Black And... Issue I

Issue I

Designed by: Jaye Willis

ETTER FROM THE TEA

Letter From the Sapphire Founders Dear Reader, Since the publication of Our Palette, An Art Book at the end of 2020, we’ve been busy cultivating the next opportunity to fuel the art of creation. We’ve evolved so much since then as an organization and even underwent a name change to rebrand and refocus as a unit. Now, as Sapphire Hues, our mission remains the same—but elevated.

With this, the inaugural issue, we hope to encourage the creation and discussion of art and literature more than ever before. Black And… is the title of our premiere literary magazine because we wanted to explore the diversity of Blackness. The ellipsis, often used to mark an intentional omission or to represent a trailing off of thought, is meant to be a marker of possibility, of vastness, of intersectionality.

We hope you find a piece of yourself in these works.

With truth, The Sapphire Founders

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Black And...

I AM BLACK AND...

I am Black and artistic. My art is a part of my identity. -Ariel Deane I am Black and “cannot be comprehended except by my permission”. ~ Found in Nikki Giovanni’s Ego tripping (there may be a reason why) -Salena Deane

I am Black and in control of my own destiny. -Gigi Abellard I am Black and it radiates through my every existence. -Christine Barthelemy

Issue I

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ABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents 06-07.

B lack by Dajai Turner

08-09.

B lack History by Nicole Small

10-11.

B lack Pride, 1968, and the Godfather of Soul

by Audrey Shipp

12.

13.

14-15.

4

18-19.

Secrets by Melekwe Anthony Darkness by Raymond Camacho V ulnerability by Kamaria Hodge

16.

Different Directions

by Deborah Ajilore

17.

Have You Known Sadness?

by Melekwe Anthony

L o Tinof by Nicholas Cormier III

20.

e See You Tribe W on the Other Side by Romaine Washington

21.

Stay Woke

by Romaine Washington

22-23.

V oice by Regina Garcia

24.

Basquiat Lemonade by Guliz Mutlu

25.

Tug by Louison Sall

26-27.

Dear Heavenly Father by Sharron Miller

28-29.

T hat Bee Sting Thing by Duane Horton

Black And...

30.

acing It Together F

by Jack Bordnick

38.

Sinberman by Guliz Mutlu

31.

Unkindness by Louison Sall

39.

A Song of Redemption by Geoffrey Philp

32-33.

Comfort Seeking Missiles by Asantewaa Boykin

34.

ew Years Day N

by Louison Sall

35.

Sunflower by Guliz Mutlu

36-37.

S hango by Rob McKeever Bullard Issue I

5

Black

Dajai Turner I used to try to scrub the nigger out of my skin

“You have to do it often”

All of my barbie dolls have been black

I wasn’t the control

I would cut their hair in choppy short layers

Nor the variable

Revealing their hay-shaped naps

And I wasn’t constant enough

I color out their eyes with black sharpie marker and sing about it in the shower

I liked the smell of coffee beans every morning until I would get skipping one day

Hot water swelts My grandma used rubbing alcohol to clean the dirt off of her face a couple of times out of the week so I used it everyday Hoping the dirt of my cornrows and box braids would lather away

I still opened the coffee contain

I started fucking Spanish men u my ex-boyfriend “Black bitch”

I knew an Indian girl who washed her hair with eggs and olive oil flavored mayo

My reflection would taunt me w

“It helped me to grow my hair really long and make it silky”

Beshe wigs and red glitter blus

The black strips of straight glistening in unison with the over-heated sun

The boys would pine over me a clockwise motion in my rump a

I would run my fingertips through her hair

Clean slate with a wig cap and

I started to stare back

The eggs and mayo made my hair smelly and soft

I am Black and Parenting. Committed to community. Ending mass incarceration.

Fighting for the homeless. Resisting oppression. Powerful. Prayerful. Physically and spiritually gifted. Free. Healthy. Abundant. Growing. Grateful! -Nicholas Cormier III

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Black And...

I can be ugly and pretty and everything in between A family member of mines once offered me bleaching cream to “help” “It’s also good for clearing acne!”

s and started drinking coffee t my first migraine after

But I pushed their hands to the side and marveled at the melanin behind my palms

ner because I liked the smell

Fluorescent orange undertones with mixtures of brown and yellow

until I got into a fight with

I am art “I think I’ll pass”

with stares

sh

and notice the counter as I walk

d patched black skin

I am Black and whole.

-Louison Sall

Issue I

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Black History 2019 Nicole Small

8

Black And...

Black History 2019 Nicole Small

Issue I

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Black Pride, 1968, and the Godfather of Soul Audrey Shipp

If I were in a James Brown video, I wouldn’t explode on the scene like a sex machine. I wouldn’t dance background as Mr. Brown glides across the stage, with his bad self, in black formal jacket and black skinny-leg pants. The open collar of his white shirt looming largely, on both shoulders, atop the lapels of his jacket. Instead, I would watch Brown engage in the boogaloo and the good foot dance, as his shiny, anklehigh, black boots shimmy from one side of the stage to the other, forward, and then backward, activating his entire legs in the dance moves that catapulted him to fame. Grabbing the microphone from the tripod, he falls into a split. His hair no longer in the short afro, but now in the straightened style for which he became famous. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to keep up. How to imitate those moves? How to shimmy with bended knees, move forward, backward, and then drop down into a split?

Slowing his dance moves a bit, microphone in hand, Brown demands, “Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud!” Again, “Say it loud!” The year is 1968, just months after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Black people in America are frustrated by the murders that left Coretta Scott King a widow in 1968 and Betty Shabazz a widow in 1965. Frustrated by the imprisonment of Huey Newton while simultaneously inspired by the organizational abilities of Kathleen Cleaver, Black people are searching for a sense

I am Black and white and facing it together.

-Jack Bordnick

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Black And...

of direction. We are tired of be integrated into white society. B crossing the United States hav protests smoldering from east a result of the King assassinatio shimmying across the stage fro clutching the microphone tight left. Throwing his head back, lo of the auditorium and then out the microphone to the tripod, b shaking his balled-up fists, he d sweat pouring now from his fac stage, how would I keep up? Ho Would I dare?

In a year of anthems, 1968 wo “I’m Black and I’m proud.” Whic intense political activity and cla the overthrow of the governme Ghana. There was Paris, 1968 while political activity in the We substantial leftist movement, th 1968, in Czechoslovakia with t more economic liberalism. Ami was Black pride and the ability saw fit, to get what Brown calle

eing colored and carefully Black people in cities crissve erupted in revolt with to west and north to south as on. And here is James Brown, om one side to the other, tly as he shimmies right, then ooking up towards the ceiling t into the audience. Returning bending both arms and drops into another split. The ce. If I were a dancer on his ow would I keep pace?

ould birth plenty. Not just ch we were. There was the amorous shouting regarding ent of Kwame Nkrumah in 8. Mexico City, 1968. And est was materializing into a here was the Prague Spring, the communists clamoring for idst a world in revolt, our focus y to name ourselves as we ed “our share” after working

for free in the U.S. during the era of enslavement and then taking on employment and working for rock bottom wages after the destruction of Black Reconstruction.

As Brown shifts his weight from one leg to the other in the skate dance, he admonishes, “We’re tired of beatin’ our heads against the wall, and workin’ for someone else.” He throws his head left, right, then back. Now peering into the audience, he quotes Emiliano Zapata, “We’d rather die on our feet than keep livin’ on our knees.”

“Say it loud! I’m Black and I’m proud!” he bellows.

What would I do? I might be part of Brown’s audience, but I envision a more participatory role. Better yet, I would be screaming in response to Brown’s lyrics, as one of the many background singers -- children from Watts and Compton that Brown took on to sing the chorus for his song. Filling my lungs with air, standing tall, raising my right hand in a fist over my head. Hair in an afro. Coming into being. “I’m Black and I’m proud!” I shout. Over and then over again.

To the world.

Issue I

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Secrets

Melekwe Anthony In this brain of many corners Of half truths, covert realities and fictive-ships, You can’t, should trust no one.

The wrinkling of bridges and laughing of villains

Are not my child, the only signs of Mr Foo.

The voice whispering in, to and with all men To commit, omit and deceive. Grown and nurtured As baby You. Once smiling and chuckling In your cradle. Evil grows with us.

But never fear boy.

In all these, there is one truth.

Anyanwu,

Nothing is hidden under the sun

Afefe,

It is only the wind that knows the hidden corners

Of mountains maneuvering through piles, isles and miles of bullocks

Finally discovering the hidden chest of motive The pulling of masks, the prang of gut wrenching beauty

My son take care, you will be find.

I am Black and Puerto Rican. My blackness is my ancestral roots: African, Taíno, Spanish. [...] I write for black lives, and to decolonize Puerto Rico. I write for Queer lives, and to de-stigmatize the shame in being victimized from Domestic Violence.

I write because I identify as black. -Raymond Camacho

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Darkness

Raymond Camacho At night I am black in the darkness of my home I do not see light I do not see my skin No longer do I carry the daily reminder of who enslaved my people of who told my ancestors that they no longer have the right to give their gift of melanin Whiteness the color that steals all colors the color that kills the men, and rapes the women the color that ties nooses around my people’s necks and hangs them from trees allied with the police it was not an accident.

White is the color of fear. fear that our hair will be curly fear that our skin will be dark fear that we will raise our fists in power so we hide from the sun and fuck anyone who is the color of our masters.

White I carry my skin as a daily reminder but at night I am black in the darkness of my home I do not see light I do not see my color

I am Black and a Gothic Writer.

-Melekwe Anthony

Issue I

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Vulnerability Kamaria Hodge

When faced with the task of healing Folks who know not what the journey entails Rather stay in their own back laced patterns The heredity of learned trauma bonding Will leave most all of us with scars that time Cannot so easily eradicate The prospect of healing seems to be one That is laced in how deliberate you are when Handling it and understanding it Which is to say how deliberate you are When handling and understanding yourself Vulnerability, That word we run away from between sunrise and Nighttime But that makes itself known when you are alone In a bed that no longer serves you any respite Just acts as a comfortable place to meander, think over Run circles around the circles your anxiety Insists on creating And who can you trust when you can no Longer trust yourself When you have to double-check that you are doing What you are doing for the right causes, The right reasons At the right times And not just to avoid feeling whatever you feel When you are alone and unsatisfied

I am Black and free.

-Rob McKeever Bullard

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Black And...

And what can you do when tricking yourself No longer comes as easily?

When make-believe is but a dream Deferred and lacking in any child-like wonder And substance Others will tell you, that the road to healing Must feel good, must be laced in flowers and honeysuckle Must leave you feeling full and sure Foolishly, you will believe them You will try to make your healing process Fit in a box that you did not create You will reject those feelings which prepare You for the good that awaits You will avoid it Become resentful of your bleeding heart And perpetual emotionality You will treat these feelings As if they are wrong Creating dissonance between your thoughts And your very own spirit Like most of us You will slowly become aware That your healing is based only upon How ready you are to Deliberately give yourself the room To grow into it

Issue I

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Different Directions Deborah Ajilore

I am Black and Resilient.

-Romaine Washington

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Black And...

HAVE YOU KNOWN SADNESS? Melekwe Anthony

Have you seen her up close The bland smirk and pointed nose Not the floating darkness you imagine Not the clinky pointy claws of despair Her beauty has no margin.

She calls, you answer.

Unable to let go of sumptuous tits Sucking and suckling until you make her your sire You feel no pain, no strength, no chill She lits you aflame with remembrance Of your falling and disgrace.

You suck tighter having nowhere to go Her warm easy arms lace you closer You are almost full, you can’t know Your legs buckle of the weight And your eyes dim slowly.

There is only one way out Jump. Slice. Revenge.

What dim eyes see, only them confess Defeat, weakness, cowardice.

Isn’t sadness the easiest friend?

Issue I

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Lo Tinof

Nicholas Cormier III Wifey’s gonna be home in 30 minutes. Works hard. Believes in me. Most beautiful woman in every room—when I’m thinking straight. All I can think of now is that I’ve got 29 minutes to jack off to this Asian porn, clean up and take dinner out of the oven. This is important. Y2K happens in three days. There may be no more Asian porn.

Doorbell rings. It’s Derrick. Known him since high school.

Wifey hates him. Caught him sneaking into my college apartment bedroom’s window while I was sleeping. Strange time. I went to live with her after. Glad I did. Been together six years now. I open the door. Derrick’s out of breath and sweating like he just played four quarters on both sides of the ball. “What took you so long man?” he asks. “Don’t worry about what took me so long,” I reply. “Jacking off again, huh?

Let me in Dawgy,” he caps, moving me aside.

Derrick’s carrying a large crumpled brown paper sack with one fist. “Look man, Ren’s gonna be home in 20 minutes and I’ve got a meatloaf to prepare,” I say. He glances down.

There’s still lotion on my right hand. Derrick crosses over to the glass dining room table. Pours out the contents of the bag. Hundreds float. “What the fuck man?” I exclaim.

Most cashola I’ve ever seen up close. “They almost had me.

Jammed me up for three hours on the side of the road.

Had to let me go,” he says without taking a breath. The sight of a large sum of money instantly implicates. Draws you in. Breaks reason. We’re in high school again. It’s like that time Derrick started the fight with the Latin Kings then

hid under the table at Taco Ca Ended up with a knot on my he put my family in danger. Here w responsibility to fix it.

“Where’d this come from?” I sa

Serenity’s tired. Been a long we so far at work. Manages six sto what’ll happen when computer Close to quitting. Reluctantly a dinner. Communicated by the k get once or twice in a marriage

Meatloaf’s on point. Found a re threw some Cajun on it. Bam! H and toke another day. Derrick s into his mouth. Bag full of cash his beat-up New Balance snea business. Something to do with short: got popped by police in D weeks ago. Court case coming thing on his car and has to hum get the damn thing to move. H Caught some major charges. V few others. Faced up to 15 yea performance. Waterworks and won the day. Ended up with eig fourth driving while under the in No wiggle room. He’s doing eig

I am Black and everything beyond my sex appeal. My divinity can be felt with or without my clothes. My black berry juices are more than climaxes [...] I am everything even in my nothing. I am black and I am the all. -Dajai Turner

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Black And...

abana—while I got jumped. ead and enough street cred to we go again. I feel like it’s my

ay.

eek. She’s clocked 70 hours ores. Still hasn’t figured out rs switch from 1999 to 2000. approved Derrick staying for kind of look you only want to e.

ecipe at the Tom Thumb, House hubby lives to smoke sits quietly, jamming food h clenched tightly between aks. Ran a scam using his h company checks. Long story Denton for a fourth DUI three g up. He’s already got that m into it every few minutes to Hit some kid on the third one.

Vehicular manslaughter and a ars. Gave an award-winning d white character references ght years’ probation. That nfluence case—is a violation. ght.

Click! Thump! Spring mechanism on the humane trap triggers, catching a field mouse inside. Sound of scratching on metal. Serenity jumps. She’s washing dinner dishes.

Prince’s Batman soundtrack plays softly in the background.

“You gonna empty that thing tonight?” She insists. “Yeah, baby.” I stop the installation of the new surround sound system she just bought me. Walk up from behind. Wrap my arms around her waist. Kiss the cluster of moles on her neck.

Grab the trap and walk outside. The fresh crisp air of a North Texas night greets me. I need to think.

She’d forgiven me. I’d taken up with a blonde while in the military. Weakness of mine. Wasn’t part of the deal. I’d do four years. She’d finish college to give us a head start on life.

Handshake. Before I said, “I do.” Made a promise never to transgress again. Not to her—to that Thing I was raised to believe in. My mom’s pain was enough to remind me of what a rolling stone can do. Figured I’d save Ren from that. Derrick plans on slipping out of the country just after the clock strikes 12:00 on New Year’s Eve. Part of his exit strategy.

Party like it’s 1999 for the next three days. That’s the plan.

He’s footing the bill with part of the 50K he just looted. I feel obligated—that’s bullshit… I’m a fucking partyer. More loyal to the man-code than to her. Always have been. G’s up!

Now I’ve got to figure out how to see him off in style. Not every day one of us loses his America privileges. I better empty the trap.

END

Issue I

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We See You Tribe on the Other Side First Night of a Writing Retreat Romaine Washington

tongues etch his spirit in leather elegy canopy our circle drum room thick with hands moulding his voice into a sacred dance Santee waters gather in our Tribe-eye where sankofa dreams anoint our lips his name a sage mist wrapping around our lungs we exhale him into resurrection

I am Black and Charged in the ways that matter as we continue to strengthen, ally, and seek justice for our people. -Regina Garcia

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Black And...

Stay Woke

Romaine Washington waaaaaake-up

cuz she work 2 jobs

wake up wake up wake up

too hard to feed

upyawake upyawake

her triple d battery

upyawake

boy big an’ all

upyawaaake

paul reverin’

senor love daddy say

boom boxin’ boy

radio raheem

woke

woke

big as fear of death

broke

fightin’ gold knuckled

night of the hunter

she need raheem

radio choked

to do the right thing

un-woke mama lookin’ for

come home

his boom box

woke

always got

he need to

his boom box

stay woke

woke

he need to

she can’t breathe

stay woke

her unfurled mind

waaaaaake-up

unseen on screen

wake up wake up wake up

mama

upyawake upyawake

can’t get raheem

upyawake

to sleep

upyawaaake

he always woke

woke

bed-sty big but ain’t no man

Issue I

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Voice

Regina Garcia I have screamed for

Come for my children

An eternity

(The greatest sources of my fear

And sometimes it has been

Feeling the wind and wave of their hands

Powerful

As they dodge my grasp)

and

My old woman spirit guides have heard my entreaty and

Terrible

Arrived, pocketbook handles

It has moved the danger away

In the crooks of their arms

I have dammit dared anybody to

They’ve sung holy war songs and

Silence me

Done ring dance and

I have bared pointed teeth

Lit fires to purge my fear and

Saliva pouring down my chin

Sacrificed it on the altar of womanhood

Eyes bulging

No room for it (fear) in Blackness

Feet ready to run and jump and kick

No room for it (fear) in woman-ess

I am the sound

What a tragic combination of expectations

I am the rage Yet sometimes

For a time

I am tired

I thought I could fear without fear

Frightened No

Turns out that I cannot have those moments

Afraid

Got to put on my good black woman

I have called upon my mother spirits

Grease her down

Those assigned to me

Smother her in high blood pressure

to hold back the devils that have come

Cook her in bad cholesterol

For me

Band her like a tumor

I am Black and proud.

-Sharron Miller

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Black And...

And stand like it’s no matter

My tough old woman spirits

Yet I am matter

Don’t care

I am water

Better crazy

I am blood

Than crying

I am bone

My old woman spirits

I am skin

Have told me

I am eyes

I must be strong

I am limbs

(That’s what the stars told them)

I am lungs

They have lived it

I am eyes

They know

I am ears

No pallets to rest

I am heart

The charges given me

I am weeping doubt

Issue I

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Basquiat Lemonade Guliz Mutlu

24

Black And...

Tug

Louison Sall I don’t love you, i just say it to get you off of my back, I don’t miss you at all Im repulsed by the thought of seeing you Its terrible. i act differently.

If you cry in front of me i’ll take it as a weakness I don’t cry in front of you, I don’t guilt you with tears So why do you spit in my stoic face?

And beg and plead and fish for the sentence you want to hear from me You try to pull “i miss you too” from my cold lips You tug like i tugged on your jacket on easter In front of the cathedral with Jesus weeping behind us I don’t have to forgive you, I don’t have to do anything Look at me if you have to so badly But don’t come up here to see me

I am Black and I love U. -Guliz Mutlu

Issue I

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Dear Heavenly Father Sharron Miller

Dear Heavenly Father can you hear me

Dear Heavenly Father can you

I get on my knees right now and give you all praise

I hate to see my mom cry cause

I try to pray to you lord, I try to scream and shout

My niece and nephew’s growin father in there

I been lost for a long time hoping I can see the light

life Dear Heavenly Father can you please show me the way I been down for a minute I almost fade-away I lost my brother years ago I still feel the pain

So I put a smile on my face whi pain I hold inside

I cry every night wishing it will go away

I be in the dark by myself becau this world

It’s like a bad dream stuck on replay

called life

I shed so much tears because I’m on so much pain

Dear Heavenly Father do you f Dear Heavenly Father I don’t know why the pain grow

The devil put obstacles all in my

I been drinking so much just to make the pain go

I feel like a bird with some wing

Bad decisions that I made it’s only made me grow

I read the Bible in church and s

I am Black and I love who I am. I may have big lips, a big nose and even a big behind yet that should not categorize me as an automatic outcast. -Nicole Small

26

Black And...

u hear my sound

e she miss her child

They crucify Jesus cause they never understand Now they crucify me for being a Blackman

ng up with out there Dear Heavenly Father I will die for your love I pray that one day I can meet you in heaven

ile trying to hide the

use I’m lonely in

feel my pain

y way

gs I want to fly away

say amen

Issue I

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That Bee Sting Thing Duane Horton

It was a hot summer day in Wilmer’s back yard. So hot, that Wilmer’s mom shut herself in her room all day just to be in front of her AC unit. So Wilmer decided he would go outside to his backyard and play. “Come on Wilma!” Wilmer called to his twin sister who sat downstairs. She was usually too busy to go outside and play. When Wilmer asked her why, she asked him how he expected her action figures to go a day without eating. Wilma always had the most dramatic storylines planned for her toys. Marriages, fights, shocking new friends.

“Come outside Wilma, let’s go play!” Wilmer urged.

“Alright Wilmer, I’m coming to play,” and Wilmer was partly surprised. He had not expected her to say yes but felt as bright as the hot sun beaming down on them. Because he loved to spend time with her sister, and she loved the same.

Their backyard was not just any backyard. That’s what Wilmer always heard the neighbors saying. And Wilmer guessed he could observe the same thing just by the looks of it. Compared to their neighbors, they might as well have been living in front of a forest.

Big flowers like marigolds, impatients, daisies, poppies, chrysanthemums, Roses with their thorny bushes. But the small willow tree was what the twins liked the most. They would run and run around its trunk, plus it casted

I am Black and Different.

-Deborah Ajilore

28

Black And...

a good bit of shade. And Wilme anytime they got to be free an their backyard.

That was when Wilma first hea and quick, like a tiny little lightn you hear that Wilmer?” his twin late for his mind to be critical o to have fun.

“Tag your it!” He yelled as he ta And raced around the willow tr enough for them to get a good be tired.

“No! That’s no fair” And Wilma spun around the willow tree so dizzy and Wilma caught him. “T from underneath the willow tre marigolds. They had grown tall green thumb. And even though got up to chase her. Then he he

The same flapping of tiny wing mid chase, it brought him to th greener and thicker than he co And there it was infront of him. the flower, collecting pollen or w

er and Wilma were in heaven nd spend time together in

ard the buzzing. It was sharp ning bolt right in her ear. “Did n sister asked. But it was too or suspicious, now he wanted

apped her arm lightly. ree, whose bark was just big d four or five laps in and

a came chasing after him. They o many times until Wilmer got Tag! You’re it!” and she ran ee to the garden patch of l, as his mother had quite the h Wilmer was out of breath he eard the buzzing too.

gs sizzled next to his ear. And hose tall marigolds. Their stem ould have remembered before. . A bee. It sat right on top of whatever bees did. Wilmer

wasn’t sure. But he was fascinated, and it drew him closer and closer to the sight. He was so close to the bee, he could smell the flower, see the bees thousand eyes staring back at him, watch as it wiggled the stinger out of its butt.

Wilmer flailed his arms around and spun around in a circle when the bee stung his back. He shouted out so sharply and plain, that nothing even happened to Wilma and she started crying the same way. And they cried loudly and unashamedly. Until their mother heard them and just about broke down the back door to see what was wrong.

“What happened?” a wild look spread across her eyes to her parted mouth. She sprinted to her ailing children and held each of them in her big arms. She was a big woman.

It always amazed Wilmer how she really sprung to action sometimes.

“Did a bee sting you?” and Wilmer cried and nodded.

“You know, when a bee stings you, they die,” and her face became solemn. Almost calming their tears, but they both cried harder. “How about some ice cream?”

On the way home. The twins sat in the back seat of the car.

“Why did you cry when I got stung by the bee?” But Wilma huffed and put her nose in the air.

“I never cried, that was you!”

I am Black and PanAfrican.

-Audrey Shipp

Issue I

29

Facing It Together Jack Bordnick

I am Black and I have a big laugh, big nose, wide lips, big heart. I am black and I love myself. I am black, and happy to be in conversation with you. -Duane Horton

30

Black And...

Unkindness Louison Sall

I am not a person with a kind disposition I will not face my death and watch my life flash before my eyes and think “what a wonderful life, my friends and family, I will now go peacefully”.

I am of the disposition to face death swollen with hate and spite for the pain I have gone through, and I will say “this life was horrid, thank god it is over”.

All motive has lost meaning to me.

Wherever I shall go and whomever I may see there, it will not be enough.

When I face death, I will be happy, but not in a kind way.

Issue I

31

Comfort Seeking Missiles Asantewaa Boykin

There is this thing that happens late at night and sometimes at dawn. Poor, needy souls are drawn to Black women in their happy places; talking to friends, having a drink, dancing the night away, or minding her own damn business. I personally could always sense it, a longing stare from across the room or the other side of the bar. And then it happens, “Hello, you’re absolutely gorgeous...Sistah,” “Hey, Queen,” or some other battered salutation that places my Blackness front and center. Usually another two minutes of small talk is followed by nonconsensual touch and a clear disregard for boundaries masked in friendliness. Then, almost always on time, as my mother used to say, “The other foot drops.”

They begin vomiting their deepest, darkest secrets, venting about whatever is burdening them in this moment. They’d go on and on about why they don’t feel loved or validated by either or both of their parents.

The woke ones would take a brief second to “imagine” that as a Black woman “you must have it much worse” or humbly acknowledge whatever privilege they’ve been awarded according to a white, patriarchal, capitalist totem pole. It seems as if there’s an assumption made that I, a Black woman, who apparently has it “much worse” not only has the desire but the capacity to help them hold whatever baggage is weighing them

32

down. If we’re honest, it’s two fold: 1) There is an assumption that their problems compared to ours are minor and therefore reinforces that their life or situation is in fact, not garbage.

2) They either rightfully believe that we are actually magical or wrongfully assume we care to bestow our magic upon them. Right or wrong, a misstep in either direction has proven to be unsafe for all involved.

The woman next door would regularly hold me hostage in my driveway. Verbally illustrating the happening of her life in great detail. It didn’t matter if I was fresh off of a 12 hour shift or if my son was running around in the yard with gasoline and matches, she consistently demanded my attention, at times appearing irritated when I insisted on sleeping or taking care of my day to day responsibilities. It was in those moments that I realised she actually felt entitled to my time and attention.

I decided to test my theory. My husband’s birthday rolled around and we decided to spread a portion of our night at one of our favorite dive bars. As usual a “nice enough” young white woman sparked up a conversation starting with, “Oh my god, I love your hair!” Ten minutes later with her arm draped across my shoulder she states, “My mother died today 3 years ago.” I

Black And...

expressed condolences. She said, “Thank you,” and began to go on. A mili-second before her first tear fell I stated, “It’s my husband’s birthday and we’re looking to keep the mood light. I hope your night gets better.”

This felt bad at first. I, too, have an intimate understanding of what it is like to long for the touch of a mother who has passed away.

I understood the need to let uncomfortable words fall from my mouth into a receptacle whose judgment wouldn’t cut. Yet, there was no room for my truths in these interactions.

For them my wholeness would be reduced to listener, holder, fixer, tears wiper, and inventor of sassy uplifting euphemisms.

I attempted to rationalise this phenomenon.

Thinking, “I’m a nurse,” and caring is what I do for a living. Perhaps this is what draws them to me? Or maybe they can smell my Cancer sun and empathic nature from afar.

Neither of those rationalizations sat right in my stomach. In an act of self preservation, I had to address the guilt I was feeling for not being eternally available. While part of me wanted to pull them all close and tell them, “It will be okay.” The other part of my darkskinned, large, Black self wanted to hide away and never be bothered by another “Mammy” seeking energetic vampire again.

Neither of those solutions sat right in my stomach or DNA.

The only solution was accepting that some part of me had embodied the trope, or at the very least projected it. I had to intentionally decide that my body, time and my energy are worthy of protection. For the first time, I entertained the notion of owning my whole Black self. It was I alone whose job it is to apply the capital “H” to my Humanity.

Doing this meant setting boundaries with my time, energy, and attention. It means saying “No” and meaning it, even when it feels uncomfortable to say. I discovered the will to forgive myself for abiding by the dehumanizing pedagogy taught to Black women since birth.

The fence shared with the neighbor now dons an energetic “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Over time I replaced subtle eye-rolls with clear and direct language; “My name is Asantewaa, not Sistah,” “I don’t have capacity for “_____________,” and “I’m not a therapist, but have you considered therapy?”

Issue I

33

New Years Day Louison Sall

I’ll never have a new years like the ones Before I turned sixteen, what did it mean?

Kids can be so mean. When I got the call, I ran all the way to the hospital.

I would never run for myself. He knows.

Or you know? At least I think you knew then?

I put your hand in mine a thousand times So heavy when you didn’t hold mine back No one that I know can know this sorrow No one I know hates the world like I do I was sleeping silent while it took you No one I know hate the dark like you do Pulled me to say goodbye: a single cry.

Heart heavy as a hand not holding mine.

I am Black and Multifaceted.

-Asantewaa Boykin

34

Black And...

Sunflower Guliz Mutlu

I am Black and a Garveyite.

-Geoffrey Philp

Issue I

35

Shango

Rob McKeever Bullard The distracted air stirred nervously, for it had waited and lifted itself

for this is what our regent lord d

above the land-matron that dwells down to the bottom of things that be.

Yemaya, Yemaya! You are the one to tell the sky, signed with the holiest cross of brazen light, of Shango’s leap across the void, your blazing issue, one and only.

Yemaya, Yemaya! Speak of gods and stars,

paint his beautiful skin and swif

and carve his fine strength into

He is lord, so don him his due a

that string blazes aloft the bou

whose mere touch melts to raw

In the din of battle, the flashing

your family, all unseen and all unknown,

sculpted by soft hands of ripe m

and tell of the strongest, your first-born,

so his foe can marvel and gaze

Shango, lord of the striking bolt and downpour.

and dizzying whorls of its cowry

Who but he can sail the rise of gleaming sun

for on his birth’s trembling day,

from the morn that clears its bloodied way

the chorusing storm and did no

They say it was not enough for

scraped together all the sparks

to noon’s blinding point, arching the day like a sacred boat of light down Yoruba’s land?

How many quick-aiming bolts d

forge together in his hand, one

for to us humble beings down w

It is he, Shango, it is he, like unto the storm’s sway, strong as the hurricane’s rush, and charismatic as the most dazzling and mountainous sunset,

36

Let the coat of long-striding Ni

King Shango builds his rains wit pursuits.

Long live he, the eternal being! shall forever live

for when he runs, the ear can mark his clouds groan

beyond mortal spans of time, t to him a length

under his everlasting step, from long fathoms away.

of a tsetse’s journey, or as insta

What was it that you had given to that babe the day

can bring the picture of the wo

he sprung, Mother Land, from your unassuageable loins?

You had breathed and spoken, so let there be given

Can he not drum the heaven w and beauty,

first the regal diadem, pure in its icy brightness,

and when furious, does not he beaten by storm

the beads, heart-white and blue as sky in likeness,

out of the crystal-clear sky, and thunder formed

Black And...

dons upon his head.

ight, the mystery of black

ft-winged flame to his back

o the brilliant form of man.

arms, fierce-stringing spears

unding curve of empty air,

w pieces what he commands.

g prince must have his mask,

maids, twin Seasons fair,

e upon its streaming feather

y, before he meets his death.

with convulsing brightness, things awful and mesmerizing to see?

The stoutest warrior-man and tallest-climbing tree are mere toys for Shango to play with, should he touch them and bind with fire what he deems shall no longer be among the creatures on earth, so the deathly-tight wrath of this one should a fate to ever avoid.

Love him, but be terrified! Bow down and be ready to fall

r great Shango’s desire,

with humble knee to the sound of his flame-horned steed,

, he with a single palm

the fleecy-showering ram given the glorious honor to carry

s to shimmer up and along

the most unfailing power of sky, the most dread of all!

ot cease until it was full at last.

Send your prayers upward to the burning mountain clouds

did that god, so fleet of foot,

that sparkle aloft their winged flight, for these obey him,

e cannot number in truth,

majestic Shango, and pray that he leaves the village unlit

who dwell at Yemaya’s roots,

by his shocking lance, lest he fells our fortunes down.

th no end to his divine

In this wise shall you withstand his bruiting decrees, obeyed by all, and no cruel eye of his shall befall us,

! For it is that he

those that seem

and before one can realize, he shall already choose to flash his squalling step with all borrowed speed.

His fine-bosomed consort, the Morning Lake,

ant as the eye’s stretch of light

bids her lord to return to her diamond-clear bed,

orld to our mind with an image.

while his other madam, River Noon, grows envious

with music of terror

and draws her beauty for him with finest waves.

But no concern to the great Shango, for he shall have

not cast the azure

d can he not flash

both of these at his own pleasure, so great is he, and thereafter shall he retire to the shining majesty of his house and tower, his palace of blinding brass.

Issue I

37

Sinberman Guliz Mutlu

I am Black and Tender.

-Kamaria Hodge

38

Black And...

A Song of Redemption Geoffrey Philp

“No matter where you come from/ as long as you’re a black man, /you’re an African.” ~Peter Tosh

But he was patient with me, night after night when moonlight dripped from tamarind

“Brown man, wha de I a defend?”

leaves on our crowns. Like the night at a dance

greeted me in the afternoons while I unlaced

in August Town, when an old mother held my face

my cleats after a game of scrimmage--skins

between her palms and interrogated me.

versus shirts—when that wizened Wailer

“What a quality young man, like you, doing

beardsman, locksman, Rastaman, Seeco, sweat

down here in the dungle?” the crone asked

dripping from hands that had taught Bob

as she ran her fingers through my “good

percussion, schooled me in the teachings

that had drawn me to zinc fences and dusty

of Marcus. Those were hard lessons when with all the drills I had practiced with my coaches, those years of privileged

hair.” And my only answer was the music

lanes— looking for an answer to the riddle

innocence, I still couldn’t touch the ball

that confounded our lives: could this earth

when Seeco shielded it with his spindly legs

that my grandfather, who tilled blades of cane

that had trod through the hills of Babylon,

while the other planted a tree on his back,

and scampered down the streets of Trench Town.

be reclaimed with Sankeys of redemption.

Issue I

39

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Black And...

Issue I

41