots, her work aims to break taboos and go beyond dominant perspectives. She is the editor-in-chief of the Skin Mutts (@skinmutts) magazine and started a nonprofit Bersama Collective (@bersamacollective) to open conversations around identity and colonialism Right now she is working on a spoken word album, in which she explores her family history and the shared history between The Netherlands and Indonesia
Natasha Virli (she/her) is a 24-year-old multidisciplinary artist based in the East
Midlands (UK). Born to English and Punjabi parents, she draws inspiration from the fusion of languages that shaped her upbringing. Recently graduating with a First-Class Degree with Honours in Fine Art, she is currently on the path to achieving a Master’s Degree in Contemporary Art Practice. She perceives language as a gateway to distinct worlds beyond communication. Her artistic expression involves working with a cryptic Punjabi and Englishinspired pseudo-language, crafting imagined realms through intricate collages By deliberately combining displaced and mismatched elements, she provides a commentary on the convergence and fusion of diverse cultures and asks the audience to get lost with her Her aesthetic, constructed from her own memories across the globe, is simultaneously disconcertingly familiar and inherently foreign, challenging notions of authenticity and tangibility, symbolising the precariousness of her invented worlds, poised on the verge of destruction
