WRITERS ROOM | Anthology 6

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Š 2020 All rights remain with authors and artists.

Cover and book design by Patty West.

TABLE OF CONTENTS INTRODUCTION 10 WE CONTAIN MULTITUDES WE EXIST IN MULTITUDES 14 Hasciya Austin, Brenda Bailey, Patricia Burton, Rosalyn Cliett, Merle Curran-Ackert, Barbara Dale, Dejah Jade, Jordan McCullough, Carol Richardson McCullough, Darrell Omo-Lomai, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy, Mabedi Sennanyana, Devin Welsh

TRIPOD I. BRIDGES ACROSS TIME AND SPACE: DISTANCE

ON TRIPOD, Kyle Howey and Natasha Hajo 30 32 BEYOND RUSTY BARS, Emanual J. Marquez ANXIETY, Jarett Speller 34 36 SEEING MY SELF FOR THE FIRST TIME, Rosalyn Cliett UNTITLED, Keyssh Datts 38 AT THE ICA, Tymir Gullette 42 HAIKU, Norman Cain 45 A CONVERSATION ACROSS SPACE AND TIME, Carol Richardson McCullough, Miracle Spence 46 UNTITLED, Mallika Kodavatiganti 51 THE DISTANCE FROM SIXTEEN, Niyai Walker-Cruz 52 54 HOMELAND, Tymir Gullette AT THE ICA, John McDonald 57 A CONVERSATION ACROSS 58 SPACE AND TIME, Yusha Johnson, George Jenkins AT THE ICA, Jarett Speller 60 61 BRIDGES OVER WATER FLOW, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 62 PHILADELPHIA SKYLINE, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy STREAM ON MLK DRIVE, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 63 TEA ANYONE, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 64 65 FOOT OF A TREE, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy FRIDAY AFTERNOON AT A PRISON, Mallika Kodavatiganti 66 HORIZON, Jarett Speller, Rosalyn Cliett, Kirsten Kaschock 70

TABLE OF CONTENTS

II. WHAT I SEE (THAT OTHERS DON’T): HIDDEN GEMS

TRANSLATION, Jordan McCullough 74 UNTITLED, Lowell Nottage 75 ARCHITECTURAL CREATIVITY, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 77 THE WAY, John McDonald 78 LAST FROST, Chad Hardy 79 UNTITLED, Tiffany Ellis 80 UNTITLED, Dhazir Acosta 81 CONVERSATIONS AT LAUREL HILL, Devin Welsh 82 FRIDAY AFTERNOON 84 AT THE CEMETERY, Mallika Kodavatiganti HAIKU, Norman Cain 88 UNTITLED, Keyssh Datts 91 UNTITLED, Niyai Walker-Cruz 92 94 BLUE WOODY MAUSOLEUM, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 96 FRIDAY AFTERNOON ON 39TH, Tymir Gullette IN THE MIDDLE, Devin Welsh 98 102 THE TAJ MAHAL HAIKU, Rosalyn Cliet t 105 FOUR TRANSLATIONS OF A HAIKU, Mizuta Masahide III. REVELENCE AND RELEVANCE: THE SACRED

UNTITLED, Brenda Bailey 108 MONARCH, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 110 MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy 111 STRENGTH LIES BEYOND THE SOUL, Carol Peña 112 UNTITLED, Chad Hardy 117 FALLING TEARS, Jarett Speller 118 SUNSET, Jarett Speller 119 FUN RUN, Jarett Speller 120 IN PLANE, Jarett Speller 121

BRIDGE RELAXING, Jarett Speller 122 BLACK EYED FLOWER, Jarett Speller 123 124 THE WOMAN IN THE PICTURE, Rosalyn Cliett  BRAIDED, Atticus Berry 128 HAIKU, Norman Cain 131 UNTITLED, Tiffany Ellis 133 HOW DO YOU SEE ME, Devin Welsh 134 UNTITLED, Yusha Johnson 137 IN MEMORIAM, Rosalyn Cliett, Kirsten Kaschock, Jarett Speller 139 FRIDAY AFTERNOONS, Kimberly Sterin 140

DOING THE WORK ON DOING THE WORK, Rachel Wenrick 144 147 ON WRITERS-IN-RESIDENCE, Kirsten Kaschock OF STARKNESS, Amanda Fields 148 SAY HER NAME, LIVE HER STORY, SPEAK HER TRUTH, Teigha VanHester 150 WE ARE NOT WHOLE: SO WHAT ARE WE 152 GOING TO DO ABOUT IT? Janel McCloskey REFLECTION ON ORTIZ 156 AND HER WORK, Carol Richardson McCullough

NOTES ON BUILDING

LIKE THE WORLD WAS MINE Mel Brown, Afuah Frimpong, Kyle Howey, Kamaiyah Jackson, Dejah Jade, Ahmiir Jefferson, George Jenkins, Yusha Johnson, Pierie Korostoff, Ian Lipford, Linda Loi, Lowell Nottage, I. C. Cosmo Randazzo, Jarett Speller

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DREAM VOICES ANCESTRAL TREE, Norman Cain 170 THE GREEN, I. C. Cosmo Randazzo 175 178 JANUARY IN THE NEWS, Alex Wasalinko

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE COMPUTER LAB 179 VIEW OF YEAR 2120, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy ERA OF THE FUTURE, Kyle Howey 180 184 THE BEGINNINGS OF A THIEF, Kirsten Sherich 186 SILVER THREADED BEINGS, Kylie West THE MAN OF WHISPERS AND 187 THE CURSE OF KNOWLEDGE, Emanual J. Marquez SMOKE, FIRE AND FLAME, IS PART OF MY FAME, Earl Hackett 190 THE NECKLACE, Brenda Bailey 194 200 THE SANDMEN, Brendan Garwood HARANGUING HUGHES 201 MIGRATION/INSINUATION, Elizabeth Abrams

REPOSE SUSTENANCE AND REPOSE 204 Andrea Walls, Beth Ann Downey

VISUAL NARRATIVES MY MOM DROPS ME OFF, Katie Pudred

214 ACCEPTIN CHRIST, Chanda Rice 216 BLOOD DONATION, Sarah Velcofsky 217 THE PICTURE WITH WANDERING EYES, Briyanna Hymms 218 SALT, Sarah Velcofsky 220 SUPPLIES & DE-MONS, Emanuel McGill 222 224 WE WERE AT IT AGAIN, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy BABY DOLLS, Elizabeth Abrams 226 AS THE SONG GOES, Neil Bardhan 227 228 BEST DAY OF MY LIFE (SO FAR), Elizabeth Abrams LOVE IN THE DARKNESS, Daralyse Lyons 230

7:40 MARK, Angel Hogan 232 HOW WE FORGET, Alex Wasalinko 234 235 CASTLING ACROSS AMERICA, Rahkinah Laurel

VIEWS FROM HOME NEW RITUAL, Kyle Howey 238 ON WRITING FROM HOME, Kelly McQuain 239 WRITING PROMPT, Husnaa Hashim 240 241 THAT WHICH HOLDS ATLAS, I. C. Cosmo Randazzo SHE MADE IT LOOK EASY, Devin Welsh 242 SICK DAZE, Devin Welsh 243 CAUSE AND EFFECT – (5/11-15 2020) 244 Briyanna Hymms, Natasha Hajo, Melanie Moyer, Nick Vonk, Keyssh Datts

SMALL THINGS – (4/27-5/1 2020)

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ON LUGGAGE – (5/4-5/8 2020)

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ON PAUSE – (4/20-4/24 2020)

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Dominique Shatkin, Brenda Bailey, Kyle Howey Dejah Jade, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy, Duaa E. Zainab, Atticus Berry, Medha Gupta Jasmine James, Earl Hackett, Robyn Phleps, Amy Gottsegen, Rachel Wenrick, Patrice Worthy, Mallika Kodavatiganti

CONTRIBUTORS 268

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 286

INTRODUCTION As A6 goes to press, we are planning the book’s launch, which will happen remotely this year due to the COVID-19 pandemic. We have had to close our studio, and the absence of our physical spaces makes us appreciate our connections even more. We hope that this book brings us together, too, by the stories it tells.

It catalogs a truly remarkable year of growing and belonging. In the six short years since we first dreamed up Writers Room it has expanded to include room (rooms) for more and more neighbors, students, and the extended family of Philadelphia artists. We now exist and grow as a center of the College of Arts and Sciences, and we thank Dean Norma Bouchard for her support. This year also marks our first full year with Patrice Worthy as Assistant Director, and we appreciate how Patrice has enabled us to increase our reach while continuing with vital programs.

In September, Michelle Angela Ortiz, collaborating with Jordan McCullough and Carol Richardson McCullough, led a painting session at our back to school night. The resulting murals were installed at the Free Library of Philadelphia in October. “We Contain Multitudes,” a workshop that generated writing and a mural created by Courtney Bowles and Mark Standquist, also happened early in our year. Fittingly, in March, just before the shutdown, Courtney and Mark returned to lead a Anthology 6

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design-writing workshop on building development without displacement. You’ll see images of many of the spaces imagined, here in this book. These imaginings highlight our emphasis on crossdisciplinary art-making and how art can contribute to both individual and group actions.

Throughout the spring, in addition to continuation of our regular programs such as TRIPOD, we developed new initiatives, including an extensive blog presence, open mics, and remote workshops led by guest writers Kelly McQuain and Husnaa Hashim. Many works shared and created in these spaces are contained in the “Views from Home” section of A6.

Through participant-led First Tuesday workshops, the TRIPOD program (with an emphasis on intergenerational collaboration), and an array of special events and readings, writers are exploring new styles, genres, and skills. This year also marks the founding of our writers-in-residence program, co-sponsored with Study Hotels, kicking off with poet and photographer Andrea Walls.

Walls has spoken about needing to “settle down” in order to get work done, in the sense of settling in, of growing calm. We hope that Writers Room helps to provide such a place, for you.

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Valerie Fox, May 2020 Introduction

In July 2019, Writers Room partnered with Mural Arts Philadelphia’s guest curator-in-residence Daniel Tucker and People’s Paper Co-op artists Courtney Bowles and Mark Strandquist for the series Power Map: Historical Mural Activations. “We Exist in Multitudes” was created in response to the mural Boy with the Raised Arm by Sidney Goodman (1990) at 40th and Powelton. This program was developed in conjunction with Whitman at 200 and was one of six new commissions activating murals created in Mural Arts Philadelphia’s first 20 years.

Natasha Hajo

WE EXIST IN MULTITUDES Hasciya Austin, Brenda Bailey, Patricia Burton, Rosalyn Cliett, Merle Curran-Ackert, Barbara Dale, Dejah Jade, Jordan McCullough, Carol Richardson McCullough, Darrell Omo-Lomai, Victoria Huggins Peurifoy, Mabedi Sennanyana, Devin Welsh

We contain conflicting stories. We carry generations of information in our DNA. We are standing on the shoulders of those who came before us. Our family is the backbone. Our source of strength. The vessel of love and support. It is the starting point, the spot from which we venture forth into the world and the place to which we can return. But home can also be insecure. Our dreams can be stepped on by our family, friends, and other haters. Gentrification and displacement are all around. Building community means ensuring that everyone has a place to come home to.

We are healing from old and new wounds. From self harm. From abuse. From feeling we are nothing.

We have many to help us cope; to deal with what has stemmed from oppression and culture. We are a culmination of years of history, tradition, and experiences. Our personalities are formed from the countless people we meet. We are more complex than others might see at first glance. I constantly have new ideas and I’m learning to make them a reality. The world is a dark and cruel place, but only because people don’t know right from wrong. But I do. I work for world peace.

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We Contain Multitudes

Dejah Jade

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Jordan McCullough

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We Contain Multitudes

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

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Brenda Bailey

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We Contain Multitudes

Rosalyn Cliett

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Merle Curran-Ackert

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Chanda Rice

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We Contain Multitudes

Carol Richardson McCullough

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Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Hasciya Austin

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We Contain Multitudes

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Courtney Bowles and Mark Strandquist

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We Contain Multitudes

Mallika Kodavatiganti

I. BRIDGES ACROSS TIME AND SPACE: DISTANCE

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

ON TRIPOD Kyle Howey and Natasha Hajo

NH: The end here always feels the same— breathing out, lots of love, scrambling to find the words. Telling the story of us.

KH: It began with realizing I was becoming a part of this community. I didn’t know that these writers of all kinds—high school students, Drexel students, senior citizens I’d never met before—would soon become close friends.

NH: What I did at Writers Room during my time as a student armed me with the ability to look in and through. I began taking note of reflections—my own and others’—in places and people and feelings. I used writing to find the overlap. I made a home of it.

Devin Welsh

KH: Writers Room found me at a time when I didn’t know what I needed. I was a sophomore at Drexel, newly an English major, returning to writing, and quietly unsure of where my interests were taking me. I remember feeling both nervous and relieved at the prospect of something new. At first, some of us tiptoed around our differences.

Others dove right into what matters, despite them. But in the end, we understood what wonderful things are made together.

Devin Welsh

NH: I found myself moving differently this year as an ArtistYear Fellow. Still, I pulled from what I learned in Writers Room and brought it into a new space. I connected, shared, and laughed with students. I listened to what was said and heard what wasn’t. I tried to be like the people I’d previously been surrounded by: pillars of support who make you, who made me, feel seen.

KH: Now, Tripod, in its third year, continues to evolve—and it should. No longer a student but a guide as the Alumni Fellow, I get to see new faces, new stories, and new journeys.

They impart themselves in their work—what they’ve learned. And I learn from them. I see new faith in art. New generations thinking, speaking, acting with intention. Filling the spaces that need to be filled.

NH: What I learned in my new role is the people who know your story will always bring you back to yourself.

KH: I hope that in this often random world, they hold onto the memories they’ve made here for all of us. They come to listen and be heard.

They come to learn and to inspire others. They know that to make a mark here is not just to leave a name, but to be a part of the story.

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Tripod

BEYOND RUSTY BARS Emanual J. Marquez

Looking out beyond the horizon of the chained and barred window the blue creature yearned for more. He longed for the freedom of the dragons and the bears. The wolves and the sheep but the blue creature was denied this freedom.

He longed for the freedom of the past although, to some extent he did not know this.

He longed to laugh and play like the little blue creatures used to ways before. Back when his grandmother was nothing more than a blossoming seed in a rapidly changing world.

He longed for this faintly, even if he did not know he did. His mind was absorbed by something else, something more pressing, something more dangerous than bars on a window. Because to escape the imprisonment of the room all the creature must do is leave. But what could the little creature do to free himself from the darkness that resides in his palms. The LCD screen that spread darkness into his mind and encapsulated him with a thirst of useless knowledge.

He longed to be outside but now no longer know how to talk, how to speak, how to express himself. What will the little blue creature speak to the dragon, and bears. How would he play with the wolves and sheep.

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Niyai Walker-Cruz

What if he’s not worthy? What if he’s not likeable? What if he’s not as cool? What if they judge him?

These thoughts of anxiety and depression feel his mind to the point he can no longer breathe. He decides to not leave the room and thirst for the poison that is plaguing his mind.

ANXIETY Jarett Speller

Hey... I was wondering if you can leave me alone for today and I don’t mean to come off Oh and I forgot to say.... Aha I love you... I can’t forget to say I love you

and I wanna tell the world about our love hate relationship But will the world even listen or relate to our relation I question everything and even question my own questions. I question why am I the only one feeling lost and out of place

Yusha Johnson

Ahaha I love you (well I think so) I know I’m not good enough for you

Devin Welsh

But every day I have to get up and at least try.

That’s all I can do I catch myself second-guessing and overthinking about overthinking over and over. Our partnership is great together... a lil’ too great to where I feel like you hold me back a lil’ bit, unless your just like a third parent protecting me But even at one point we gonna let our parents go Now I think it’s time for me to grow up and become an adult and let you go I can stand my ground and hold my own weight I am strong and I am independent and I am brave-

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Tripod

SEEING MY SELF FOR THE FIRST TIME Rosalyn Cliett

We can see one another But you can’t see self until you have been mirrored Seeing my image Through the still clear blue water Didn’t recognize the image staring at me She was beautiful Despite the names she was called It uplifted her Countenance to smile much more

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Niyai Walker-Cruz

UNTITLED Keyssh Datts

one or two steps in the mirror in front of my tears with looks of night mares and i fear i’m trapped in this glare but i know it reflects what perhaps isn’t there so i screen have you ever felt this pain that your trapped in this dream but no one else in there colden days turned my days turned my day dreams to nightmares and i tried to numb pain but my pain was cold with fear

so if i showed u all my heart and it was broken from the start would u say u played a part? if u held me in the wombs when it dark would tried spose the fact that u wounded from start so it hurts to look u in the mirror cus i looking at my scars in my eyes if they was there and i’m tired of holding up this smile cus darken days lift me up then throw me down in piles tired holding up these tears when my niggas locked in solitaire

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Devin Welsh

I wish that flower planted seeds and never had no chile cus all her demons pass to me i’m looking at n a tired of holding up these tears when my my niggas locked in piano

have u ever felt ever felt shine but that turn to rain flew my on the sunny day till my paps has went away

Reality no matter how much you feel you can numb, being human makes the transfer of feelings to one self-impossible to control I’m living in a fantasy, I will never know my reality because money prohibits my truth.

I’m not far because I’ve learned to live with myself internally.

we have to destroy ourselves to see our inner god.

I’m dying. internal demons are eating me up inside, you look at me in lust.

I love you but if you but if you knew was inside, you’ll think my demons are the ones you had envisioned.

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Devin Welsh

AT THE ICA Tymir Gullette

My life is kind of distant.

You’re probably wondering what I mean by that?

Well, when I was younger I lost hearing in my right ear so things have been really difficult for me to hear unless I’m up close to the noise. As I was taking pictures today at the ICA, I was trying to stay focused on the topic. There was a sculpture of a brick wall with clothes hung on them and it was the only thing in the room. All I could think about was how much space there was in the room. From a distance if you look at the sculpture it looks like it was against a wall but actually it was in the middle of the room when getting closer. The assignment was the farthest thing from it. Everything was so spread out in the exhibit. The wall was so far from the sneaker truck & the carousel so far from the obelisk yet all so close. The space isn’t huge but the height and length of everything else made it seem so much bigger than it was.

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John McDonald

Mallika Kodavatiganti

HAIKU Norman Cain

The curious child Impetuous teenager Matured adult Anticipating The spring equinox during Cold winter solstice We life surfers ride The rough waves of existence As long as we can

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Tripod

A CONVERSATION ACROSS SPACE AND TIME Carol Richardson McCullough and Miracle Spence

How close are you to/from home?

C: Home is a place I carry within my heart.

It matters not how many times or how far I am forced to move away from a physical structure. The essence of it transcends it all, and I hold it close always.

M: Miles from home.

How close are you to/from love?

C: I am both surrounded by love and yet distant from it, depending on what type of love; it exists on both endpoints on a line from me.

M: I’m stuck in it.

How close are you to/from success?

C: I am far from my original concept of success, but I am close to a redefinition of what actually matters. I am lifting weights that hold me down and breaking things that bond me.

M: Trying to find my way.

How close are you to/from reality?

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C: Reality stares me in the face, kicks me in the ass every day. I have learned to kick back and keep stepping.

M: Close but not close because I still live with my dad.

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How close are you to/from the best of yourself?

C: I am on a journey to rediscover myself – the best part of me/at my best.

M: I’m still trying to find myself.

Mallika Kodavatiganti

Expand on your ideas of distance.

C: What profits a wo/man to gain the whole world yet lose their own soul? Why think you need so many material things, trinkets, or titles – to make success? When you come close to losing it all, having it stripped away, to gain back a little is really a lot. Success comes closer upon reflection and redefinition of what really matters, when you discover you’re closer than you think.

M: I hit reality a little bit because I have a little girl to raise. I have to be a role model and reality didn’t hit me in a way because I still live under my dad’s roof. So I don’t know how to do certain things.

Expand on C: Proximity to love + success both depend on your ideas how you define them. These are different of reality. types of love, although in English we use the one word LOVE, in other languages there are different words for the different types, such as love of mother and child, love of home and family, love of self, of community, of place, or physical love, emotional love, romantic love.

The distance is lesser in some types and greater in others. One is across the room, another across town, others across country. Love exists for me on an endpoint. I can reach out my arms and draw it in close to me, though another type eludes me.

M: I’m stuck in the middle of love because I bring

Jarett Speller

my family together. I have 8 brothers and 2 of them don’t like each other. I always have to talk to both of them at different times to bring them together, and my 2 aunts, sisters of my mother – they always argue and it seems like they hate each other but it seems like when I put my two cents in then they wanna get cordial and be friends again.

Mallika Kodavatiganti

UNTITLED Mallika Kodavatiganti

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1.

The colors shift as the sun rises. It’s a private show, just for me, as the rest of the city starts to wake up.

2.

The sun dries out the thin petals, but they face it anyways. Sunlight and fresh air.

That’s all they need to live a long, happy life.

3.

I don’t really clean my violin because it makes me feel like I’ve practiced a lot.

4.

My apartment is 78 degrees. It’s midJanuary. A glass of water never looked so beautiful.

5.

Watching the clouds is a peaceful break from my never-ending to-do list.

6.

Streetlights and cars make my room glow every night. I have trouble sleeping, but I’m too stubborn to close my blinds to this sight.

Tripod

THE DISTANCE FROM SIXTEEN Niyai Walker-Cruz

When I was sixteen, well, when I was a fresh sixteen-year-old, I was broken. Both physically and mentally I was “broken.” My arm was broken, so was my mind, everything was happening around me. I’d been dealing with depression and anxiety for two years prior. It was painful and hurtful and draining, everyone was watching me closely. I had already tried to hurt myself further, my mental state had been affected detrimentally.

I woke up one morning in so much pain, told my grandma, and as normal, was a hypochondriac.

She dissed it because she didn’t believe a sixteenyear-old could be in so much pain.

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John McDonald

Mallika Kodavatiganti

Niyai Walker-Cruz

HOMELAND Tymir Gullette

Philly gone bad don’t let my city expire. Four people Dead, only three shots were fired. Get a grip young People like you cop some pliers, teacher retired, More cops are hired. You people bound to lose. You Can’t afford no school books but I see you buying New shoes, man you’re a fool.

Killing you people like I was pulling the trigger.

Drawing on people man do you see the big picture.

I’ll have you stumbling like I was throwing down Liquor. Whoa!

I was posting on a block with my brothers, spitting Hella facts about why I’m in the trenches. Chaka in The back spilling knowledge to you people. For my Old head I’m seeing college in my future. I was Spitting bars and my words gonna get me out. I’ma Stand tall so you people can hear me out. I been Going hard I’ma get it that’s without a doubt. Big Brodie in the wrong so I had to take a different Route.

Struggle getting worse sometimes I can’t handle it.

Crying out to God so much he stop answering.

Apparently I ain’t praying enough. I can’t handle it. I’m Afraid to take action cuz I don’t want to damage it.

Backstabbed so many times I started to walk backwards. Feelings hurt but I don’t want to show It I’m a real good actor. I felt guilt when I made Her cry. How that work, now I get looked at different.

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John McDonald

I guess I’m a jerk in her eyes. Remember them Days when I told lies? The times I stress to the Point I wanted to die? But I’ma be humble and Drop the fact that I’m living in a world where there’s no one I can turn to when I’m feeling low, you know?

I’m sitting here in a place I thought was my Homeland. Thought being raised in the streets of Philly would make me a grown man. It’s time I open my eyes and see what he got planned for Me cuz sitting on my butt messing with them Smokers ain’t gone get me nowhere I see. That Day on that corner, I knew what was coming for me But yet I still sit in this crappy place called Philly.

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Tripod

John McDonald

Tymir Gullette

AT THE ICA John McDonald

Well, there’s multiple ways I can explain the distance I felt to the images I took today. First there’s a physical way and for that I felt really small next to the giant wall of clothes and obelisk. But also the distance between all of the different works of art.

For example the car sheet full of old shoes was close but far from all of the other pieces. Then you have the so out of place carousel that just distances itself from everything. Like it wants to be in its own void. But also it wants to be a part of everything by drawing attention to itself by slowly spinning. And the lights with the space it takes. Even though it seemed a lot the carousel was almost totally empty with only four bars where different majestic animals would be also with an old looking lonely chair sitting in the middle.

Finally there was a car, but it really wasn’t an actual car. It really was a car sheet full of shoes. But that’s not the weird part. The weird part is just the shoes were all different sizes. There were baby shoes, size 13 shoes, and there were even heels.

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Tripod

A CONVERSATION ACROSS SPACE AND TIME Yusha Johnson and George Jenkins

What do I feel about distance?

Y: I feel I’m far from love because I’ve been misled to a false meaning of love. I’ve been misled by my neighborhood, television, and my past relationships. As a child you watch all of these happy shows where everyone is always smiling living in a nice house with both parents. It broke me when I found out no one isn’t actually equal and the world isn’t actually happy, it’s mostly depressing.

G: When I think of distance it’s not about long or short. It’s about the distance each person has traveled in their lives that reflects how far they have come. (We the constellation are the future.) I always feel close to my home no matter how far away because of the amount of love and support between us. I know that the world is hard and difficult to manage. The reality is that life is not fair. But what I have experienced in my faith is – anything that you pray for and believe in your heart will work out, and give you what you deserve.

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Lowell Nottage

AT THE ICA Jarett Speller

I feel like the art is trying to say that war and violence are all around us. Meaning that it doesn’t just have to be people fighting and killing each other.

It can show in many ways, even in the home where people should feel safe and loved. There is no real safe space so we just have to work for what we have and try to make it home and make it feel safe.

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Devin Welsh

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BRIDGES OVER WATER FLOW Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Bridges of life cause Movement to destinies of Adventures unknown

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

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Tripod

PHILADELPHIA SKYLINE Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Philadelphia PA. My hometown I plan to Stay. You have changed – okay!

Lowell Nottage

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STREAM ON MLK DRIVE PHILADELPHIA Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, If you could see this stream, what Thoughts would it conjure?

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

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Tripod

TEA ANYONE Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Set out my tea cups.

Call them mugs…if you will. I Plan to sip knowledge

Tiffany Ellis

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FOOT OF A TREE Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Age shows up each year.

My roots are embedded, yet I feel young. Just look.

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

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Tripod

FRIDAY AFTERNOON AT A PRISON Mallika Kodavatiganti

I noticed the architecture a lot. At the beginning of the tour, the narrator talked about penitence, and this was the goal of the prison. It was based on religious principles, so the prison was built with high arches and skylights like a church. Inmates were only allowed a bible. Being in isolation drove them to madness—Dickens theorized it was only a matter of time. There was distance between everything in their lives by that point. They were physically and emotionally separated from the world they knew.

Even in prison, there was distance between races. The white guys on one block, the black guys on another. The guards didn’t know what to do with the Puerto Rican guy.

The distance between the prisoners and the outside world was sometimes lessened. Sloan the guard brought Christmas decorations for his block to celebrate the holidays. Though they were away from their families and homes, there was still someone who considered them to be humans.

This reminded me of my first time in the Community-Based Learning class I took over the summer. The inmates and I were only separated by our clothes—they wore blue scrubs. If we weren’t in a prison, and if I didn’t know they did something the law said was wrong, there really would’ve been no difference between us.

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Mallika Kodavatiganti

The penitentiary was built with battlements, Steve Buscemi said to me (I was getting an audio tour of the prison). It was an intimidating castle, with a galley to overlook the cell blocks. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought this place to be a fort, there to intimidate our enemies and protect our families... which, I guess, is what the place was built to do, just from the inside out. I felt like I was walking through a dungeon that would be in Game of Thrones.

Mallika Kodavatiganti

Time has clearly acted on this building.

The paint was chipped, metal was rusted, and glass was broken. This is only to be expected though—the entropy of the universe is always increasing. It’s hard to imagine the brutality of being a prisoner at the penitentiary, and though the audio recordings helped, the run-down appearance made the prison more creepy than anything.

I noticed a lot of lines while I was there.

The fences making diagonal lines. The jail bars making 90-degree angles. I couldn’t look at anything without a set of lines obscuring and making up my view. It was like a filter, another barrier that separated. I wanted to move the gates and bar. All the lines were making me anxious—it was too symmetrical, and I couldn’t see anything without them getting in the way. I wanted to move them, but I if was strong enough to bend metal bars, I probably wouldn’t be here.

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Mallika Kodavatiganti

Being on an audio tour, I felt isolated from the people around me. I couldn’t hear if someone was nearby, and I got lost in listening. I physically lost my group at many points. This was my first time being with them—I didn’t even know some their names, so there was some distance from that perspective too. It wasn’t bad, it was just there. By the end of the trip, that gap closed, at least a little bit. Victoria was vehemently explaining why safehouses weren’t a good idea, drawing on personal experiences of loved ones who passed away from overdose. Norman was telling me about his family, how his grandson is getting to do things that he couldn’t. He told me about how if he had known better, he would’ve been a surgical orderly. Jarett, Lowell, Yusha all exchanged kind smiles and friendly waves with me. Progress was definitely made that afternoon.

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HORIZON Jarett Speller, Rosalyn Cliett, Kirsten Kaschock

Calm, relaxed warm photo reminding me that everything must come to an end but also it shows life and endless places for us to discover

While looking out into the distance it seems like there’s no end and the hope of the horizon pierces illuminating both sea and sky and shortening the blackness

The openness is out there mirroring me, mirroring all I have yet to light up inside myself in daybreak

Mallika Kodavatiganti

Devin Welsh

II. WHAT I SEE (THAT OTHERS DON’T): HIDDEN GEMS

TRANSLATION Jordan McCullough

If you build it You can destroy it The fire blows through Don’t get in my way To prevent a clear passage Be anything, not nothing The vision of seeing Is only natural Like the earth that spins

Mallika Kodavatiganti

UNTITLED Lowell Nottage

My favorite gem in Philly... the Wissahickon (the section in Chestnut Hill) and the actual gems I find there. The place is magical. The woods are beautiful, you make friends with everything, from the animals, the trees, and the stones. There was once a tree that was hollowed at the base that I loved. I would give it hugs, take pictures with it, or hang out in its branches.

It was huge, but a little over a year ago it fell. RIP big hollow tree. There’s no stump left for it to grow back, its roots were ripped out and it’s now all cut up. But when it was standing you could look out at it, walk down the path to the left of it down to the cement bridge, bust a right to an old dried up crack, overgrown with plants now. In the creek you can find old dirty rocks, but if you smash them open you can find beautiful hunks of bright pink moonstone and huge flakes of biotite.

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Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

ARCHITECTURAL CREATIVITY Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Architectural creativity It’s not as apparent these days.

No true details exist, only glasses and juxtapositioned facades.

But to see a structure of old with this ornate Greek style— We could learn a lesson or two, about style and the classics.

I look at this picture and I see wisdom, sturdiness, calm and assuredness that no strong wind will blow down. Architectural creativity, that was the name of the game. One could be proud to say, “that’s my building I built it a hundred years ago, and it’s still here today.”

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THE WAY John McDonald

I love the way the sky meets the forest and how the water reflects on the surface, the black and grey colors makes me feel so safe and secure, the tree look as if they are touching the cold wet water, if only I could be there to witness the weather to see how it felt was it cold or warm are the questions I ask myself as I gaze deep into the photo and get lost in its space...

Kim Sterin

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LAST FROST Chad Hardy

Even though the trees are dead —dead for the winter— they were still beautiful.

I think I have an Edgar Allen Poe mind like his poem “A Dream Within a Dream.”

I actually have a dark mind.

I think there’s a lot of beauty in the creepy in the overcast in the dark.

I took pictures of the trees and I kept thinking how cool the trees would look with crows in them.

I used to be a landscaper so I know some names of trees.

I think the ones I saw are walnuts and mulberries.

One tree was growing through the roof of a structure— I loved how it was breaking up the technology.

Chad Hardy

I think a good name for a poem would be LAST FROST.

UNTITLED Tiffany Ellis

When winter arrives, trees don’t lose their leaves; the idea of even the word or annotation is nowhere near that. Trees gain more access to the sun. You see a tree without leaves and I see a tree sunbathing naked.

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

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UNTITLED Dhazir Acosta

Some trees were abstract from branches and parts missing. These dreams trees resemble so many images me and Mallika could think of: I saw a branch that reminded me of the swirly object Jack from The Nightmare Before Christmas was standing on. The site was very chilling and very thrilling, a bit dead, dry, and brittle. The branch looked as tho he was trying to reach out to me. This reminds me of something I would see in a cemetery or a forest.

Jarett Speller

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CONVERSATIONS AT LAUREL HILL Devin Welsh

I. Whaddyou think Of our new neighbors, No, the newnew ones With the houses that look like Legos.

You think they’ll try and kick us out next?

You should see the view from ol’ Ernie’s up the hill.

They'd kill for a view like that.

II. Bright green moss crawls

Across cold grey stone, emerges from dead leaves And wet earth.

And out of Death? Life.

III. Are you as bored As the faceless angels, Leaning on tired elbows Above Where you sleep?

Or are you dancing To a tune I'm too young to hear In a maze of dancing bones?

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IV. There was something about this leaf Laying face down in the puddle That made me stop and watch As the wind blew life and ripples Into the cold water gathered From melancholy clouds; Something that whispered To the part of me That gets so Tired.

V. It wasn't until she gathered her things,

Devin Welsh

Turned to leave, And spread her wings, That I saw she was an angel.

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FRIDAY AFTERNOON AT THE CEMETERY Mallika Kodavatiganti

The drive to Laurel Hill Cemetery was lengthy, but beautiful. That was surprisingly my first time on Kelly Drive, even though I’ve been living in Philly for over three years now. It made me realize that I’ve barely seen this city, let alone experienced it. I didn’t know all these trees existed and that the road sharply curved like the river next to it. I remembered that back in March, my uncle in Portland, Oregon told me that driving on this road was one of his favorite parts about living in Philly, and I could see why.

When we arrived at the cemetery, we quickly found warmth in the tiny “museum” at the entrance.

I saw a casket meant for a child, possibly a bassinet stroller, and pictures of people long gone. It smelled like the prison I had class in last summer. Sour, like something close to going bad, but not there yet.

Kirsten found Jim, our tour guide for the afternoon. Giving up the warmth of the museum, we made our way outside. The cold wind blew through my parka, and I knew I was in for a rough trip. I regretted not wearing thicker socks. Jim started telling us about the history of the cemetery and pointing out interesting graves.

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wanted to take some interesting photos and get out of there. I tried to ignore the loss of feeling in my toes and instead, focused my attention on the hundreds of monuments and graves. Maybe it was just the overcast sky or my tired brain playing tricks on me, but I felt like my surroundings were sapped of colors. Everything was grey or brown or yellow. It was odd, but it certainly added to the mood.

The only grave I remember learning about involved a woman who loved chemistry. Her name was Mary Engle Pennington. All she wanted to do was go to school and learn, but they were hesitant to allow her to because she was a woman. Somehow, she made it over hundreds of barriers to finally get her doctorate in 1885. Her story made me thankful for it being 2020, but it also made me mad. Nearly two centuries later, and we still experience misogyny and discrimination. Humans have evolved into a very advanced species, but we somehow haven’t learned to abandon backwards thinking.

As the sun moved closer to the horizon, we slowly made our way back to the entrance of the cemetery. It started snowing, and I was surprised my fingers were still working. In spite of the awful weather though, I found those last few minutes at the cemetery beautiful. Deep oranges from the 85

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sun were reflected in the river and off the shiny roofs of the cars driving by. Everyone had rosy cheeks and noses from the cold, and the snow decorated our heads. Promises of warmth in the gift shop put smiles on our faces.

While thawing out on the drive home, I realized that spending the past few hours in a cemetery was oddly life-affirming, and I was looking forward to my evening filled with socializing. It’s easy to become preoccupied with endings. The trip to the cemetery confirmed the inevitability of death, so I didn’t see the point in being too worried about it right now.

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Mallika Kodavatiganti

HAIKU Norman Cain

The past doesn’t budge It lives forever in A timeless vacuum I am not akin To the treacherous ill wind That refuses to change In infancy we Are like the tadpoles that swim Toward the future

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Devin Welsh

Keyssh Datts

UNTITLED Keyssh Datts

i tried to turn my world inside out to find u was in the middle if u was hidden n my wounds could u feel my spirit crying out the tears i fear i hear my demons screeching bleeding from the inside cus you’re not here i tried to find u locked inside of different worlds n fear i tried to find u for u to forgive my wounded spirits i’m not healed i’m weakened i want to make it out of here but i hear my demons screeching and quiet often times i don’t understand the commands but i hope i’ll make it out this land from moving in the right direction but i’m lost

stuck in a world trying to do everything to avoid who u really love Because you’re in fear to love... so u try to avoid this feeling and while doing so your spirit is eagerly

getting weakened in the process the emptiness causes your spirit to escape into another universe and when your spirit leaves your body your demons are allowed to enter in at the end when u finally get the chance. you’re lost because your spirit hasn’t fully developed back and healed so when you meet this person u don’t feel fulfilled when filled u feel empty

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UNTITLED Niyai Walker-Cruz

One photo I caught shows you the roots of a tree, the tree is surrounded by others. Yet somehow even as separate trees they all connect at one root.

Perspective is what really wowed me. Tash looked at most of the same places as me and came up with different points. The angles were almost the same, the lighting was even similar, yet so different because it was what she saw, how she saw it. Looking through her lens, she was taking more snaps of the little things. A flower here, an empty space here, weird branches there, everything synced up eventually. I however strayed from pictures of the trees and started following Tash (per the norm). I find that taking candid photos allows me to capture one’s true, raw energy. Posing for pictures takes times and you get bored after awhile. When you are just snapping and being snapped, you wouldn’t really be thinking, “How did I look?”—you know?

Roses are red Violets are green I see some stones and some leaves in between There’s no room to move so it just more stone But that one little sprout Is all alone

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Niyai Walker-Cruz

Niyai Walker-Cruz

Natasha Hajo

BLUE WOODY MAUSOLEUM Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Your wooden archway, which by the way is very beautiful, seems to be in the wrong place. You look like the bottom of a boat's bow. Every strip of wood that curves in your entrance of this old, clammy, worn down, flaky walls, and freezing tunnels of a building, just hovers overhead. And it's so out of place, even though you are magnificent. Then there's the blue gate, you know, at the end of the hallway, it is so inviting, with its windowpane that says "look at me... I'm so pretty, ooh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright and by the way don't you just love my aura?" It too, does not fit in this mausoleum castle of a facade. Each of you, seems to have been placed in inappropriate areas.

Now, I must say though, the white mausoleum castle for example, has its ornate outer design that reeks of a capitol with Venetian Gothic design, but then I could be wrong, because there are so many different types of capital designs. The three of you together, don't seem to go very well. But I'm sure that if you put your minds together you could come

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up with something that might work very well. Blue, woody, mausoleum you are definitely something to see. I'm going to have to tell everyone all about

Emanual Marquez

your mystic appeal, because they just won't believe what I've seen. So, they'll just have to go and see you themselves, don't you agree?

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FRIDAY AFTERNOON ON 39TH Tymir Gullette

The day Emanual and I went to 39th Street, a conversation about “poor” came up. He asked me “Do you think of yourself as poor?” I told him yes and no. We were taking pictures of empty lots and trees. The neighborhood we were in was run down and had a lot of trash all over the place. That’s how our conversation came about and that made me think about a class assignment about capitalism.

Tymir Gullette

Can you define poor? “Poor means to have little of something for example, money or belongings.

If you are not rich, you are poor.” I don’t believe in poor because to me poor is a mindset! I may not have as much money but that doesn’t make me poor.

Capitalism is what separates the poor from the rich.

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Have you ever heard the quote: “Anyone can be rich if they work hard enough”? Well that is something I disagree with! There’s only so much room at the top. In order to make money, first you have to take it from someone else. This can be done through selling things, taxation or any other means.

But this means that the rich cannot exist without the poor. Any way you look at it, there’s never going to be equality under capitalism.

Devin and John went to 38th street and took a picture of buildings and Devin told me how relatable the picture was to capitalism. The buildings were lined up into different sizes and a perfect example of capitalism. Devin also wowed me with a story about Dave Chappelle telling his son the difference from broke and poor.

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IN THE MIDDLE Devin Welsh

I. What does it mean to be in the middle? Naturally there has to be something on either side, right?

Being in the middle is to be caught between either this or that – being pulled in one or the other direction, constantly.

II. Being biracial, a tan boy from a white mom and a black dad, I’m caught between cultures, not quite with a foot in either camp; floating somewhere in the middle, listening to Black or White

by MJ when I was little thinking he wrote the song for me.

I had one teacher tell our third-grade class about a project we would do about our cultures So I asked what do I do If I have two And she said, “Choose.”

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III. I’ve been told I talk white.

But usually when I hear that I don’t have time to explain fully the notion of language as a hegemonic device that authorizes identity and emphasizes propriety, encouraging a sense of self-colonization, which necessitates an erasure of a perceived other within the self.

What i want to say is how can I get u to understand how i feel being trapped and pulled between what it means 2 be 2 white white enough to feel privilege, not black enough but black enough to feel hate?

What i really say is nothing–

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IV. I’m in the middle of gentrification, literally and figuratively: I live on a street, the face and heart and soul of which changes as I speak; I contribute to this by funding some shady realty company that makes money hand over fist with my complicity; But at the same time I’m doing what I can to combat this problem, By being engaged with some of my neighbors in West Powelton and Mantua, But does the good outweigh the bad, and am I doing enough?

If I have to ask there’s more to be done– Because caught in the middle are people whose taxes and mortgages and rents are rising because I wanted an apartment.

V. The middle is a gradient; it can be a wide-open wasteland with two lines drawn in the sand, with hundreds of miles of nuance in between.

Or It can be the overlap Where two arbitrarily divided binaries Remember to love one another, Rewriting a history of violence and oppression, Repression, and aggression, Into something just as messy, but Beautiful.

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Devin Welsh

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THE TAJ MAHAL HAIKU Rosalyn Cliett

1. Such beauty surrounded by Slums of India Mirrors its own beauty, Wow

2. We can see one another But you can’t see self Until you have been mirrored

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Natasha Hajo

Mallika Kodavatiganti

FOUR TRANSLATIONS OF A HAIKU Mizuta Masahide (with appreciation to Andrea Walls and Danielle Morris)

1. Flames rage. I let go my possessions to behold the moon, as she watches quietly.

2. We have to destroy ourselves to see our inner god.

3. A serene atmosphere exists within the storehouse of my memories. This old house says it’s time to move, slide yourself into the groove—Woosh!

The barn on the hill burnt right down.

Flames all around—there’s not a thing.

4. Flames are the warehouse— Obstructs nothing nor prevents.

The moon sees it all.

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III. REVELENCE AND RELEVANCE: THE SACRED

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UNTITLED Brenda Bailey

Never could pass the paper bag test The sun has kissed me  I know black is beautiful

Brenda Bailey

MONARCH Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Monarch, you have spread Your wings wide. No doubt your purpose, Decorate our lives

Keyssh Datts

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MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

The smiles of legends Invoke their DNA for future Generational pearls

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

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STRENGTH LIES BEYOND THE SOUL Carol Peña

Love. Something I've always wanted but not from a boy, pet or a friend, but from my father.

A man I thought would be there when I needed to feel safe. There to keep me protected when I was in a vulnerable place. There when I needed someone to look up to and give me the motivation to stay strong.

There when I needed him the most.

My life had changed in November of 2007 on a dark, cold, and rainy night. I went to my bed, never to imagine how different the next day would be and how much it had altered my existence. At first, I had been half asleep falling into a world of fantasy that I had been awaiting, but then I heard my room door open and heavy footsteps walking towards my bedside. I squinted to see who it was, trying not to get caught being awake, and as I thought, it was my father. He was tall with a bald head, caramel skin and a big ole gut.

He went around the room where my sisters and I slept and kissed all of our heads. I wondered as to why he was doing this since he never did it before.

Why was he kissing our heads as if saying goodbye?

Did he have to go to work? My curiosity kicked in and I had to find out why my father was doing this and where he was going off to.

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but the adults were quiet so my sisters and I wouldn’t wake up. I got halfway down the steps and peeked out the side of the railing along the wall and saw my dad in jeans, a dirty green shirt and a brown leather type jacket walking towards the door. The house bell chirps as he opens the door to leave and, in a panic, I scream.

"Pa!"

It was too late. He was out the door. Gone. In a desolate whisper, “Wait...”

I went back to bed in silence, thinking about never having the chance to say goodbye. Not a word.

Before he left the house, he would always kiss my sisters and me goodbye, but that night I knew it felt different. The next morning, when I saw he wasn’t home, I asked my mother, a big woman with short black hair and caramel skin, where my father went. My sisters were also intrigued by my question and wondered the same. She then explained how he went back to Puerto Rico to take care of his mom who was sick. After she passed, he visited every year or so, and left again. Every time feeling like the first.

Only difference is... I got to say bye.

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so profoundly evil and diabolical to substitute for the void that was forged from the emptiness of the love that had faded with time. As a child without her father, I felt weak, unwanted and worthless. I felt like a burden on my mother because I look more like my father and my sisters look more like my mom and I was terrified that my mother wouldn’t love me anymore.

Now that I’m older, I see how my mother loves me the same as she loves my sisters and never saw me as my father. I know now that he was never going to come back no matter what. Do I want him in my life? No. I learned that he never wanted to have anything to do with me and my sisters, but the thing is... we never lost him... he lost us.

I grew strength within myself to get up and to not depend on someone who was never there for me and left because my sisters and I were “too much” to handle. I learned that I never needed my father to protect me when I always had myself. I know now, that I can survive and prosper without my father in my life—which isn’t perfect, but then again, whose life is?

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Niyai Walker-Cruz

Dhazir Acosta

UNTITLED Chad Hardy

People say that a dove takes your soul when you go to heaven, so who takes your soul when you go to hell?

I like to think a crow will take it so my soul will be put between the realms so I can talk to the living and the damned.

Who doesn’t do something bad in their life?

Judgment in this world isn’t 100% right.

I want to talk to my grandparents and uncle again.

My grandfather was stern with most people but with me and my sister he was the softest.

The last memory I have of him he told me and my sister he would always be with us.

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FALLING TEARS Jarett Speller

As the racing tears began to descend from paradise, the occupied minds start to slow down and prepare for a drawn out and dreary day.

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SUNSET  Jarett Speller

As the waves began to slow down, they start to sleepwalk And the sun follows and begins to nod into a semiconscious state. 

Mallika Kodavatiganti

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FUN RUN Jarett Speller

All your problems began to drain out while the butterflies begin to fill your stomach and you focus on this one thing...

“THE WHEEL OF SHAKING CARTS” However, they comfort you and make you feel connected with the sky.

Keyssh Datts

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IN PLANE Jarett Speller

The heaviest bird in the world cracks open the heaven’s floors and manifests every imagination on board what dreams look like.

Mallika Kodavatiganti

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BRIDGE RELAXING  Jarett Speller

Running to the calm sounds of the river appreciating every sound and sight the city of brotherly love has to provide. 

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

BLACK EYED FLOWER Jarett Speller

You open your eye and body, completely televising not only to the world but to the fireball in the sky how ravishing you actually are. 

Mallika Kodavatiganti

THE WOMAN IN THE PICTURE Rosalyn Cliett

Upon my arrival to class, there was a table full of pictures, photos of trains, bikes and people, as I was looking thru the pictures there was a photo of a woman that seem to be peaking at me from under another photo, so I pulled her out from under the other picture and it was as if she spoke to me.

She is a woman of poise and beauty. One whose grace and control was very appealing to those who came in contact with her, like a flower is to a bee, or a moth is to the light. And her eyes had a purity about them, just like the first beautiful sunlit day of spring, with the warmth and fresh fragrances that filled the air, that makes you want to breathe in deeply and exhale slowly with a sigh ahhhh! In her eyes was the purity of love. To be in her presence was alluring, seductive, even enticing. With eyes that have seen a lot, but still held its peace, a kind of softness, which made you feel you could trust her. I am going to call her Grace.

But what people couldn't see was the pain, the hurt, and the disappointments that Grace suffered in life and love. One would think she wouldn't have such problems in that area, especially in the department of love. It’s as if people seem to think, if you look a certain way, you have a pass in life. Not so, because trouble and problems, along with hurts and disappointment, come looking for whomsoever they can destroy like parasites living in the intestines of a dead animal.

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Kyle Howey

People tend to live in a world of assumptions, speculations, fear and surmise. Supposing that something is true without evidence to confirm it.

Regardless to how Grace looked in the photo, her life was anything but peaches and cream.

In life Grace had to deal with all kinds of assumptions, and lies and jealousy, being misunderstood, and they even made false accusations about her character, accusing her of hurtful things, things that were the furthest things from her mind and heart. And in the love department Grace learned that people don't really know how to love and when they don't know how to love, they abuse, sometimes verbally, other time physically or mentally. A lesson that nearly destroyed her life, she experiences a kind of death, a kind of hopelessness that would cause others to just shrivel up and die. So, lying in her bed wrapped up in a blanket of hurts and self-pity, with her television running trying to drown out the noise in her head. A minister came on, and she heard a life-giving message, one that grabbed hold of her soul, and she sat up, still dealing with the hardship that life offered her. She continued to watch and listen, then she heard a women's testimony of her life, which mirrored hers, except this woman looked so happy and alive, and it was at that very moment Grace decided to be a survivor instead of a victim.

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It was a process, but being determined to live and not die, she kept at it. She learned how to forgive herself and others, she learned how to let go, of the hurts, and disappointments, and after learning who she was, and not who people said she was. She learned to love herself doing things God’s way. Grace grew strong, when she could have stayed bitter, she grew wiser, when she could have continued in the foolishness of mind.

Grace is a survivor, look at her picture and look into her eyes, and you’ll see a woman full of wealth, full of riches, and full of peace, that only comes from living life, dying and being resurrected, born again.

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BRAIDED Atticus Berry

A collection of minds and perspectives and word combinations I would have never imagined putting together My own thoughts collide here and there never quite making it aloud This is a tight-knit community Bonded too strong to penetrate I am anxious I am intimidated by the brilliance in the room My heart can live untouched on a sleeve the real danger is spilling my brain onto the page What is different about this place?

It is a place filled with genuine community And I am unsure of my role At once an authority and a nobody This space does not feel like my space These walls feel unlike my own walls The discourse and insecurity in myself requires me to retreat I am out of place I want to speak but I am a young harlequin, a joker, removed from the deck before the play even begins

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The sun is as strong as the harsh florescent blanket that wraps me exposed I am screaming to share as I wring my wrists willing words to come from my mouth but I sit in silence and stare

Kim Sterin

I stare and the stories keep coming from others, mine still waiting to be written and spoken and remembered What I have to say doesn’t feel worthy What I have to say isn’t meant to make a difference I think it could, I wish it would

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The walls are filled with the same people surrounding me; closing in on me; I am proud of these walls at the same time they bring my guilt I listen over speak; I feel over give I feel I have nothing worth giving What is wrong with me I couldn’t be prouder; we do not know each other Or, more specifically, they know each other and do not know me while I similarly do not know them but am inspired hearing their stories shared My words are mundane, my writing clichÊ I feel the gaze of the universe pressing in on me like these ever closing grey walls Without direction, I am wandering I was just about to speak, I was sure of it this time Then the clock strikes three and I feel deflated defeated once again by my own insecurities This hub of community no conflict amongst them, no hate in their eyes Instead, I only see understanding and passion I see only beautiful people and warmth I am thankful I am allowed to return to this space week after week though I do not deserve to be here watching magic created around me without holding up a mirror to show them what I have done

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HAIKU Norman Cain

My Afrocentric Flow is like the current of The Niger/Nile Rivers An angry woman is Roaring thunder, howling wind And slashing lightning A pounding rhythm Dancers gliding gracefully Like falcons in flight

Niyai Walker-Cruz

Dancing in the ballroom till the feet hurt Smiles that light up the sky even on the darkest nights The sounds of laughter drown out all bad energy

John McDonald

UNTITLED Tiffany Ellis

I love you even when you’re not looking your best.

Even when everything is not on deck for you.

The yellow on you shines as the sun hit you from the left.

The blue in you hides away but still beautiful as ever.

Your walls are a little worn out, but I still love everything about you.

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HOW DO YOU SEE ME Devin Welsh

I love my mom. She gave me everything she could.

She loves me and makes sure that I know that. But when I showed her this photo, she said something that struck me. Not as odd, or unfamiliar. Just struck me. When I showed her this photo of myself, her knee-jerk reaction was to say, “Oh I don’t like that.”

What do I see in this image?

I see the freckles that I inherited from my mom, who got them from her mom and so on; they rest on a skin tone that looks as though my parents’ complexions were mixed on a palette: my mom’s milky, ivory white is mixed with my dad’s warm cappuccino color to make my cafe au lait tone.

Skin tone somewhere between White and Latinx, skin that has people scratch their heads wondering “what are you?” Skin that makes me not so readily identifiable by those who like neat categories.

Curious, I asked why, and she said, “You look like a criminal. The white shirt with the chain, the way your hair is, the look on your face.” I was stunned, I didn’t know what to say. My own mother, who knows the contents of my heart, the substance of my character, sees a criminal in this photo. For others who’ve never met me, those who don’t know me apart from the next guy on the street, how do they see me?

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Tymir Gullette

I see my dad’s cheekbones that he tells me are from the Cherokee in our blood; cheekbones that remind me of that picture of Ma, my dad’s grandma with her long silver hair.

It isn’t explicit in what I wrote above that I am a biracial male or that my mom is a white woman.

I think that I avoided that on purpose to avoid putting on the page the racial implications of what she said, of how she saw me in that moment. Maybe I neglected to include race in the conversation because I didn’t want you, the reader, to see my mom as a racist, or someone who thinks like that.

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mother with such problematic ideology, or to think that the woman who raised you might see your image through a racialized, stereotypical lens?

Or did I miss the point all together? Is the lens she saw that picture through really one of fear for how others see me? The fear of a mother whose son is an endangered species, who worries about whether he wears a hoodie when he drives, and doubly so if he pulls his hood over his hat. I remember one time I went out one night for a jog.

It was right around the time we first moved to our new neighborhood, whose residents happen to be rather old and white. I had been feeling anxious and needed a way to get rid of some of that nervous energy, so I grabbed a hoodie to go with my baggy sweatpants, and my sneakers, yelling upstairs to my mom that “I’m headed out for a quick jog.” When I got home, I walked into the living room where she was pacing. “What are you thinking,” she said in a loud whisper, eyes wide. I tried to joke it off, saying that I wasn’t scared of the fox or the deer grazing in our neighbor’s lawn. But the look in her eyes suggested that she wasn’t worried about the deer neither, but rather how her broad-shouldered, son – tan and hooded – looked as he ran through this pristine white neighborhood that he couldn’t possibly belong to.

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UNTITLED Yusha Johnson

The photography life this year (since graduation) has been amazing.

Devin Welsh

I started working with this construction company that pays me well.

I started to save up money to experience life my own way.

I started going to all different types of parties. I met photographers and music artists. And I decided to catch all or most of my party experiences through the lens of a camera.

I love the way that parties always have colored lights.

I love to catch people and let people catch me at our purest moments. No one pays attention to photos being taken at these events. Everyone is just dancing and having a good time. For that night, everyone is being themselves.

Rosalyn Cliett

IN MEMORIAM Rosalyn Cliett, Kirsten Kaschock, Jarett Speller

1. They are my strength, my love, my character Although they are deceased, they are still honored We learn how to survive through thick and thin how to live a full abundant life with appreciation for what we have To love, long and hard.

2. Black and white and sepia tones against silver.

Love and a box of sweetness, and Mom. Everything sparkling, everyone missed.

3. Long line of strong active independent people who love their family and will do a lot to make sure everyone stays together and connected.

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FRIDAY AFTERNOONS Kimberly Sterin

Because the activity required partners and each of us were without, we paired Being in the same room, at the same time pencils in hands, seemed to be all that could possibly join us, in common Certainly not that we both have curly hair, love the color red and of course, pizza Certainly it was only these surface things, these likes & dislikes our curls aren’t even the same some wavy, some coils only these thin connections in a softly lit room Certainly there wasn’t a deeper longing to create, to let the story out from the ribcage and sing So what if both of our fathers were adopted, if we’ve asked the same questions, had the same wondering of self But, if not of these, Friday afternoons together writing, documenting our streets, facts shaping our shared world – of what, then, is community made?

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Kyle Howey

Natasha Hajo

In October 2019, Writers Room co-hosted the national Conference on Community Writing.

Hundreds of teachers, scholars, artists, activists, and community organizers traveled to Philadelphia, drawn by the shared belief that language and story form the bedrock for meaningful change.

Participants gathered at the Dornsife Center for Neighborhood Partnerships, across the campuses of Drexel and Penn, and along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway at the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Barnes Foundation, and the Free Library of Philadelphia. Our partners at each site went above and beyond to realize a vision of higher education that connects meaningfully to communities.

Writers Room members made some big moves during those three days—unveiling two thirty-foot murals created with Michelle Ortiz at the Heim Center for Civic and Cultural Engagement, releasing HOME Book, a box set of creative and critical work on cooperative living—all while presenting, documenting, and hosting colleagues from around the country.

But it’s a smaller moment from the first night that keeps coming back. It was the end of the party celebrating scholars who’d been doing the work for decades. We were in the Academy’s Dinosaur Hall.

Exhausted from the day, we should have been too tired to move but our DJ brings the music up just as the last speech ends. A swelling bass crashes into disco strings and Michael Jackson’s falsetto fills the space.

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One by one we find each other, forming a dance line as our guests look on. We weave our way through the crowd of bodies and around prehistoric skeletons. We are high schoolers and senior citizens, builders and biologists, writers all. A grooving, bopping embodiment of revolution, revelation. A movement.

Keep on With the force, don’t Don’t stop ‘til you get enough Maybe that moment should feel distant as I write this, in pandemic era 2020, but it doesn’t.

Instead, it surfaces often. A reminder of what our work is, of what we can do, of who we can be.

Hands grasping shoulders. Mouths open in laughter. Join us, we call out, breathless. C’mon.

Chapter Cover: Artist Michelle Angela Ortiz leads a paint day at the Dornsife Center, September 2019

Rachel Wenrick, Co-Chair Conference on Community Writing 2019

Kyle Howey

Awards reception at the Academy of Natural Sciences during the national Conference on Community Writing, October 2019

Devin Welsh

Writers in Residence final reading at the Dornsife Center for Neighborhod Partnerships during the National Conference on Community Writing, October 2019

Writers-in-Residence at CCW, the brainchild of Rachel Wenrick, began with the idea that no one can see all of a conference, and that creating a realtime cubist assemblage of its moving parts might be a beautiful and necessary thing. Ten women— graduate students, activists, adjuncts, professors, and professionals—arrived ready to do the work of juxtaposition. I was tasked with collecting these voices online and into a final performative reading that would reflect the words of keynote speakers, DeepThink Tank leaders, and conference participants back to them under the big tent at the Dornsife Center for Neighborhood Partnerships.

Here, you will find some of the texts produced during the conference, about the conference, beside and around the conference. For me (self-dubbed Mistress of Badassery) the synaptic flashes within and between these texts speak volumes. These writers, skilled synthesizers and analysts, also proved excellent diviners, locating wellsprings of untapped potential and directing us—with the combined force of their gaze—to all the work yet to be done.

Kirsten Kaschock, Writers-in-Residence Director Conference on Community Writing 2019

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OF STARKNESS Amanda Fields

Pre-conference, I stood with a friend in Wednesday’s pouring rain. We were at the overlook by Fairmount Dam and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Across the river, condos push against crumbling brick. Effective gentrifying dominoes.

The clarity of starkness, a declaration.

Declaration can be a stopping point; it can be an invitation; it can be violence. Sometimes we declare and disappear. We declare and are embarrassingly wrong. We declare and cause damage. We declare and embody. Maybe we declare and empower somebody else. We declare and love.

So much of the work of dismantling seems declarative and engaged with listening, yet there’s been some scoffing at the idea of listening because listening can be disingenuous when it is not intended to transform and when it is only about the listener. The intellectualization of listening can serve what Pritha Prasad and Louis Maraj called “benevolent gaslighting” in session E02, in which white apology is in service to white declarations and claims about pedagogy, doing nothing, as usual, for embodied pain. I think of the “soul-wounds” described by Yolanda Chávez Leyva. Perpetuating erasure. For Maraj and Prasad, benevolent gaslighting serves to “delegitimize and sideline the experiences of POC.”

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In tonight’s keynote, Carmen Kynard didn’t let the audience forget that, as we sat in a lavish auditorium at an Ivy League school, sorting our brains about doing the work, Atatiana Jefferson’s wake was almost under way.

Kynard asked how our/your curricula “contextualizes the life and murder of Atatiana Jefferson.”

Kynard’s accompanying slide declared: “If there is very little connection, diagnose AS EXPLICITLY as you can this deliberate erasure. Read it for filth.”

Back in session E02, Tabora Johnson had asked, “Whose responsibility is it to teach how to heal after you’ve done some damage? Do white people know how to apologize? Is that taught anywhere?”

I think of those gnawing buildings, pushing at crumbling brick. I want to say no, and I know that’s mostly right. But there’s some hope here at this conference that I can’t dismiss. There’s more doing than talking, and what I mean is there are so many careful and collaborative and long term projects across these sessions, doing work. Few of these presenters are trying something out, typing a halfbaked idea on a plane. They’re pausing to come here and demonstrate how committed work resonates and challenges and transforms. And so I think of another insight from Tabora Johnson in E02: “If I am playing the same game that others are playing, then I have to transcend the space.”

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SAY HER NAME, LIVE HER STORY, SPEAK HER TRUTH Teigha VanHester

Friday morning, I locked myself out on the rooftop deck of my Airbnb.

I had no phone, no clothes; just an almost finished cup of coffee and an overwhelming sense of fear.

How am I going to get off of this roof?

Will I have to scream at someone on the street?

But I don’t even know the code to get anyone in the building, let alone the apartment.

As I sat on the rooftop deck for about 45 minutes, I tried everything I could think of to do myself. I tried to break the door handle. I tried to scale the fire escape in the building next to me.

Nothing worked.

I finally noticed a window in the living room of my Airbnb, over a 3-story drop off. I hoped with all my heart that the window was unlocked. Much to my benefit it was. So here I was, a full-figured mixed girl crawling through the window of an apartment not my own.  As I collapsed onto the floor of the living room, I thought I would be flooded with relief and laughter, but in this world I was not.

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Instead, I was filled with thoughts of Bosan Jean and Atatiana Jefferson, and how I could be next. Someone had to see me crawl through this window. And if the police were called, they would not know that I was supposed to be here, or that I accidentally locked myself out. They would see a threat, a black woman’s body that to them is only seen as a site of violence.

During the keynote, Dr. Carmen Kynard spoke of how our curriculum needs stories of Atatiana Jefferson, that we need to know the war being waged on the black female body.

I finished getting dressed and walked out of the apartment. While this is not necessarily an experience of the conference, it is an experience that illuminated for me the importance of #sayinghername, honoring her legacy, and connecting to her through sisterhood. Atatiana and the injustice that ended her life made me more aware of the work we must do to change the narrative around our safety.

We are all members of the academy now, trapped on a rooftop deck, crawling into a space rightfully our own, yet fearing our own death from the stories of those who came before.

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WE ARE NOT WHOLE: SO WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT IT? Janel McCloskey

In the Deep Think Tank session on Essential Questions on Decolonial and Antiracist Teaching, facilitators asked, “Who are the storytellers and what does it mean to tell a collective story?”

The storytellers now are who the storytellers have always been. Mostly white, mostly men. I am not sure there is much willingness to tell a collective story. A collective willingness…not just a sprinkling of accomplices here and there. There is a difference between rejecting racism and ceding the center… inviting in and getting out of the way. Stories that have always been present, but not heard, not listened to, not called up. The decentering that is required is counter to all of the ways white western academic traditions train up academics. It’s counter to the professional identities they embrace.

Carmen Kynard reminds us how hard it is to step outside of neoliberal education bullshit. She reminds us that, “…the success of our communities, community programs, and literacies live in alternative histories of making meaning in the world and not in the “research,” not in individuals as teachers or activists, and not in “best practices.”

Check yourself, indeed.

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Fidel Boamah

We know that asking for these stories, listening to them, teaching them, adopting them is not an act of inclusion. It’s not for the benefit of people of color. It’s not an act of generosity. Without these stories, these histories, these languages, these voices, we don’t know who we are. We are not whole.

We — all of us. It seems we white people might be at a place where we are ready to start to get whole. But before we do this work, we need to check ourselves.

We need to ask ourselves some questions like why only now? Why not before? If we really believe we are all better off without white supremacy, if we all believe that we should be working where we are, in the ways we can to break down systemic racism, why haven’t the storytellers changed? White people hold the vast majority of institutional power. So, if we wanted things to change, they could. If we wanted counter stories told, if we wanted all of our histories to be present, we could make it so. We need to firmly and with love ask ourselves what we are so scared of, what are we scared to lose, what are we waiting for… and then listen very carefully to our own answers.

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Essential Questions for Decolonial and Anti-Racist Teaching DeepThink Tank session at the Barnes Foundation during the national Conference on Community Writing, October 2019

Doing the Work

Natasha Hajo

Resisting Gentrification: Sharing Our Stories DeepThink Tank session at the Dornsife Center during the national Conference on Community Writing, October 2019

Carmen asked us to ask what in our institutions’ curriculum attends to the life and murder of Atatiana Jefferson. Not just the social complexity of her death, but the beauty of her life.

She asks us what in our research, scholarship, and institutional practices we do to challenge and remake?

She reminds us we all got one mic, and some of us are plugged in to a really loud amp, so what are we going say?

I’ll start. I am scared I’ll say or do something ignorant, or something that perpetuates white supremacy. I grew up white working class with only a myth of what America is to root in and grow. But I am grown. And I am responsible for how I move through this world and how I impact others. I’ve been re-educating myself for a long time and I still have so much to learn. If there is one thing I can be sure of in this work it’s that I will royally fuck it up. This is messy, uncomfortable work, but I gotta keep it moving.

How about you?

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REFLECTION ON ORTIZ AND HER WORK Carol Richardson McCullough

I am both humbled and amazed at the image of the little Black girl standing in her side yard by her house on the corner at the top of a hill long ago because that girl painted in shades of brown, gold, and earthen tones on the spectrum between those two colors, was me when I was about seven years old. The hands, showing the wrinkles of time’s passage, are mine now, painted holding the snapshot while reflecting on my Home. Michelle Ortiz thinks big while never losing sight of the little people and the smaller details. She recognizes the importance of it all in the Big Picture.

Who knows where Michelle will be, or what she will be doing next week? But I do not doubt that on some level, it will be a continuation of The Work she has committed her energies and talents to doing, addressing profound issues while opening minds and sensitizing hearts through beautifully powerful images and the dialogue around them. She is bold, brave, and intentional. Her work is both prolific and profound. Her work, The Work, goes on. She never stops.

Once thought-filled people become inspired and encouraged, words can be put into action. Action can change the world if its actors are bold enough, brave enough, and intentional enough to never stop working towards the goal.

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Colibrí Workshop

McCullough’s words are included in “The Work of the Conference on Community Writing: Reflections on the 2019 Philadelphia Conference,” by Adam Hubrig, Heather Lindenman, Justin Lohr, and Rachael W. Shah.

This work appeared in Reflections 19.2.

Rachel Wenrick

Mural installation with Michelle Angela Ortiz, Carol Richardson McCullough and Nick Vonk ’21 at the Free Library of Philadelphia, October 2019

Briyanna Hymms

Writers Room students and alumni following the Michelle Angela Ortiz mural installation at the Free Library of Philadelphia, October 2019

Rachel Wenrick

Rachel Wenrick

LIKE THE WORLD WAS MINE Mel Brown, Afuah Frimpong, Kyle Howey, Kamaiyah Jackson, Dejah Jade, Ahmiir Jefferson, George Jenkins, Yusha Johnson, Pierie Korostoff, Ian Lipford, Linda Loi, Lowell Nottage, I. C. Cosmo Randazzo, Jarett Speller

In November 2019, Writers Room partnered with Tiny WPA for a design-build workshop to create a communal table that became a center of gravity in our studio, supporting our collaborative programming. Throughout the day, Tiny WPA’s Building Heroes and our writers interviewed each other about their relationships to making.

THE FIRST THING I MADE

Building blocks like Legos, making planes and ships.

A book. Drawing pictures and stapling them together.

Origami cranes.

Forts with bunkbeds— blankets draped over.

Baking with my mother.

Probably mud pies. I loved to play with dirt, climb trees.

This nature book with real leaves.

A book out of recycled paper.

Tiny houses out of cardboard boxes for small animals or figurines.

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THEN

I would paint all the walls, surfaces, divisions.

We lived back in Haiti. It always smelled like chocolate. I recall making a plain vanilla cake with caramel icing. The icing kept melting because of the tropical weather.

When I was younger, I really didn’t talk to nobody. I didn’t share much.

It was more a thing for myself.

I took the information I observed and turned it into something.

I felt like the world was mine.

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Alex Gilliam

Alex Gilliam

NOW

It’s all I do. The passion’s still there.

Living for it, at the moment. A vision to create, to make the world go forward.

Working for and with others, the greater good. Work also has to be sustainable for yourself.

I love making things—individually for myself and together with a group of people. Community.

You have many lives within a life.

It opened up my closed door to creativity.

When you wait so long for something and you get it, it’s the best feeling ever.

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Lowell Nottage and Yusha Johnson

ANCESTRAL TREE Norman Cain

When I was born, my forbearers presented me with the key to the straight and narrow, where opportunity laid waiting. I cast it to the wind. It landed on Bacchanal’s Wide, Wide, Wild Boulevard.

I cared less. For me, at the time, the key was nonessential to my chosen destiny: tenure in the dens of inequity where I reveled heartily and drank abundantly—starting at sun-up to well after sundown—from the vessel of wantonness, which caused me to taste the bitterness of defeat and feel the painful clutches of despair squeeze lifelessness out of my ethereal core, which left me in the clutch of self-destruction.

One night, in the clutches of a drunken slumber, I encountered through vivid vision three ancestors silently walking in a single file across a long dusty road. On each side of the road, there were cotton, tobacco, and cornfields. At the head of the procession was my great-uncle Charlie, the oldest of the Cusack Clan. He was dark, short, lean, keen-featured, dressed in bibbed overalls, and walking with his hands clasped in a fist behind his back. He was followed by my maternal grandparents: his brother Lexington, an ebonized short-statured Congolese featured man who was also dressed in bibbed overalls and his wife Virginia, an oliveskinned keen featured woman of medium height who always wore a house dress and apron.

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When I told my mother, who had constantly warned me about my transgressions, and who had taken the head of the dinner table (a position I held after my father’s death), about my vision, she without hesitating proclaimed: “They came to tell you that you can make it.” The vision caused me to recall the times I traversed the same dusty road that appeared in my vision during the scorching South Carolina summers (in the days of my youth, 195058) when, I, a Philadelphian, was sent south to reside with my maternal grandparents on their farm after school was out for the summer.

Then I would be barefoot, shirtless, wearing a straw hat and trudging to and from my grandparents’ tobacco field where I would prune and remove worms from the plants. During the harvest season, I would drive a mule down that same road; the mule would be pulling a bin of stripped tobacco leaves to a barn where women would tie the leaves to hickory sticks. The sticks of leaves would be hung on rafters in a barn and cured by kerosene heaters.

Sometimes I worked the rafters. During the latter weeks of August, I picked cotton.

The vision also had me recall the house that Uncle Charlie, the first to appear in the procession that appeared in the vision, lived in. It was a two-room shotgun house that was fronted by a 171

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humongous, fully leafed cloaked tree that stretched towards the heavens and whose ironclad, ancient roots would not allow it to be moved—in spite of the elimination of six of the original rooms that housed the family of my maternal great grandparents, who had eleven children.

Each day me, my sister and cousin Deloris, who was four years older than me and who was raised by my grandparent, in their beautiful white house down the road, would visit Uncle Charlie, who had briefly lived at 40th and Market Street in Philadelphia during the 1920s. Uncle Charlie, who did not have children, was married to a quiet, amiable, tan-complexioned woman named Mattie. I envisioned Uncle Charlie’s house as a museum.

There was a family portrait upon the south wall. It included my maternal great grandfather, George Wainwright Cusack’s, who was seated and dressed in a black suit. Standing to his right and dressed in white was his wife Nancy, whose maidens surname was Keith. In the background stood the eleven children of the Cusack clan: Charlie, Emma, Georgia, Lexington, Spencer, Beatrice, Amelia, Lorenzo, Suzan, Ellen, and Maggie. The east wall contained a picture of my Great Uncle Spencer, dressed in World War 1 attire and sitting upon the ground in front of several white soldiers who sat upon large horses. Evidently a Cavalry Portrait.

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Upon the floor, on the north side of the room, were the instruments that the Cusack’s band played during the 20s. Among those instruments were a tuba, snare drum, bass drum, bugle, and piano.

Uncle Charlie would attempt to teach us how to play the instruments, tell us about our ancestors and tell us folktales, many of which dealt with ghosts. Those ghost tales had us constantly fearfully running, through pitch darkness, down the road in towards our grandparents’ house.

My vision had me recall my successful grandfather whose intellect and perseverance had allow him to become secretary-treasurer of two African American Churches, twenty-eight statewide chapters of Moses lodge, a former substitute teacher for the one-room schoolhouse that laid in shambles several miles from his home, a partner in the Moses Funeral Home, the proprietor of several housing facilities where tenants that came to Pamlico, South Carolina to work in the tobacco warehouses lived, and an officer in the local chapter of the Masons.

The vision further had me recall how my maternal grandfather taught me how to shoot a rifle, handle mules, plow a field, told me to kill my first snake.

And there were the stories he told me.

He told me about the miles and miles of land that the Cusack Clan had been given by the family’s slave master, a story that proved to be true according to Ancestry.com records. He periodically told me about the time he and my paternal grandfather, Dan Cain, rowed a man, who 173

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was sought by the Klan across the Pee Dee River into North Carolina. The man, Douglas, who was rowed across the Pee Dee River, was the husband of my maternal grandfather’s sister, Maggie. Douglas returned to South Carolina dressed as a woman for Maggie’s funeral.

The vision induced me to recall how my grandmother, who, when I contracted on consecutive summers the chickenpox and measles respectively, physically healed me by applying salve, made from roots, upon my bump infested body. In 1975, when I was 33 years old, the vision propelled me to visit my grandmother. At that time, I was in need of spiritual fulfillment. During that visit, she would beckon me to her bedroom at 3 p.m. Then she bestowed mental healing, immense wisdom, and my family’s history upon my shattered soul. While I did not record any of the genealogical data that she told me, I was able to retain much of what she told me. In 2012, when I began researching my family history via Ancestry. com, I remembered an important thing about her parentage. She told me that her original last name was Guiles as opposed to Davis. That information led me to research a different sector of my family tree.

My vivid vision had me experience a commonsense epiphany, which led me to seek/ retrieve the key that my forbearers had given me to unlock the door to the straight and narrow avenue.

And I consistently, with opportunity in tow, transfer it to my genealogical tree, where I beseech and greet my ancestors’ legacy, rendering sincere thanks and bowing before it in humble reverence.

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THE GREEN I. C. Cosmo Randazzo

Good golly, the green makes the brain cry out some type of way. Loosens the chemicals, gets ‘em vindictive, fills up the sternum like a swollen bruise, wisens the nervous system and puts a youthful face to the name “Old Money.” A stock enters the market like the cat she is, hikes up her fishnets, points a finger at—who else?—you, forgets your name before she’s heard it, and paints you the ripest, most golden scene of wealth, right on the backs of your eyelids.

What else are you to do but cry tears of pure, unhinged, joy? Stop, drop, and roll when you get just a whiff of smoke, pop the umbrella from your waistband when you get just a taste of rain, sing “Deck the Halls” when you see a traffic light go from red to green. Make it. Behaviors like you can only imagine, or that you can’t, to get dancing on that sweet, disgusting floor. Quit, quit, quit until you’re hired. Jesus, the graphs. A woman’s curves mean less than they did beforehand. Now, focus. Such a landscape is a terrain unwieldy, unpredictable, but manageable, like roadkill. Sympathize. Grill it, blacken it, savor the smell of a peak and find comfort in rotting flesh. You were alive once, too. Make it.

Good golly, the green makes the brain cry out some type of way. Oh lord, does gravity possess envy for those falls. When’s the last time “2008” stood real and true next to “prosperity,” “American,” or “capitalism” in human conversation? Manifest that.

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Make it. Wring out your soul and pray for a cup of orange juice, if you must, when the time comes.

Compress hopes, recycle ‘em, find out what makes New York the city that never sleeps. That never sleeps. You slept once, too. Manufacturing cribs and coffins on Wall Street, at the same address, on the same belts, with the same lust. Just born, just dead.

Make sense? Make it. Young men sob, and the stocks ride that salty river, rest their pruned feet upon that mahogany coffee table, floss with your spine, jack off to your downfall. Dust bunnies scoff on your behalf.

You are nothing. Nothing, you psychopath, you limp fish, you dirty, dirty intern. Go on. Make it.

Good golly, the green makes the brain cry out some type of way. But come home, learn your wife’s name for the fifth time this week. Inhale that lecture. Remind her about the late night you’re going to have tomorrow, and don’t remind her about Miss NASDAQ, who drops in at 8:15 AM like a Jager bomb in above-the-knee tweed, who knows exactly when you’ll die, and who you’ve been fucking every Thursday night for the last six months. It’s Wednesday. Make it. Blush, or don’t. Step on a cheerio. Crunch. Stale. Smile at your four-year-old with your flesh, think of tuition costs with your brain, grimace with your soul; he’ll never know it, he’ll never know you. Feel your lifespan diminish, along with your hairline, along with your credit score, along with your manhood. Do not undo your necktie, even if your ironed collar threatens your jugular, if your sweat stains reach towards your hips, or if your skin hasn’t been free of cigar smoke since 1997. Hear the Anthology 6

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echo of a hairline fracture, neglect, neglect, neglect.

Mumble. Stare at your wife, insist internally that you’re just a clown at the wrong circus.

“What the fuck.”

“Okay.”

“What the fuck.”

Make it.

“What the fuck.”

Make it.

“What the fuck do you mean we’re broke?”

Good golly.

“WHAT THE FUCK.” Some way, some type of way.

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JANUARY IN THE NEWS Alex Wasalinko

Styled after Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights

They lost things, but not hope.

Hid it under their shirts, its outline protruding beneath the fabric as they moved towards green promise.

It is 100 seconds to midnight.

By the time I cross the room, wade through the crowd of bodies to find yours, we will be met with lights out.

I felt the power in the sky, words heavy with knowing, knowing the breezeblocks that drag the heart below the current.

It’s hard to be good when the world is on fire so he holds an extinguisher on his shoulder, douses the flames on our home before we retreat inside.

The last time democracy almost died – we were not even thoughts yet.

But if you and I were able to materialize from the dust, maybe we can turn back the clock.

Our aim: to illuminate and protect as we gather, learn, see a future extending far outside the range of our nearsighted eyes.

Carry one another close to our hearts.

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THE COMPUTER LAB VIEW OF YEAR 2120 Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

In 2120, I will only be a memory-maybe.

I will lend a prophecy that cars will be in Jetson mode… off of the ground. All schooling will be done at home, because school systems will be outdated.

Cockroaches will be the new alpha-dog. Technology will be Through the roof – far from the eastern shore.

Countries separated by tsunamis and earthquakes and China will rule and the U.S. of A. will have No say anymore.

Some of us will have tickets paid in advance to go to mars.

The U. S. will be the new Grand Cayman’s because The poor folks will be left behind. We will become a Bionic civilization – everyone having some mechanical part.

At least one new hip and bionic ears that hear everyone’s Thoughts before one thinks a word.

Food consumption will be limited to one astronaut Pack a day. We will occupy other planets like Avatars in separate nations. Plugging up to the Matrix will Be a must, if we don’t blow up the planet first. It’s going to Be rough.

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ERA OF THE FUTURE Kyle Howey

I see her, now, as she was fifty years ago. The Victoria Huggins Peurifoy, West Philadelphia High School class of 1969, in front of an audience of her peers – a person like I’d never known her, but, at the same time, as she’s always been. As I know her.

A brilliant, radiant force of positivity. Creativity.

Empathy. An eye for greatness, grace, and a voice that makes mountains sway and dance.

“We are fifty years young!” she proclaims to an audience of peers. One hundred and sixty faces, one hundred and sixty different stories, teenagers now half-a-century older reunited in the ballroom of Galdo’s catering in South Philadelphia with colorful outfits and hats, style, hugs, smiles, laughs, and wine glasses galore. The Marlon Merritt Jazz Band and DJ Julius Brown entertaining the room, and Dr. Delores White Williams, former principal of West Philadelphia High, introducing the evening. And Victoria bringing the class to session, the way she does best – in word.

She reads directly from the heart, a piece titled “I Came Up With.” Her own list, a reminiscence of the people, the figures, the moments, the histories, and the music that shaped her and many others in that room: “Stokely Carmichael … Malcolm X …

Martin Luther King Jr. ... God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit … James Brown … The Anthology 6

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Temptations … civil rights changes, marches, and mentors … clubbing, bombings, the burning down of 52nd street … … wars that weren’t even our own … and Gil Scott Heron’s ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.’” She speaks to them, through them, her generation in the palm of her hand. Leading them softly, powerfully, in song, and in worship.

In the end, she reminds them: “…

I came up with A conscience A purpose A direction and as I came up There was the realization That the church, the music, the civic lessons The experience of the civil rights era Helped me grow even when I came up with The political Rally call ‘POWER TO THE PEOPLE and ‘To God Be the Glory To God Be the Glory To God Be the Glory For the Things He has done.’”

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Later in the night, I interview Victoria. She describes their year, 1969, as the “Era of the Future.”

A time of enthusiasm and radical change. Uncertain times. Fear and excitement. This all rang through her speech earlier in the night and echoed to me of where we are today.

I think on my generation. As I reflect and write, our society is under threat of dissolution, by various means, and yet we are excited by revolution—a time when nothing is certain for us now except certain change. We yearn for it, we need it, but we also need an appreciation of the past. An acknowledgement of the voices that made and carried these echoes to us in the present.

The Victoria Huggins Peurifoy, West Philadelphia High School class of 1969, is a voice for my generation. Her voice resonates in me like a chord I never expected, in a song that’s been building in my head for years.

I hope that people my age can look back in fifty years with old friends, and sing praises on these times—on ourselves, the figures of these times. I hope we can feel both joy and sadness (but mostly joy) with each other, not because of what the world has come to, but because of where in the world we came from. I hope we come together, as everyday people, now more than ever.

Whenever she enters a room, I feel Victoria’s words, echoes of others’ songs and building on them, like an unending flame: Everybody get together.

Try to love one another. Right now.

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Devin Welsh

THE BEGINNINGS OF A THIEF Kirsten Sherich

I never wanted this, I didn’t ask for it, and I absolutely never imagined it. I was young, I could tell you the age, but I know what some of you would say. A third of you would call me foolish, a child no less, with developing morals, you’d excuse my behavior and boil it down to pure parenting.

The other group of you would call me stupid and selfish, that I had other options. If only I were smarter, if only I were more resourceful.

And the last bit of you wouldn’t give two shits.

Your eyes would glaze over and not give me a second glance.

I am quite alright with any of your thoughts.

But it’s my story, not yours.

It was just there, sitting there, bruised, pummeled, left untouched. So I grabbed it. I didn’t run. I didn’t stare at it. I just took it, slipped it into my pocket and walked away. My heart didn’t race, my stomach didn’t drop. My hands didn’t sweat.

I felt nothing.

I didn’t stop feeling desperate or safe or secure.

Maybe a small tear-soaked drop of relief. Maybe.

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But I needed it. I was hungry – we were famished.

And maybe I’m just making excuses, trying to make what I did okay in my mind.

I took it back to our hole in the fence, slipped behind the tarp, and placed my treasure on the ground.

“Where did you find this?”

“It was just laying there.” A feeling I’ve never experienced before arises.

I look at the mangled pomegranate on the dirt ground. Was it worth it? Does this make me a thief?

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SILVER THREADED BEINGS Kylie West

I’m tightly coiled strand by strand wrapped in on itself frays throughout I’m encased in threads pluck by pluck my strands become undone

I’m leaking through the gaps my casing being pulled away weak and vulnerable it’s slipping through my fingers the silver strands holding me together unraveled picking up my threads trying to wrap myself up again but once a body is unraveled it's time to create something new with the broken strands

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THE MAN OF WHISPERS AND THE CURSE OF KNOWLEDGE Emanual J. Marquez

The world was in a deep slumber. The forest around Tavern 222 was silent and peaceful until the Man of Whispers entered. With every step he took the winds howled, it seemed the world around him became a hue darker. He entered the tavern only to find no one there. He walked to the dusty bar and took a seat on a barstool. He looked around the vacant tavern and thought of all it used to be.

He smiled a bit; thinking of his comrades who once, many years ago filled this hall with joyous laughter, and the bravado of young boys thinking themselves men. It brought a wide grin to the man of whispers, a grin that hasn't been this pronounced since the days of his youth. As he reminisced on the past, suddenly, he heard shuffling and soft coos. He picked his head up and surveyed the room; he got up from his seat and looked around.

Strange, he thought to himself. He moved away from the stool and again heard the cooed. Only this time it sounded like pain, like whimpers. He headed into the back, swiping away the dust and cobwebs surrounding the doorway. The silent whimpers grew louder the farther he went inside.

He moved the empty beer kegs and crates to find a boy sulking in the corner, with a shroud over him.

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and looked at the man. Instantly, the boy lunges for his rune shards, fumbling through his pockets to grab a small purple crystal, full of dangerous energy, but the man of whispers simply laughed.

“Those wouldn’t work on me, boy.” The room trembled at the sound of the man’s booming voice.

The power within his words echoed throughout the tavern. The boy looks up to him with horror.

“Who, who are you?” The boy asked.

“Who am I? Why the Man of Whispers of course!” There was a pause, The Man of Whispers expected a gasp of surprise and the boy did as he thought. His eyes were even more frightening now than before. The Man continued, “This tavern is supposed to be deserted… It belongs to a friend of mine long ago who isn’t around anymore.”

“Alavnar?” The boy asked, trying his very hardest to look brave. The Man of Whispers’ eyes lit a violent red at the sound of that name.

“Don’t speak of his name!” He hissed. “Why does a child know of this ghost of the past?” Winds began to gush around the room. They were strong, so strong the boy’s body was pressed against the room. Tears flowed from his eyes.

“I’m, I’m sorry for saying his name, but he’s my father, and I was told by the townsfolk he once owned this shop… BUT HE’S DEAD!” Suddenly the Anthology 6

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winds stopped. The boy sprawled onto the floor and began to cough violently.

“He’s not dead,” The Man of Whispers turned around and began to walk out. “Come,” he ushered the boy into the common area. The boy followed.

The Man clapped his hands, and instantly, the waning wax candles turned ablaze. Chairs shifted and the room was live and vibrant. “To find your father you must know what happened long ago.”

With every word he breathes life into the tavern figures began to appear and a scene takes shape.

He turns around and sees the young boy gawking around the room.

“I hear things moving… But I don’t see anything.”

“Here,” he hands an unlit candle from his pocket, and grabs a wick from the table.

“Lighting this will make you aware of everything. You would be able to see as I do, and do as I do at the cost of a normal life.” He spoke in a grave tone: the boy didn’t seem to mind and looked at him earnestly.

“Are you ready to find your father?”

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SMOKE, FIRE AND FLAME, IS PART OF MY FAME. Earl Hackett

I'm a two-time military veteran (Air Force Sergeant and Army Captain) and I'm still sane.

Over the years, I've learned a few things: Where there is smoke, it is usually followed by flame.

I purchased an old original copy of Harpers Weekly, a Journal of Civilization, many years ago. It was dated January 6, 1866. Soon as I got it, I had it professionally framed and matted.

The lithograph (a black and white sketch) beneath the title cover, featured a ragged old man sitting on a tree stump. He leans on a tall walking stick, as he views barren land. In the background, is what was looks like a burned-out chimney stack, of what was once, a little shack. At his feet lies an old whip, which was once covered with blood and dirt.

Beneath the photo is a small caption that reads; The Last Chattel.

That was the smoke, this is the flame. I recently read a book and put some of it in a frame. I titled it, Fred remembers his grandmother Memories from one of the most famous chattel.

She was remarkable, but unsung because she was born under bondage: Anthology 6

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She served the old master from youth to old age.

She was the source of all his wealth. She had become the 'great grandmother' for all under his command. She populated his plantation with twelve children.

She rocked him in his infancy, attended him in his childhood, she served him throughout his lifetime, and raised his children's children. At his death she wiped from his brow, the cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes forever.

She, however, saw her own children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren divided, like so many sheep.

In the end, she became very old, having out lived the old master, and all his children, having seen the beginning, and the end of them all.

Now the present owners, find her to be of little value, because her frame is now weak and frail, with the pains of old age, over a body that was once active for many years. She is now seen as completely helpless, so they take her to the woods, built her a little hut, with a small mud chimney, and leave her to make do with whatever she can find.

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She lives in total loneliness; she stands, she stumbles, and she falls, but there is no one to help her. There is no one to wipe the death-sweat from her wrinkled brow. There is no one to even place the sod beneath her fallen body.

How can this be? In the land of liberty; sometimes we forget, that there was bond and there was free. There is a difference between the 'Christianity of the land' and the "Christianity of Christ". One is good, pure and holy while the other is bad, corrupt and wicked. To be friend to one, means one must be an enemy to the other.

- Frederick Douglass in 1845 from the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave.

Fire can warm your body and your heart, and it can heal, or destroy your very soul.

I never met my mother's mother (Bessie GreenSmith) because she died when my mother was only eight years old. Maybe that's why my mom gave birth to 14. She only 'knew of her father.' When mom was checked into the convalescence home, we flew in from around the country; she was not left in the woods to fend for herself, and when she died at the age of 90, I learned the rest of her story.

The father she barely knew was a Native American who kept count of all his offspring DURING his lifetime. When my mom was born in 1919, she was the last of HIS 33 children.

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The roots run deep and there are many branches.

Some of the branches broke off and some of the branches bloomed. I consider myself a late bloomer.

At seven zero I decided to become my own hero. I didn't just follow the crowd. I blazed my own trail. I claimed it, I framed it, and I put it in a book.

As a Quartermaster Officer, I issued resources to help soldiers 'survive and win.' As a writer with a 'warrior spirit,' I want you to 'thrive and win'. I write to feed the brain, not entertain. It's serious business to leave a powerful message behind, so I made some of it rhyme and some of it flow, but it's designed to make YOU think before you fall into the brink.

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THE NECKLACE Brenda Bailey

The house on Ludwig Street looked empty from the outside. The old couple had lived in the house for over sixty years. Their clothes hung from their frail bodies. The kitchen had a table with two chairs— the cushions had seen better days. The living room had a gold sofa covered in plastic and a green leather recliner, the mattress on the full bed had body imprints showing its age. The landline phone sat on the coffee table, waiting to ring. The dust was thick, and the house had a stale smell. There had been a time you could eat off the floors the house was so clean, but that time had passed.

The husband and wife would not let a caretaker come. The house needed repairs, but no one came to help. All the windows were covered with black trash bags and rattled in the winter. The couple was grateful for the visitors who delivered meals daily and stayed to talk for a while. They rarely came out. She always had on a large beautiful green necklace. Up close you see that the necklace needed a cleaning, and that the stones looked like emeralds. The old lady was always seen with the necklace. Some said they had seen it glow early in the morning, that its power kept the couple alive.

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neighbors asked, they would only say they were from far away.

One Friday morning the quiet was broken by the wailing of an ambulance. The old man was wheeled out of the house. They returned after two days; the husband was confined to a hospital bed.

The wife was suddenly old and tired, and they now had a caregiver. Things were changing for the couple. On her way to the grocery store that afternoon the caregiver was approached by the women in the community, inquiring about the old man’s health; she said, “he had a slight stroke.” Her name was Adonna and she would be there during the day to help them with their diet and keep the house clean. The next morning Adonna returned with groceries, the old woman was on the porch to greet her.

Six months passed; it was a beautiful September morning. The community was awakened by the shaking of the ground; the neighbors ran outside to see what was happening. The old couple’s house was lit up bright green light. Some neighbors would later claim they saw the old couple floating up to a round object, hovering in the sky and that once the couple were on board, the object took off skyward. What is certain is that when Adonna arrived, the old couple was gone, and the only thing left was the green necklace on the porch.

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Adonna picked up the necklace and found it hot to the touch.

For several weeks, the community was abuzz.

But like most news, even this. . . died. However, Nicolle could not stop thinking about what happened. It seemed her Auntie had told Nicolle a story about people just appearing and disappearing.

This beloved aunt was living in a senior home and her 90th birthday was coming soon. She planned a party for Auntie and invited the community.

Before she moved to St. Ignatius nursing home, Auntie lived in the family house. Her parents had left the house to all six of the children. When her siblings and her husband had passed on, Auntie moved back in. She told her fellow residents that she loved living in that neighborhood, it was home.

The party was at the community room of the senior center, and everyone brought their specialty dish. The seniors in the community came out to celebrate Auntie.

The party-goers were singing happy birthday and walking around Auntie in a “ring shout.� She kept looking at Adonna. Auntie recognized the necklace and began to remember the first time she saw it.

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down from the light. They were tall with very long arms and legs. Their heads were round, and they were bald. Their clothes seemed to be part of their bodies; both were green. She could not move, she just stared. The man and woman appeared before her in the street, and the lady had on the green necklace—it was vibrating, seemed to have a heartbeat.

They did not look like neighborhood people, but as they moved toward the house their bodies began to take a more human shape and their clothes began to look like everyone else’s. The couple began to get color, and by the time they reached the house, they were African American with normal heads and hair.

Auntie ran into the house and told her father what she had seen. He smiled and told her about the green lady who had been around since he moved from North Carolina. He told her it was an urban legend and that she had a great imagination for telling stories. Her dad left for work and she went in the house to get ready for school.

Whenever she saw the couple she smiled and soon forgot what she had seen. The lady wore the green necklace every day. Auntie graduated from high school and went to college in South Carolina.

After college she married, had children and came to Philly for visits. She did not think about what she had seen in her youth. The last time she visited her parents she was up early sitting on the steps and she looked up in the sky. The green light was shining 197

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down, and one of the visitors was walking towards it. She tried to move, but her feet were glued to the asphalt. The visitor waved goodbye. He was green again and the clothes were part of the body. The head was round and bald. The light carried the visitor up to the sky.

The neighborhood began to shake, and just like it began, it ended.

Now she was looking at the necklace and who was wearing it. The ring shout was over, and Auntie asked her friends who was the lady with the necklace. They told her she was the caretaker of the couple who had just left the neighborhood mysteriously. She asked Adonna about the necklace and how she came into possession of it. Adonna told her that she found it on the porch when she arrived to care for the couple. They just vanished, left a note saying she could stay in the house if she liked. Auntie told her the story of meeting the couple before them. She said that they have been sending couples to live in that house for at least fifty years. She was talking to other seniors from the community and many of them had the same story.

The lady always wore the necklace and it returned with them. She could not understand why they left the necklace, the caregiver must be special, or they have stopped sending people to study the African American community.

Adonna went back to the house and sat on the sofa, and she smiled as she remembered the fiveAnthology 6

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year-old child in the street when she first arrived.

The males of her species did not last as long as the females. She would be getting a mate soon. The couple left before their time because the male was sick. The house was a place of comfort to them because it was part of their culture for hundreds of years. They had been coming to earth for a long time and living in the African American community.

They related to the culture of the community and they were always respected. However, some lived in other communities on earth. She wore the necklace with pride every day. She said it reminded her of the couple she had cared for. But the necklace was a life source and kept her looking and aging like everyone else. The party ended. Some of the community members believed the story, others thought they were hearing the urban legend.

That evening Auntie laid in bed looking at the sky smiling, she was remembering that day eighty-five years ago, she knew the necklace was the life force. They were friendly and never caused a problem, her mother told her they were welcome here. People were so conceited to think God only created humans. We are not alone, she used to say.

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THE SANDMEN Brendan Garwood

Give me your hand while it still coheres ‘Cause we’re all disintegrating together Granules part from our cuts and our tears Puppeteered by the breeze like a feather Though reclusion schemes to appease our fears Lonely guts tear like brittle leather And achievement does little to battle the years If entropy ever-onward endeavors Dread not the scarring bereavement which nears ‘Cause regardless we’re bound to untether Why won’t you hear, as my head disappears That we’re hopeless victims of the weather?

Thus, that we’re merely illusion comes clear One day made from the stuff of limbs severed But, If there’s any permanent delusion here It’s the love with which we could touch forever.

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HARANGUING HUGHES MIGRATION/INSINUATION Elizabeth Abrams

Charting tomorrow From time past – Ain’t much change From the dark boy or lass – Today they still judge By the shade of they skin If white alright If brown stick around If black get back – Way way back – -To poor schools Fatherless homes Lots of dope Lots of dirt A prison & no hope Get back black child Way way back

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Sought + Sanctuary - Andrea Walls

SUSTENANCE AND REPOSE Andrea Walls with Beth Ann Downey

Writers Room and The Study at University City have partnered to create a new writer-in-residence program that provides emerging and established writers dedicated time and space to nurture their creativity and advance their work. Poet and multi-media social practice artist Andrea Walls was the inaugural The Study x WR resident in December 2019.

Q: Tell me about your work in general

and your life here in Philly.

A: I’m born and raised here, so I have seen the city through a great many changes: politically, artistically and architecturally in particular. I love this city, and I also have been hurt by the city because it’s got a complicated past, as does America. So, I became an artist here, but it’s not a place that historically has been that friendly to artists. Not that it’s been hostile to artists, but it’s not been very supportive in terms of, you know, that capitalistic stress between trying to make a living and to be able to produce as an artist.

So, it feels like a unique moment in Philadelphia, and I think this residency is part of that because I think it has always felt, to me, until recently, like in order to get any of that sustenance, you actually have to leave the city so you can be restored and then come back. And for a long Anthology 6

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time it was difficult to engage audiences. I went to so many events that would have like four or five people in the audience. And now, in Philadelphia, just everything that I go to is dynamic, standing-room-only audiences.

So I’m not sure what’s at the crux of the change.

It might be just this national anxiety that we’re feeling … So it feels like there’s this creative energy that comes from that need to respond.

Q: How would you describe your residency

experience at The Study?

A:

It’s great to have that luxury in your own city, the luxury of not having to shop, prep, cook, and clean up after a meal. That’s a significant thing to do for yourself in the midst of work, life, art and whatever else is going on.

There’s an exhaustion if you went for a residency in some tropical locale. That takes a lot of energy to pack and get ready and travel and negotiate all of that, and then in reverse. So, to be able to stay in your own city and just be able to walk out your door and into such a warm and welcoming space... . This atmosphere is what a writer lives for, right? A room with books, comfortable chairs, a room with a window seat that you can kind of look out on the city. It’s that inspirational thing where sometimes, even if you don’t feel that productive, what you needed was to kind of rest in that space, and do nothing. I read two papers every day, which I haven’t been

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able to do for a number of reasons. That just felt like a luxury, to sit down with the Sunday New York Times in the window seat with coffee, and to do the crossword, you know. It’s the kind of thing that I remember just really enjoying, and it seems like life has gotten so hectic, that kind of small joy that you wouldn’t even have remarked on at the time seems like it gets pressed out of the possibility in a day, just because of the ways we engage with technology.

There’s really nothing more luxurious at this moment in the culture than a restful week — even a day is an amazing thing. But to have a week where you can really sink into it because it really takes a day or two for all of the noise to kind of settle down. All of the to-do lists you’re always trying to stay on top of it, to just let that voice fall away. And I mean, this location is great because it’s easy to just get out and walk around on either the campuses. But I can’t say enough about that experience and hospitality.

Q:

What were you working on during the residency?

A:

You know, honestly, I have been working on so many things simultaneously. I have several websites that I created and curate. I also had just finished a practicum with the Studio Museum in Harlem around museum engagement and curriculum design for engaging audiences with the art of artists of color. So I worked on

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some curriculum for that. I also worked on the curriculum for the week that Danielle Morris and I presented during the one-week writing workshop we did with Writers Room. It was really a delightful experience. The people that they work with at Writers Room run the gamut from 17 to 77, members of every different skill level and interest, and just being able to work with visual culture and writing are like the two things that I really love.

Q: Why should more writers and/or artists seek these opportunities and be given these opportunities, or have these opportunities available to them?

A: I think, honestly, especially thinking of what younger people are up against, I feel like they don’t even know what this type of repose is.

And they need a break. People in my generation and older need to reconnect with that way of being and relating that we’re familiar with and perhaps nostalgic for. The current modes of communication, for instance, I might send somebody a text, and they say, “Oh, well, I sent you an e-mail” or “We started a GroupMe,” and I’m like “Oh, I DMed you on Instagram.” I’m honestly very confused and anxiety-ridden with how to communicate effectively.

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I don’t think most people even know how pushed to the limits they are. It’s just this mindset, like, “You gotta keep it going.” And I think being under that much pressure all the time is not necessarily the greatest friend to the writing process.

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So, I mean, I just think, culturally, we all need a little bit more repose.

We need some thoughtful approaches to language and visual storytelling. I think we need to hear more from people who are not purely reacting and have had the luxury of time to consider what it is the moment calls for.

Research is a very deep thing. You can’t just skim through it if you’re using text to support your thinking and your arguments. You really need to engage with it. It’s difficult to do just sitting like scrolling through a screen. You need to be at a clean desk with all your books open. We need that from our deep thinkers and cultural preservationists and artistic narrators.

We need more from them, so we need to give them the sustenance, the hospitality, the kindness.

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Railroaded - Andrea Walls

Ky

le

Ho

we

y

MY MOM DROPS ME OFF Katie Pudred

Recruiting Office, Pgh, PA. Afternoon 4:30ish

Terrible fluorescent light bulbs/no windows Dry air, warm, stale Sitting @ recruiter’s desk looking back @ my mom for her approval Mother has her eyebrows raised a “If this is what you want, Kate” Hear recruiter’s chair turning Looking @ document that I was signing Gross blue walls Gross blue walls blank walls Red carpeted floor Nothing but a bubbled white ceiling

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My mom drops me off at the airport for the last time. . . . I go through security weeping like I have just lost a loved one. My mom was standing there watching.

I turn around only to exit security to hug my mom once more. It was the biggest hug I have ever given or received and one to never forget. We sob together.

She tells me how much she loves me and how proud she is, and I pass through security for a second time.

Tears would not stop falling from my eyes. I looked back once more before entering the train to my terminal. My mother was a mess. Thoughts raced through my mind: “How could I leave her, she’s going to resent me, will the guilt ever fade?�

Signing on the dotted line . . . .

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ACCEPTIN CHRIST Chanda Rice

I had done my homework in school. So I can tidy up before I go down the street to Ms. Carol’s.

She tells us how Jesus loves us and we sing songs. I can feel the breeze come through the door.

Mr. George is sitting in the corner looking at us.

Ms. Carol has printed out papers for us to work on and color. We all are laying on the floor. After Bible Study, she gives us cookies.

Down the street at Ms. Carol’s house for Bible Study.

It is 4:00 in the evening.

It’s summertime.

The sunlight is coming through the window.

It warm.

It smells like cookies.

We are holding hands in a circle praying.

I am here for Bible study.

We are praying.

We are in a circle.

Nothing, my eyes are closed.

A piano.

A rug.

A ceiling.

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BLOOD DONATION Sarah Velcofsky

It hit me walking back to my c a r nausea lightheadedn e s s blackness creeping at the edges of my vision hands like numb

hams

grabbing for the railing

drag my cinderblock feet up the stairs dimly aware of my dimly aware that my brain

extremities

still rides inside this fleshy chassis.

I sit on the curb in the alleyway behind 7-Eleven With my head between my knees, Waiting to reenter Earth’s atmosphere.

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THE PICTURE WITH WANDERING EYES Briyanna Hymms

With all my thoughts That pitter around You’re the thing That goes bump in the night Most thoughts skitter-scatter Across the halls into one room or another Except you’re the one that lingers You’re very much alive With arms around someone else Because you couldn’t decide If I was going to be forever or a day In your life I decided against ever letting you choose Because if it took you that long Then there’s no point in waiting You had your shot And you pointed it at your own head Took away the qualities That could’ve saved you But you were a collection of Traits someone else wanted

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I can’t even blame you For haunting me at night I gave you your power When I agreed to play hide and seek With a specter of a person Who really are you But a frosted glass memory Tinged white with the intention To never see you again The noise of dissension That once crowded me Can be laid to rest You’re not gone But a part of me has died This is goodbye

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SALT Sarah Velcofsky

Salt cleanses.

My hand slipped while frying an egg and my finger grazed the hot skillet. The skin puffed and pinkened and filled with fluid. It radiated with pain like slow, lapping waves. Grandma always said that anything could be healed with seawater, so I went down to the beach. The hot rocks and fragments of shells engulf and scrape at my bare feet as I wade in. I keep to the shallows and lower to my knees, resting there so the water meanders around my neck. Salve. The burn stings, then subsides. Seaweed fills the water. Robust and slimy, it tangles about my limbs. Bandages. The burn is just a flat welt when I emerge.

Salt parches.

My lips feel pruney and dry. Can’t stop licking them.

Must stop. The water in my bottle, over-warmed by the sun, mixes with the salt on my lips as I sip. Briny bathwater. I’ll go the mile or so walk without it. The seawater on my body evaporates, leaving a crystalline shell behind. I feel tight and itchy and crusty.

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Salt rots.

The wooden slats of the boardwalk are dry and splintered. Corroded nails are no longer strong enough to hold the corners down. I stumble on some of them even though I’ve walked here thousands of times. There’s never any money for repairs. Wealthy city dwellers summer elsewhere. The paint on the shop signs downtown is prematurely old and cracking. Seafood. Ice cream. Books. Auto parts. The rusty spring in Grandma’s screen door groans as I enter. She sits on the back porch, smoking a cigarette and reading a true crime novel. The skillet, now cool, remains on the stove.

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SUPPLIES & DE-MONS Emanuel McGill

WE misuse any and everything Curse and repurpose what the Heavens bring We buy water and discard bottle, polluting the earth Increase and decrease the value of man For worth or for pity It’s hard to repurpose and repackage evil for good WE demand their labor to supply our wages to live comfortably Like WE built this city, nation, and world on lesser backs Their position among aristocrats Made them stocks and bonds Investments that were exploited until the market crashes and the bubble burst into the air I guess it’s the nature of hustle, the games we play to stay on top with bad company Supply the arms, demands the power, attain absolute power, left corrupted absolutely, engage in some half-ass humanitarian effort just to say “I’m did some good”

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Well, some good is not enough So they lift their voices to denounce the old Cries amplify from the ground level as they climb the ladder Calls of fairness and demands of equality rang up We’re supplying the causes, which creates their demands, in turn, allow to help make changes, so they can profit out their good works and WE profit more, mainly, cuz we hold the rights, bullets and bandages, the antidote and the poison, the mattress and the bedbugs Create the de-mons, we’re enslave to the supplies Wash, rinse, dry, repeat A cycle old as time

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WE WERE AT IT AGAIN Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

Once more, we’re at it again.

Loving, musing, fussing, arguing, and making love again. We feed on each other’s intelligence, each other’s heart strings, each other’s funny bone, each other’s dancing the bump, each other’s poetry, and each other’s ways of being alive.

Yet, we are here, at it again, or should I say, he was at it again; getting up under my skin with the drugs, drinking his life away, smoking his weed with asthmatic nostrils which had a hold on him. It was all extreme to me. He was different, he wasn’t the same person that I used to know and play games with— before he went to Vietnam.

I didn’t smoke, do drugs, or drink, or intentionally waste my time—except on him.

His hold on me was the bat he loved to swing and the constant rhythm with which I purred.

He had a hold on me, like the spiraling structure of DNA with its double helix of genetic information, except, we were of no relations. There were times when we were like the original Pangaea, the supercontinent.

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However, there was an opening of the San Andreas fault—which was our relationship. Our very togetherness just cracked and separated us like a concrete split— we were working on parting ways but he did not know it yet.

I wrote a 10 page, two-sided, legal pad letter saying, “I’m tired of the manic craziness that is your world.”

He had only one question, “Do you mean we can’t try again?”

“Yes” I said, “We cannot try again.”

Therefore, we will not be at it once again— at least, not until the next time.

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BABY DOLLS Elizabeth Abrams

Baby Dolls, Talking Tina, Betsy Wetsy, Chatty Cathy Dolls 3 Foot Tall, Walking Dolls All Blond, Blue Eyes, Pink Plastic Skin Black mothers in the 40’s that’s 1940’s Were hard pressed to locate A black doll even a brown doll My mother shopped everywhere Gimbels, Wanamakers, Lit Brothers, Woolworths Thrift shops, Strawbridges, Snellingbergs, Kresges, 2nd hand stores, flea markets Successful, mom purchased & Brought to me in the hospital, as I Laid with scarlet fever a 2 bodied Topsy Turvey doll Black face, black napply plaits a cloth Black face with brown button eyes Never before in my toy filled world, had I Ever seen a doll like that (with a story) Drop her – and she always landed face-side up For she had 2 faces, separated by a ruffled skirt Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if each time we fell, made a Mistake. We always landed safely – face-side up

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AS THE SONG GOES Neil Bardhan

The first music video I remember seeing was Tom Cochrane's "Life is a Highway" in the summer of '92 with Counselor Joe, one of the most gentle adults I knew at Mansfield. Some things just stick with you. I am sure I had seen MTV or VH-1 some other times, but this is the first specific video I remember.

Is, as the song goes, life a highway? Sure, it's some kind of road. Not necessarily a smooth one you can go fast on all the time, with well-planned, executed, maintained straightaways. And it sure can be lonely on it, whether or not you're alone. The pavement speaks volumes: a reminder of human persistence, ingenuity, a desire to beat nature and create shortcuts.

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BEST DAY OF MY LIFE (SO FAR) WALDORF ASTORIA HOTEL, NEW YORK Elizabeth Abrams

Walking up and down the streets of Philly, stressing and searching for a job, looking along the business boulevard; homeless, (i.e. living with strangers temporarily. . . very temporarily). They were charitable strangers that let me stay as long as I was out daily and got a job quickly. I was praying but still feeling homeless.

I knocked on doors, completed written applications. It was the era before internet and emails. I performed on-the-spot interviews, not properly dressed but desperate and it was written all over me. Finally, my last stop was an industrial air conditioning equipment company.

The company had just lost their bookkeeper and needed a payroll clerk. They were desperate and so was I. The company consisted of a twogirl office. I was hired that day as a second girl.

The boss’s wife was the administrator, secretary, and supervisor. Her husband was sole owner, president and inventor (of the custom-made equipment). The Mrs. taught me the business. I learned to be an excellent clerk.

As I continued to bounce from one address to another, I finally found stable residence.

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Eventually, the boss and his wife invited me to their mansion for dinner out in the suburbs. They bragged on their imported Italian marble floors, winding stairway and gold-plated settings. I was sufficiently impressed.

Sometime later, there was an Annual New York Convention for Inventors and I was invited to attend with the boss, his wife and an escort. We arrived at the famed Waldorf Astoria in a limousine. Kids, aka “celebrity hunters,” hung out on the prestigious hotel steps seeking autographs from anyone who looked important or appeared to be a celebrity. With my special evening attire, my escort and I qualified for that status. We were mobbed for autographs. I was flabbergasted, wowed and excited. I signed my name “Betty Grable” and my escort followed suit and signed “Clark Gable,” the Black version, that is! What a difference a year makes, 1973. Best day of my life.

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LOVE IN THE DARKNESS Daralyse Lyons

An outstretched hand. Love in the darkness. Fingers spread open like legs. She devalued herself. Why? She couldn’t have explained it from the inside. On the outside, she appeared as seductive as a song.

Record playing. Scratchy surface. Played in private.

Sweet, sweet music. As unrequited as love. She lets the noise drown out the loneliness. Or tries to.

It’s still there, a backdrop of shame. A beat. Beat down. Lying in bed. Someone else’s. A quilt of consciousness. Obliterated by bodies.

Women stitched quilts, together in circles.

Now, they lie on their backs. Naked. Alone. Sold into the voluntary slavery of sexuality.

How many dollars spent for a date?

Prostitutes get more for a one-night stand than most women who meet men on Tinder. Eggs like dried up pomegranate seeds. Once ripe and ready, they’ve become raisins in the sun – all dreams of fertility laid fallow.

Barren ground. Scorched earth. Blood red.

Bodies so perfect…

Young women stop their menstrual cycles, yet, still, they dance. Ballerinas. Beautiful and graceful.

As starved for nourishment as they are for love.

They squeeze their toes into too tight shoes.

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The rotten roots of misogyny and patriarchy create branches that overhang everything until nothing seems sacred anymore. Tentacle fingers, like outstretched hands – gnarled and knotted.

She has disappeared now.

Bodies made primarily of water. She has flowed so far away from selfhood that all color is lost. Feels herself in black and white, like an Ansel Adams photograph hung on a wall. Expensive. Not at all how she feels as if she were hanging from a photographed tree – lynched by her love, the road ahead to an unknown destination, both vast and voluntary. Why? She couldn’t have explained it from the inside, but from the outside it seemed as if the road ahead of her was a happy one. With decorated hair, coiled tightly, flowers blooming, the adornment insufficient mask for feelings of inadequacy. Face hidden from our view, but, even more problematic, from herself.

Hands have stopped reaching out for her.

She turned them away so often others have given up.

Now, she must reach inward.

If. She. Dares.

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7:40 MARK Angel Hogan

After the long wet winter, all that time didn’t find me an ending.

Do you remember?

I was forever, that dark reel stalled in space still alive at the 6:20 mark, I can’t tell you what

and then something is spilling urgent, my eyes let me be brave from far away, running, Mom-mom’s backyard the grass I laid, giddy, as a boy some summers

some fall tapping on the window like, member we found that kitten? sliding to the ground like, how we play, waiting to wake, already here.

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alive at the 7:12 28 seconds left unexpected, terrible ordinary day tiny eternity resting in my childhood as if there was a shelter

8 seconds

shiny screaming hole red faced. tears, no sound that quiet kid

splitting, insistent, I am

From The Herald Sun, Mar 21, 2018: Watch Sacramento police officers shoot Stephon Clark dead. WARNING: Graphic content. The Sacramento Police Department has released body cam footage of the shooting of Stephon Clark, an unarmed black man, in his grandparents' backyard. This footage is from camera 1. The shooting occurs near the 7:40 mark.

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HOW WE FORGET Alex Wasalinko

Four, press smiley face stickers over your head in every photo.

Mom taught me how to erase irises and pupils.

Turn you lifeless, unidentifiable.

I will not look for your shade of blue in the sky.

Three, place your letters on a burnt offering.

Watch flames lick up the altar, swallow your words whole in one gulp.

I feel the lump in my throat— can’t bring myself to utter goodbye without being choked by plumes of smoke.

Two, play our song backwards until I forget the original words, ‘til the needle breaks through the acetate.

Learn this new language lost from the time before, let my tongue trip over the words.

Sick instrumentals lament our dead world.

One, propel you out to sea when the embers smolder.

I take your memory’s ashes, scatter them in toilet bowls across the City.

Vanquish you with waves— one flush, two, five, ten to end it all.

Leave your fate to the bottom feeders.

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CASTLING ACROSS AMERICA Rahkinah Laurel

Living in a Church I am living on approximately 13th and Washington.

It was early, 7AM. It was Winter.

The light is streaming through the temple of the church.

The light is illuminating the stained-glass windows.

I am at an AA meeting.

It is warm inside the church.

The air smells beautiful because it is near 9th Street.

I lived here in an Asian Church with twelve other women.

I am living here because I had a terrible addiction with alcohol and drugs in the past. I am a paranoid schizophrenic. I couldn’t stay at my parents’ house anymore or my mother would have been evicted.

I am in an AA meeting in the church.

I see people, I see food, I see a beautiful building, I see a gourmet kitchen, I see a clean sleeping room, I see a neat ceiling (new).

The women there are also homeless.

I fell in love with the wrong man in the past.

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In the spring, Writers Room developed and offered new initiatives and places to interact remotely — online weekly hangouts, open mics, and workshops led by guest writers Kelly McQuain and Husnaa Hashim. Many works created and shared in these spaces are contained in “Views from Home.” They are evidence of the strong bonds we have formed, as we negotiate our writing and our friendships even in this time of physical distancing.

Norman Cain and Will

NEW RITUAL Kyle Howey

We are like acolytes of a new ritual.

Largely previously unarmed, And more vulnerable disarmed.

Disoriented communers with dry tongues, Puffy eyelids—searching, circumventing the current faith, For an untampered truth to quench The entire historical throat.

That so many of us still refuse to clear.

Then realize under the robes we were given Are the conceivable patterns of a new social fabric.

Maybe mature enough as a people To look back and ask— Who were we trying to impress?

Back then, as we devolved.

As we devolved, when individuals ruled to survive.

As individuals ruled to survive, They distrusted others.

As they distrusted others, they Sympathized only with those who Defend themselves, ie rule to survive.

We are a new ritual Of earthly compassions.

Ground-level people, Those nearest to the earth.

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ON WRITING FROM HOME Kelly McQuain

Collaborating over Zoom was a welcome diversion from life under quarantine. Getting to share the varied visions of home the participants came up with was rewarding. It provided insight into the perspectives, young and old, through which Philadelphia can be viewed. We worked our way through viewing “home” in multiple ways, from the homes we create for ourselves to the past homes we’re nostalgic for. We wrote about the people and pets that share our home, as well as how our sense of home manifests itself in our neighborhoods and social communities.

An online class is great for generative writing, for producing new drafts that can later be polished.

There is something about the spirit of a group all tackling the same prompt at the same time that helps a writer push past writer’s block and initial hesitancy. Sharing the work, raw as it may be, is inspiring and educational. As writers, we learn from each other’s varied takes on each prompt, which can provide springboards for where next to take our individual work.

On writing and painting I’ve taken advantage of the pandemic to revise poems and send work out for publication. I’ve also taken notes and written drafts based on my reaction to what we are living through at the moment, but that all feels so fresh that I know it needs more time to process. I alternate between writing and painting, and I have found inspiration for creating new visual work by addressing the human interaction I long for.

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WRITING PROMPT Husnaa Hashim

Read #38, from Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier [https://onbeing.org/poetry/38/].

Brainstorm a list of what the empire has stolen from you, and what the empire owes you, still.

Think of a memory or historical event of relevance to your own lineage that does not really require words. Attempt to reach with words what cannot be touched.

Describe your lineage to someone who does not know what history is.

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THAT WHICH HOLDS ATLAS I. C. Cosmo Randazzo

Consider that the web weaves the body, instead.

Remember each leg as a limb for the community spindles, not just for the lone thorax, the ebbing eight eyes—where do I look when all I see is isolation? Hovering diamond-dew trees with glossy, soft branches, we swing, hang, and dip, sing hymns, psalms and jingles for the fluid midnight hunt. We crowd, aloft over one hand-sewn quilt of soft earth, aloft under a sea of planets and predators, watching, wrinkling, waning.

All of us might be dead by dawn, all yarn and epoxy, all stiff, all so naturally sorry, all tucking our shameful faces into our chests, and hugging our abdomens for an arachnid’s eternity.

Or maybe we just shed all together, all shed together, witness the shriveling of what our bodies once were, what we once saw ourselves to be in those glazed over leaves. Maybe we let rigor mortis interlock our deaths as we all collapse into that final quilt, create chains of arachnids in the afterlife, revel in the freedom of those bonds, love the canopy but respect the pine fronds that send softly those retired bodies into solar systems beyond present existence, suspended, breathless, distant.

Flies mosey by in the nighttime, caught up with us in the next instant. We treat our collected lives like a collective sweet, and cavities run like grills over our teeth. Feast, we feast.

Consider that the web weaves the body, instead.

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SHE MADE IT LOOK EASY, (AFTER ‘AS PETALS FALL ON ASPHALT ROADS’) Devin Welsh

She made it look easy, the way she smiled through heart ache. She smiled through heart ache, but I could see it in her eyes. I could see it in her eyes when I told her I missed her over FaceTime, or when I asked about her how home has been. Home has been something I’ve been thinking a lot about, lately. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the way that home feels like home because of the people in it. Because of the people in it, I’ve been thinking about the home I grew up in, and where I find myself now. I find myself now, unconscious that I’m doing so, thinking about what it would be like to leave. To leave and start my own home with her in it. In it, we would make new memories that we’d carry with us wherever we went. Wherever we went would be home, and neither of us would have to make it look easy again.

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SICK DAZE Devin Welsh

Something drew me to the junk drawer, to three batteries of all different brands, half a pack of Kleenex, a handful of cough drops, lemon and honey.

They remind me of sick days spent clicking through the morning shows. Let’s Make a Deal, sure, why not?

But only if The Price is Right.

Mom left the recipe for Mom-Mom’s magical remedy on the counter next to the bread: Tea with a little bit of honey, careful not to put too much in by mistake, and a Halls for good measure, preferably lemon and honey.

This past month has felt like one long, long, sick day.

Laying in my bed, plodding my way through my work with the motivation of a kid who just wanted to play hooky.

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CAUSE AND EFFECT – (5/11-15 2020) Briyanna Hymms

I don’t know where I am anymore. Whether it’s inside me or outside of me I don’t know what to adhere to or even if adherence is hindrance and hindering on what but myself and who I am and how I am to be perceived because perception is everything that I’ve attached a meaning to without meaning to since I’ve grown up seeing things that play a role in my psyche and my psychology.

I don’t know anymore because I know many things without knowing where I knew the knowledge from and it either makes me a genius or an idiot depending on who I’m talking to but really I am talking to me and I think I’m losing it, it being my self but what is self but a bunch of copypaste features from someone else, starting with my parents and ending with the last conversation I had with my friends with a valid opinion to shape my own opinion thus shaping more of how I think and perceive. My mind is a sieve, porous and hole-y, fine-meshed yet I’m trying to press course information through without any refinement. Fine then. I’ll just have to dig deeper into my conscience and decide what I am to be. Because right now I’m not really satisfied with being me...

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Natasha Hajo

If I fix my posture, then I might reverse the hunch.

And then I can stand long and open.

And since score is being kept, I’ll learn to look at the world slowly again even if it’s made of something going fast.

If I just start with stretches, I’ll be good again.

Melanie Moyer

Because my father had too many bottles hidden in the house, because I remember his eyes glassy instead of brown, because my nose is so sensitive to the sting of alcohol now even mouthwash, because I watched him test a post on our deck to see if it would hold his weight at the end of a rope, because I was 13 then 16 then 19 then 22 and watched it happen over and over again, because it worries me now at 27.

But I don’t say any of that. “I’m just not a big drinker,” I say and ask for a Diet Coke instead. Most people don’t ask for more explanation than that.

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Nick Vonk

It smells like spring, even through a mask.

River water still ripples through the clouds.

Bugs prey, Sun screams, heat.

The balance stands still.

Ponytails still bounce, cows utter hymns, Om. Electric green grass.

Birds still fly, flies still buzz, buzzers sound off.

It’s okay.

We’ll be back soon enough.

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Keyssh Datts

If blinded love brings you eternity on heavens angelic clouds, What does my attraction to you have to do with the way we walk on nails in Haiti?

If I was to hold your hands in the deepest land of quicksand Why does my shallowness get dismissed for the times I wanna reminisce?

Some times I just want to be still a stare into your glare, like Kahlo but I don’t know what’s behind your riot so I paint a picture To be in love with a poster... but which one of us is real?

My mind will race a thousand miles of thoughts Just to get you to have our minds sit still, meditation on the hills...........

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SMALL THINGS – (4/27-5/1 2020) Dominique Shatkin

When I picture my dad in my head, one of the most prominent images I have is of his right hand. It sounds like such an insignificant part of him, but I would stare at it for hours as a child because I was so drawn to his pinky ring. I would ask him if I could try on the bulky gold band with the initials “SCS” carved on it, but I was rarely allowed since he was so protective over it. I knew it belonged to my brother, Sam, but as I got older I continued to learn about the ring itself, and who my brother was.

I was a year old when he passed away, so my only knowledge of him is through photos and the stories that my dad tells me. I remember one day when my dad lost it, since it was the first time I had seen him cry the way he did. “It’s all I have left of him.”

It was then that I realized the significance of the ring, and I searched and searched until I found it in a crevice in his bedroom. As my dad gets older, and his hands become more dainty, the ring often falls off. It’s gotten to the point where he no longer wears it so instead it sits on his bedside table. And as he gets older, he still checks to make sure the ring is there, while I check on him to make sure his blood pressure isn’t too low, or that he is able to walk down the stairs ok. Recently, he had a health scare and we had to call the ambulance. While they were helping him onto the stretcher, I ran upstairs and grabbed the ring. As I waited until I was able to talk Anthology 6

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to him, I held it in my hand, tracing Sam’s initials with my finger. When I gave it to him, I could see in his eyes that he felt a sense of comfort. Knowing that family means everything to him, and that the ring is representative of that, it now is one of the most significant objects in my life. He tells me that one day it will be mine, and I know that I will wear it with the same pride as he does.

Brenda Bailey

I was the youngest of three girls. When I was born my sisters were pre-teens, by the time I was of age they had moved from home or gotten married. I am five years older than my oldest niece. Therefore, I was raised like an only child. The first thing I remember looking forward to with my mom was saying our prayers at the edge of the bed. She would say ok, that’s enough, I would be praying for everybody. When I was a little older I would pin curl/roll her hair, we talked about everything. She would tell me about her times on the farm when she was a girl, picking cotton, how much she missed her mother she died when she was a young girl about 6-7 years old. I would say, “Mommy, you’re hugging me too tight.” She would say, “This is the death grip hug.” My dad would come over and give 249

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us a scratchy-beard kiss on the cheek. The three of would laugh like crazy. I would always think they are so corny, why are they always hugging and kissing me? Maybe it is the pandemic and having to be quarantined—I have been thinking about those times. The hugs and the kisses, I can feel the beard scratching my face, her arms squeezing me. That was love.

the color lavender in a field.

birds chirping.

cotton clouds in the sky

the smell of fresh cut grass. laughter tears

scratchy beard kisses

death grip hugs conversation faith LOVE.

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Kyle Howey

Something I’ve had the time to notice is my tendency to half-start things, like notebooks and sketchbooks I’ve accumulated over the years. When I was younger, my mom would keep and collect all the pages of things I wrote or drew and then threw out – discarded either because I didn’t like how it came out or because keeping the mistakes around embarrassed me. I didn’t like the scribbled-out, the half-filled, the half-blank in between other “good” pages. These things felt out of place in a work I was trying to perfect. Something entirely spaceless, stainless, and worthy of regard. Whereas, now, I’m still learning my way out of the over-orderly, the flawlessness of anything creative—trying to appreciate the raw-ness of making. All inclusive.

I’m glad I was able to take my time looking through boxes of old things of mine my mom decided to save – poems and doodles and scenes and scrawl.

I used to get frustrated when she kept them, but she was always reminding me of their value. Not that they needed to mean something to me then, but that she knew they would mean something to me now. And she was right. At some point these artifacts turn from being irritations and mistakes into bittersweet symbols and memories reflective of a different self. One we might not yet realize we don’t want to forget...

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ON LUGGAGE – (5/4-5/8 2020)

Dejah Jade

What’s the difference between luggage and baggage?

Luggage sounds like a not so heavy feeling like you can rise above what you felt or have been feeling. Baggage is heavy, it weighs you down, it slows you down but does baggage take longer to unpack?

And does luggage linger... The only thing I think I carry with me is the weight of my past that I haven’t fully unpacked. The first thing I’ve had to unpack is the journals of my life, taking out volume one—dealing with physical and mental abuse and then turning that into self harm. After that unpacking volume two—the words of a girl who once again had to deal with being sexually assaulted.

Shortly after, moving on to volume three—knowing that nothing that’s happened will ever be my fault and accepting that people will not admit their wrongs...

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Victoria Huggins Peurifoy

I have some luggage that I have been carrying around for some 68 years. It’s not real fancy, it doesn’t ride on wheels, it doesn’t open and close and it doesn’t have sections to tuck away all of my treasure trolls.

Some of this luggage I first received in 1983 and then I turned around and got some more luggage, to match it in 1987. Don’t get me wrong, there were some advantages to carrying this luggage around.

Sometimes, it brought smiles to everyone’s face, including mine. This luggage had to carry almost 100s of pounds of solid weight within it. I carried the luggage of daughter, of womanhood, of boss, of mentor, of consultant, of wife, of mother, of widow, of student, of senior citizen, and the luggage of now.

Within this luggage, I carried hopes, completed dreams, much happiness, some pain, some agitation, some aggravation, some exhilaration, and some congratulations. This luggage has recently been retired since I no longer have a use for it the way I used to. It’s baggage that I no longer have to carry, at least not in the way that you would think. Some of its contents however are still stuck to me as a constant reminder. You can see it, and I can feel the contents intertwining me at its very core. Bye-bye luggage you don’t live here anymore.

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Duaa E Zainab

There is a park very close to where I live, with the monkey bar I always struggled to climb, the basketball court where I challenged my brother to a match, and the gazebo where, late one night, I had my first kiss. A breeze almost always plays in the park, carrying with it a coolness that forces my eyes to tear a little at the edges, and a smell of Jasmines so strong, I believe it diffuses from the air sacs in my lungs right into my bloodstream. When I go to the park, I feel most in touch with my imagination.

I look at autumn leaves and think about how they can be lighted to give warmth even when they are crumpled and dead. I wonder if the world is more like how a person with poor eyesight sees it: disordered, blended. I think about snow, how harsh, how hurtful, and how it melts upon contact with Sodium Chloride, as if telling us it’s not about the size but about the right traits.

My luggage is the canvas in my brain: the one on which no color is wrong, and no stroke is bad. It’s incredibly amusing to be the artist, and to also be the audience, to be able to create your own art, and also revel in it. Through the swiveling metaphors in my brain, I have created my own black hole of a universe that stretches to no end, and yet exists between the centimeters of my brain. On my canvas, experiences have a taste: sweet, bitter, bitter-sweet, and people, a scent: fresh Jasmines, a box of cookies, expired deodorant. While my luggage gets pushed to the back sometimes, and heavy on its own accord at Anthology 6

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others, I can’t imagine being without it. My luggage helps me find companionship within myself, find a friend in nature and the inanimate, and appreciate all that does not meet the eye. My luggage gives me the space to be uniquely autonomous, and makes me the individual that I am.

Atticus Berry

I live a simple life. I can pick up and move house, states, even countries, with ease. All material items can be replaced. Paintings and sculptures of mine can be sold, given away, or burned. Photographs of mine can be reprinted, recreated, and reimagined.

I don’t hold on to anything more than can fit in a knapsack on my back. And that is saying something for a back that needs surgical rods to hold it upright.

So, we are not talking about a hikers backpack, the kind people make a fuss about being considered a ‘personal item’ or ‘carry on’ when travelling by plane; I truly mean a simple rucksack of belongings that I carry with me everywhere.

Every day when I walk out the front door, there is a black canvas bag strapped to my shoulders. Inside I carry quiet insecurities that hold roots at the bottom of the backpack and have vines pushing at the zipper seams to reach sunlight. Inside I carry secrets that would change the way people view and treat my body. Inside I carry red hot candies of 255

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anger sealed in individual plastic wrappings. Inside I carry anxiety in the front most pocket so that I may pull some out with each social interaction I encounter. Inside I carry a single 500mL vial of depression, dark and dense enough to last a lifetime.

Inside I carry blades of apathy cleverly concealed in an artist’s pencil case.

When I pack for the day time and again I find myself putting the same items in my bag, never knowing when I may be strip-searched in public and the contents dumped onto the streets. I can feel the weight of the possessions slowing me down as I skip down the stairs two at a time. I wonder how opaque the black of my haversack really is as I step onto my porch and into the sunlight. I think about the threadbare spots of the canvas and wonder what has shifted positions to peak through the cracks today.

How many people will see me struggle with the knapsack and who can see the relief when I finally slide it off my arm and drop it on the floor.

Medha Gupta

As a daughter of immigrant parents, taking trips back to India became a part of my life. We would save money for plane tickets, shop for our relatives in India, and buy lots of travel-sized shampoos.

True to the saying “it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey,” six-year-old me used to look forward to the plane ride more than the actual vacation.

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Since I was allowed a carry-on just like the adults, I designated an entire cross-body bag devoted to my in-flight entertainment. Luggage to my mom was the saris and clothing to donate she would take back. Luggage to my dad was the laptops he would take back for his cousins and the M&Ms for his nephews. However, my luggage consisted of toy model airplanes, an Etch-a-Sketch, a Tomagachi, and some nail polish. In retrospect, I’m thankful my parents packed my clothes and other essentials because I have no recollection of doing that.

Of course, those toys were the essentials for a six-year and nowadays I simply park my eyes in front of a screen and catch up on some movies.

However, I long for those fourteen hours of uninterrupted play-time that a direct flight from Newark to New Delhi offered me.

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ON PAUSE – (4/20-4/24 2020) Jasmine James

This prompt is hard. It shouldn’t be, but it is. I mean, currently this pause is causing me to constantly reevaluate my plan and never actually make many moves towards completing the first step.

The depleting desperation and rising indifference taints my spirit. I know this should have been the perfect opportunity to choose a specific program, or paint (for the first time in a couple of years) or begin to re-learn the piano...all things that help me to feel valuable and validated. I have high expectations but low motivation, so trying to take advantage of this forced break is proving to be more difficult than I thought it would be. That being said, I have tried to work on processing change in a healthier manner as I want to be better at dealing with uncertainty, my hamartia.

I’ve tried writing little messages in my notes and looking up positive quotes to satiate that part of me which rests in an existentialist quandary at every moment... making a list of my true passions and trying to figure out why I’m so afraid of failing before I begin, reading the Bible and attempting to reintroduce myself to the religion I grew up around and trying to document past experiences in greater detail, so that I can avoid becoming too complacent with compromising my comfort.

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can feel claustrophobic with all my demons in this stuffy apartment, I’m trying.

As for the past, I honestly feel like I’ve been on go mode since fourth grade. I was blessed enough to have vacations and weekend getaways, but definitely never had to take a pause this impetuous before.

I had a few events in my life that I could consider a break in normalcy: when I changed schools during my elementary years, when I lost my group of friends, when my mother got married, when I started high school and moved out to the burbs, when I began college, when I finished and I guess....2020 ....as whole (as social media will corroborate, this quarantine isn’t the only shocking quality about this year).

Each time (milestone? That’s probably a better word but I feel like a new mother describing her amazing 22-month-old when I use it) I suppose I shifted and developed a new persona and bubble to fall into. Focus....retreat within myself....find a new goal....rinse...repeat. I didn’t necessarily grow as much as I could have each time and I want this pause to be different.

At the end of all this, if I can’t come out with a clear organized plan for my future, at the very least, I want to come out as equipped as I can be to deal with the uncertainty.

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Earl Hackett

Red is a color, while read is an action. Pandemic sounds like the end of the world and for many it will be. For those who survive, take the time to write something down. For those in the Writers Room, it’s how we recall the past and look forward to a different world. Maybe now we can get others to write something down since they can get out to into the world...

Robyn Phelps

...Being stuck at home without work I’ve found that mask making is my new hobby/job/purpose. I’ve always loved to sew, and now I can use that to make a difference. It’s truly so wonderful to provide that extra bit of comfort and safety for people, healthcare and other essential workers especially...

Amy Gottsegen

...Watching all of the plans and dreams we had to keep building and organizing [neighbors of the Cesar Andreu Iglesias Community Garden] and for-fuckingonce winning get chopped up into individualized portions and stored away in tiny boxes just made me numb. For a week, I felt the hot breath on my neck urging me to say something, to have a plan or an idea or a call to action. And I just felt clueless.

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But of course, always, I am missing the point.

Thinking through some weird cocktail of rugged individualism and ego that I have to come up with my own answer when, of course, the answers were already stretching and yawning to life somewhere in the collective...

Mallika Kodagavanti

...The fact that spring is everywhere is lifting me up. Even though the news updates are filled with tragedy, stress, and worry, I still try to take the time to appreciate how blue the sky is and all the birds I hear when I walk my dog. The magnolia tree down the street is a delicate shade of pink, and it melts into the early morning sun every day. Our hyacinths are in full bloom, and their sweet fragrance has been filing the kitchen for the past few days. Life is stressful and weird right now, and we can’t control all the crazy things going on, but taking a moment to appreciate what’s happening right around me in the moment around me helps me feel a tiny bit more sane.

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Patrice Worthy

Talking to people during this time means so much more than it did before, than I ever could realize voices become embraces that I hope will suffice as we wait alone I labor over the emphasis of each word and wonder if in-between pauses it is clear how much I’d rather not talk at all and just sit next to you It is bright. I feel the sun on my back and on my face. Its warmth reminds me of the love of my mother and how she felt when she was here. I stop, something that I rarely do anymore, and just allow myself to exist. I measure my breathing, and try to shift it to go deeper, to find respite within. I’ve read so many books on how to heal, and yet I still have to write my own.

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Rachel Wenrick

I want to just sit here and listen to that ping and crackle, like astronauts in space beaming a signal back to earth.

To the throat clearing.

To the hey theres and the how you beens.

The breath.

This is the first time my mind has been quiet in weeks.

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Kimberly Sterin, Alex Wasalinko, + Sarah Velcofsky

Kind Essence + Netera

Hanna Pistorius + John W. Jackson

Steve, Brenda Bailey, Rosalyn Cliett, + Yusha Johnson

CONTRIBUTORS Elizabeth Abrams is a member of the Writers Room workshop and community.

Dhazir Acosta is a student of YouthBuild Philadelphia Charter School and a TRIOD Writer-inResidence (2019-2020).

Hasciya Austin is a student at Science Leadership Academy. She was a Work Ready intern with Writers Room in the summer of 2019 and was part of the workshop with Mural Arts and People’s Paper Co-op.

Brenda Bailey has been on this journey for several years. Her involvement with Writers Room has been a great experience. She has learned the importance of words, research, and using them to express yourself.

She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2020).

Atticus Berry is a Photography major at Drexel (BS ‘20) and a TRIOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Courtney Bowles and Mark Strandquist instigated The People’s Paper Co-op (PPC), an ongoing initiative by the Village of Arts and Humanities that connects formerly incarcerated individuals together with artists, civil rights lawyers, and many others to run a multitude of programs and initiatives. Through a highly collaborative and multidisciplinary process, the PPC and an incredible array of city-wide partners, work with individuals directly impacted by the criminal Anthology 6

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justice system to develop the tools, skills, and networks to advocate for themselves, their families, and residents across the city.

Mel Brown is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

Patricia Burton is a member of Writers Room and has been a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence. She is currently excavating histories of Philadelphia and working on her fiction. Her soaps are the bomb.

Norman Cain was born in 1942 and raised on Olive Street in West Philadelphia. He graduated in 1964 from Bluefield State College in West Virginia where he majored in Social Science and minored in English. A retired social worker, teacher, father of five and grandfather of seven, he is active in several writing groups, including the Best Day of My Life So Far at the Germantown Senior Center. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2020) and a founding member of Writers Room.

Rosalyn Cliett is a native resident of Philadelphia, life coach and teacher officiated by a higher power, who loves to write. Her goal is to enlighten others on solutions about life situations, through her writing. Something she calls “food for thought.”

Becoming a part of Writers Room, and then the sideby-side Philadelphia story and others – which were not only educating and exciting – has enlarged the steps that are essential to her destiny (removing the 269

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rest of the grave clothes). She is a TRIPOD Writerin-Residence (2017-2020).

Merle Curran-Ackert, whose words are included in “We Contain Multitudes,” took part in a WR/Mural Arts workshop. She conducted research with Writers Room as a Pennoni Honors College Star Scholar in summer 2019.

Barbara Dale is a cooperative living believer and practitioner. We miss her now that she’s moved to DC and look forward to her visits to Philadelphia and Writers Room.

Keyssh Datts is a self-proclaimed humanitarian, poet, and creative. She has touched the world with her art. Unique to her time, she inserts self-healing into her works. Paul Robeson High School ’19. She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2020).

Beth Ann Downey is the staff writer for DrexelNow and also contributes to such publications as Drexel Magazine. She joined the University Communications team in March 2018 bringing a variety of work experience in journalism, public relations and marketing. Beth Ann received her bachelor’s degree in journalism from Penn State University in University Park. She has previously held editorial positions with the Altoona Mirror as a lifestyle reporter and JUMP Philly magazine as a managing editor.

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Tiffany Ellis is the Drexel Community Scholar at Writers Room and a student of Drexel University (B.S. Biology/Public Health ’22). She uses her love for science and her passion for women’s health to travel and make the world better for women all around. Being part of Writers Room has taught her so much about herself as a writer and has made her understand that her voice is truly powerful and deserves to be heard. She is a TRIPOD Writer-inResidence (2019-2020).

Amanda Fields is Writing Center Director and Assistant Professor of English at Central Connecticut State University. She received a PhD in Rhetoric, Composition, and the Teaching of English from the University of Arizona and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Minnesota. She has co-edited two essay collections (My Caesarean: Twenty-One Mothers on the C-Section Experience and After and Toward, Around and Away From Tahrir: Tracking Emergent Expressions of Egyptian Identity), and publishes scholarship and creative writing. "Performing Urgency: Slamming and Spitting as Critical and Creative Response to State Crisis" won the 2016 Kairos Best Webtext Award.

Valerie Fox is a Teaching Professor at Drexel University and a Faculty Writing Fellow with Writers Room. She’s a poet but has recently become obsessed with flash fiction. Recently, with artist Jacklynn Niemiec, she created The Real Sky, a handmade book featuring words and art.

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Afuah Frimpong is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

Brendan Garwood is a student at Drexel University in mechanical engineering. Brendan writes, “...while I haven't had much time/courage to show up to the Writers Room in person, I love writing poetry as well as reading other peoples', and it's a goal of mine to start attending more often.”

Alex Gilliam is the co-founder of Tiny WPA and founder of Public Workshop.

Amy Gottsegen is a poet, a Drexel Computer Science undergrad (BS ’19), and a community activist. She is fun on a trampoline, and a good friend.

Tymir Gullette believes that being with Writers Room members has allowed him to become more comfortable with his writing. At first, he didn’t know what he wanted to be, but now he does. He is a writer. He writes songs, poetry, and stories about himself. He loves to write and at Writers Room, that’s what we do! Paul Robeson High School ’20. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Medha Gupta is a student in the Biological Sciences program at Drexel University.

Earl Hackett is a writer, blogger, author, and entrepreneur born in Detroit MI. He came to Philly to attend Drexel after serving time in the Air Force.

Graduated and commissioned in the Army, he is now retired but writing. Writers Room makes him look at things a little more poetically.

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Chad Hardy is a student of YouthBuild Philadelphia Charter School and a TRIOD Writerin-Residence (2019-2020).

Natasha Hajo was a TRIOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2019). She graduated from Drexel University (BS English ‘19) and is currently an ArtistYear AmeriCorp Fellow at Paul Robeson High School.

Husnaa Hashim was the 2017-2018 Youth Poet Laureate of Philadelphia and author of the poetry collection Honey Sequence (from The Head & The Hand). She is a first-year student at the University of Pennsylvania from West Philadelphia by way of Gaithersburg, Maryland. Husnaa has been writing and publishing since the age of ten. She has competed with the Philly Youth Poetry Movement at the Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam Festival, placed first in the Free Library Teen Poetry Slam, and performed at the Muslim Congress Conference, the Black Muslim Psychology Conference, and many other venues.

Angel Hogan has performed as part of the Black Women’s Arts Festival, Literary Death Match, Moonstone Presents, First Person Arts and the Philadelphia Fringe Festival. She worked with ArtWell, was a Contributing Editor to Philadelphia Stories, and a review panelist for the Philadelphia Cultural Fund. Angel is interested in storytelling as a vehicle for tolerance, peace, and community building. Her first film, By Law, By Love, was completed in March of 2019.

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Kyle Howey is the Alumni Fellow at Writers Room (2019-2020). He graduated from Drexel (English BA ’19), and was a TRIOD Writer-inResidence (2017-2019). This year, he has had the privilege of overseeing TRIPOD year three and gaining perspective on how to be a more guiding force as a writer and artist. He hopes to honor the role of Alumni Fellow, continue helping others in their creative goals, and stand in solidarity with those in need.

Warren Howzell believes that Writers Room is a wonderful experience for anyone who loves to write, create and spend time with lovers of literacy.

He joined the group to collect different ideas for a personal project that he was working on, but instead received a whole world more. The comradery, the friendships developed, the insights and the lively conversations will last him a lifetime. He is thankful to be a part of Writers Room. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Briyanna Hymms majored in Biological Sciences and minored in Writing at Drexel University (BS ’18). She’s a lab tech on weekdays and a self-taught artist/plant-sitter on weekends. She’s a regular participant in Writers Room workshops.

Kamaiyah Jackson is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

Dejah Jade is a photographer and aspiring fashion designer. She’s a graduate of Robeson High School (’19). She always makes clothes that she would Anthology 6

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wear and hopes to attend Drexel for fashion design, to continue making new clothes that reflect her personal philosophies.

Jasmine James is a Drexel alum (BA English ’18) born and raised in Philly. Although she always wants to call this place home, she also appreciates traveling and documenting her experiences through writing. She aspires to dedicate her life towards helping others improve their writing skills, harness their creativity and find the courage to highlight their true voice.

Ahmiir Jefferson is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

George Jenkins is the Green Building Coordinator of YouthBuild Philadelphia Charter School.

Yusha Johnson found out about Writers Room through his school YouthBuild Philadelphia. One of his teachers knew he loved photography so she urged him to combine photography and writing together. Now, all of the photos he takes with Writers Room have more meaning to them. And those who never understood his work before can now read about it. Youth Build Charter School ’19.

He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2018-2020).

Kirsten Kaschock is an Assistant Teaching Professor at Drexel and a writer. She has degrees in dance as well as literature and believes that art is an essential part of being human. She is the mother of three sons and the author of four poetry books and a novel. But when she is blue, she is horrid.

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Mallika Kodavatiganti is a student of Drexel University (B.S. Biology ’21), and the best decision she made was walking into the Writers Room studio a year ago. Her passions include giving her dog belly-rubs, drinking coffee, and now writing. She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Pierie Korostoff is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

Ian Lipford is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

Linda Loi is a Tiny WPA Building Hero.

When Daralyse Lyons isn’t doing splits or jumping out of airplanes, this yoga teacher and adrenaline junkie can be found with pen in hand furiously scribbling her latest novel. To date, she has written more than two dozen full-length books. She is also a journalist, a podcaster, an actor, and a career creative. She currently lives in the quaint Mount Airy section of Philadelphia.

My name is Rahkinah Laurel. I am single. I always dreamed of having a beautiful book signing event for fame with riches.

Emanual J. Marquez is a newcomer to Writers Room. He has enjoyed writing since the age of eight and aspires to become a published author and essayist in his life. He is currently a freshman at Drexel University, studying Technological Innovation and Supply-Chain Management, and is also on track to retrieving a certificate in Creative Writing. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

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Emanuel McGill is a poet who has been educating and entertaining people for years through various poetry and arts events in Philadelphia and other cities. As of now, he’s working on new material Janel McCloskey is an Associate Director of the University Writing Program at Drexel University where she directs the Drexel Writing Center. She has always been a writer and thought of herself as a creative writer. However, as a writing program administrator, most of her writing has been for or about students. She’s found a deep satisfaction in developing programs that help students become better writers and thinkers, better collaborators and citizens. Using antiracist pedagogy in this work has enabled students to see their connection to their peers, the institution, neighbors and their communities. As they discover their agency in these spaces, the real value of writing centers is realized.

Carol Richardson McCullough writes to give life to her fantasies, dreaming out loud on paper, to capture things that might otherwise slip away— remembering, exploring, processing, recording, sharing, and celebrating—because the world is filled with wonders too fantastic to ignore. She is an Afrolachian poet and memoirist at heart, a native West Virginian now residing in Philly, re-writing her life’s story. She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2020).

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Jordan McCullough was born in Washington, DC and has lived in Philadelphia for two decades. He is a graduate of Philadelphia Academy Charter High School and the Mural Arts Philadelphia Art Education Program. He is an avid movie fan who enjoys drawing and writing every day. Frequently he sits in on workshops and Writers Room events, lending his unique voice. Creativity is key to his world. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2020).

John McDonald mostly writes music and songs. But being here with Writers Room, he is really starting to enjoy poems. That makes him want to write poems of his own, which he knows he’ll have the best time doing. Paul Robeson Highschool ’20. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Kelly McQuain is the author of VELVET RODEO, which won the 2013 Bloom Chapbook Prize, judged by poet C. Dale Young. The collection includes poems, including “Scrape the Velvet from Your Antlers,” which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

McQuain teaches at the Community College of Philadelphia. McQuain is a writer and artist, who taught with Writers Room in 2018 as part of the “Voices” series of workshops.

Melanie Moyer is a West Philly based writer whose work has appeared in Ghost Parachute, Philadelphia Stories, Astral Waters, and others. Her debut novel was published in 2018 and her forthcoming second novel is scheduled for 2021 through Lanternfish Press. She serves as the Marketing and Outreach coordinator for the 215 Literary Arts Festival.

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Lowell Nottage is a 2019 graduate of YouthBuild’s GreenBuild Vocation Track. An avid hiker, skateboarder, and a glassblower, he hopes to further his solar knowledge and make the Earth a healthier place to live. He is a TRIPOD Writer-inResidence (2018-2020).

Darrell Omo-Lomai, whose words are included in “We Contain Multitudes” took part in a WR/Mural Arts workshop.

Carol Peña enjoys being able to connect with people on their life experiences, and she is a very social butterfly. There are also times where she wants to be alone and stay isolated from the world. She loves spending time with people but at the same time she’s learned that she is most at peace by herself.

She is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Victoria Huggins Peurifoy is a bachelor’s degree candidate at Peirce College focusing on organizational leadership. She is an author, poet and spoken word artist. She facilitates a poetry and discussion group of senior citizens and she cofacilitates a story writing group called the Best Day of My Life So Far. She is a mother of 3 and a grandmother of 7.5. She is a TRIPOD Writer-inResidence (2017-2020).

Robyn Phelps is an illustrator and lover of all methods of creating. A recent graduate (Montclair State ’19), she is eager to break into work in creative industries and to continue towards bettering 279

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herself and her community. She has been more than inspired by the amazing work that Writers Room and their members create, and the incredible community they have fostered.

Katie Pudred took part in the Visual Narrative First Tuesday Workshop in October.

I. C. Cosmo Randazzo is a freshman at Drexel University studying Chemical Engineering and currently living in South Jersey. From a young age and now at 19, her passion for reaching the hearts and minds of others extends across mediums such as STEM, culinary arts, illustration, music, mental health awareness, and, most evidently, poetry and prose. With empathy and self-truth as fuel, she allows slam poetry and spoken word to be poetic vessels through which she can connect with the world in a personal yet profound way.

Chanda Rice is known to her friends as Muffy. She was born in 1961 on the train from New York to Philadelphia and was raised in North Philly by her maternal grandmother. Not only is she a survivor, she is an overcomer, and by God’s grace she is here to deliver her story. She is a resident of Mantua.

Kirsten Sherich took part in the workshop with Danni Morris and Andrea Walls in January.

Mabedi Sennanyana was the first Writers Room co-op student and has taken part in WR workshops, the Writers Room Home symposium series, and a Anthology 6

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WR/Mural Arts workshop. Her words are included in “We Contain Multitudes.”

Dominique Shatkin ’23 understands that chaos will work its way into a masterpiece, something that she’s come to realize through her identity as both a writer and a student with ADHD. She is majoring in Global Studies to think critically about the world around her and make sense of her place within it. She is confident that Writers Room will be a significant part of her journey in making this a reality.

Jarett Speller is an all around artist which means that everything the human mind can create, he is interested in. From the pen on paper to the click on the camera, you can count on him to have one of the most creative pieces in the room. He is a 20 year-old young adult ready to find himself and take on the world. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Miracle Spence is a student of YouthBuild Philadelphia Charter School and a TRIOD Writer-inResidence (2019-2020).

Kimberly Sterin is a first year PhD student in Drexel’s School of Education. She began to work with Writers Room through a project with her graduate assistantship. The mystical spirit of Writers Room quickly drew her in and soon she was writing and laughing with TRIPOD each Friday. She loves to write, build community, and believes in the right to a quality public school education for all.

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Daniel Tucker works as an artist, writer and organizer developing documentaries, publications, exhibitions and events inspired by his interest in social movements and the people and places from which they emerge. He is a graduate of the Rockwood Leadership Institute’s Art of Leadership program, earned his MFA from University of Illinois at Chicago and BFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Currently he serves as an Assistant Professor and founding Graduate Program Director in Socially-Engaged Art at Moore College of Art & Design in Philadelphia where he lives with his wife Emily Bunker.

Teigha VanHester is a disruptive intellectual and unapologetic scholar currently pursuing PhD student (ABD) in Rhetoric and Composition at Illinois State University. She has lived in over 16 countries and currently works full-time as the Director of International Education at Illinois Central College.

As a writer, she writes in a unique, diverse format; demanding the academy allow students (like herself) have the right to their own language. As a writer, Teigha is looking to critique, connect, and create the rhetorical components/strategies used to perform diversity, inclusion, and acceptance within the academy and other capitalist institutions.

Sarah Velkofsky is a poet, essayist, and historian.

Originally from Connecticut, she lives in West Philadelphia and works in museum education. Her work has also appeared in Long River Review and Freshwater Literary Journal.

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Nick Vonk is a Screenwriting/Playwriting major at Drexel (BS ’21). He doesn’t always know what to write, but he does it anyway. He loves the Writers Room community and can’t wait to get to know all of the members better. He was the 2019-2020 Fall/Winter Program Assistant at WR. Andrea Walls feels brutalized by stories of global injustice, including poverty, human displacement, and violence against the environment. She makes art across genres as an act of resistance. She is grateful to the Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation, The Leeway Foundation, The Hedgebrook Community for Women Authoring Change, and the Women’s Mobile Museum for their ongoing support and sustenance. She lives and makes art in Philadelphia and continues to seek creative ways to disengage with capitalist structures, racist institutions, and all systems of oppression.

Niyai Walker-Cruz is into music but her writing has benefitted from this experience as well. The songs are written better and words come easier. At first, she wasn’t sure what she was doing, but eventually she got used to it. She felt that writing wasn’t always her strong suit but now she’s pretty good at it, thanks to Writers Room. She is a Tripod Writer-in-Residence (2019-2020).

Alex Wasalinko is a poet and teaching artist. She is originally from Scranton but currently lives in West Philadelphia.

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Devin Welsh (Drexel B.S. English ’20) has called Writers Room home since his sophomore year.

Currently, he’s doing his best to enjoy his last year as an undergrad, starting to find his stride as a writer, telling stories, and taking the question of what’s next with a grain of salt. He is a TRIPOD Writer-in-Residence (2017-2020).

Rachel Wenrick, Founding Director of Writers Room and Associate Teaching Professor of English, has also worked as a waitress and a roofer. All of these jobs require paying attention. Being a writer has trained her to look for the through-lines that intersect to make a larger narrative. She received an MFA from Columbia University’s School of the Arts and is co-author of singer and activist Angelique Kidjo’s memoir, Spirit Rising.

Kylie West writes, “I am a teaching artist hoping to use my work to enable voices of myself and my students. I graduated from Drexel and now I teach in Philadelphia.”

Patrice Worthy is Assistant Director of Writers Room, where she provides high-level program support towards maintaining and building Writers Room’s civically-engaged partnerships. Prior to this, she was trained as a biochemist. Patrice enjoys working on creative projects that combine art with social impact.

Duaa E. Zainab is a student in the Mechanical Engineering program at Drexel University.

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Editor-in-Chief: Valerie Fox Editors: Kyle Howey ’19 Kirsten Kaschock Rachel Wenrick Project Manager: Patrice Worthy ’12 Photo Editor: Natasha Hajo ’19 Contributing Photo Editor: Patty West Web Editor: Lauren Lowe ’17 Editorial Assistants: Nick Vonk ’21 Dominique Shatkin ’23 Designer: Patty West Design Assistant: Emily Giordano ’21

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This book would not have been possible without the help of Ann Alexander, Ayana Allen-Handy, Shivanthi Anandan, Jen Britton, Ingrid Broadnax, Cricket Brosius, Kathryn Christopher, Paula Marantz Cohen, Dominique Coleman-Williams, Ryan DeVito ’02, Margo Drakos, Dan Driscoll, De’Wayne Drummond, Adam Feldman, John Fry, Jerry Fuller, Heather Gayatgay, Emily Geschke, Richard Gordon, Becca Graham, Kylie Gray, Patrick Grossi, Husnaa Hashim, George Jenkins, Alina Josan ’15, Uk Jung ’08, Nancy Katz, Jennifer Johnson Kebea, Lucy Kerman, Liz Kimball, John Kirby, Scott Knowles, Roger Kurtz, Cindy Leesman ’83, Michelle Lloyd-Miah, Melissa Mansfield, Brenna McBride, Janel McCloskey, Ken McFarlane, Paul McGowan, Lisa Miller, Gwen Morris, D.S. Nicholas, Andrew Nurkin, Rosalind Remer, Cyndi Reed Rickards, Subir Sahu, Sarah Saxton, Amina Simmons, Sarah Steltz, Brittanie Sterner ’15, Cyrille Taillandier, Jane Taylor, Nancy Trainer, Katy Travaline, David Unruh, Kathleen Volk Miller, Scott Warnock, Helma Weeks, Amy Wen, Patty West, Christine Witkowski, Katie Zamulinsky, and Andrew Zitcer.

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Special thanks to— Drexel University’s College of Arts and Sciences, Office of the President, and Office of the Provost for their continued support.

The Corporation for National and Community Service for sponsoring Anti-displacement: The Untapped Potential of University-Community Cooperative Living, a Community-led Participatory Action Research study investigating the landscape of residential displacement and affordable housing options in West Philadelphia.

TD Charitable Foundation for supporting Connected Communities, a year-long program series that aims to address the most vital concerns of all our participants.

The Philadelphia Cultural Fund whose support allows us to further our creative work for the good of our community and for all Philadelphians.

Study Hotels for partnering with us on The Study x WR, a residency program that provides writers with dedicated time and space to nurture their creativity and advance their work.

Canon for supporting TRIPOD, our intergenerational writing and photography project, since its inception in 2017.

Writers Room is a university-community literary arts program engaged in creative placemaking and art for social justice. We are a diverse intergenerational collective of students/alumni, faculty/staff, and neighborhood residents whose work demonstrates a desire for collaborative opportunities in our joint communities. writersroomdrexel.org