Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Arts Magazine Ubuntu Vol 2

ubuntu vol. 2

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UBUNTU Volume 2, February 2024

Ubuntu noun 1. An Nguni Bantu term meaning “humanity,” sometimes translated as “I am because you are.”

2. A concept in which your sense of self is shaped by your relationships with other people.

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© 2024 Folio Literary Magazine, special issue: Ubuntu Volume 2. The works included in this special issue edition, Ubuntu, are published with permission from their respective creator(s). All rights are reserved by this publication and the creators whose works are published in Ubuntu.

Folio is an award-winning literary and arts magazine compiling artistic pieces from students, staff, and faculty at Salt Lake Community College. This edition is intended for free public distribution and is not for sale.

Ubuntu is sponsored by the Black Student Union and by the English, Linguistics, and Writing Studies Department.

Cover Design by Olga Gao. Left to right on front cover: Tawana Dzenga and Hamda Ibrahim. Back cover: left to right, first row: Hamda Ibrahim, Jaycee Galvin, Jevahjire France.

Second Row, left to right: Carlos Martinez, Milasse Doho, Shari-Fa Harrigan. Third row, left to right: Shari-Fa Harrigan, Hamda Ibrahim with Shari-Fa Harrigan, Jaycee Galvin Special Thanks to • • • • • • • •

Black Student Union Glory Johnson-Stanton, advisor to the Black Student Union Scott Fineshriber, Photographer Clint Gardner, Director, Student Writing and Reading Centers Jerri A. Harwell, Chair of Department of English, Linguistics, & Writing Studies Dr. Roderic R. Land, Dean of School of Humanities & Social Sciences Dr. Daniel D. Baird, Folio Faculty Advisor Olga Gao and Miriam Nicholson, Folio student editors

Typefaces used are Athelas, Brim Narrow, and Bodoni 72.

Please see online version of Ubuntu Volume 2 and the previous issue at https://www.slccfolio.org iii

Preface Jerri A. Harwell

This special issue of Folio marks the second edition of Ubuntu.

SLCC’s students of the African Diaspora easily recognize the term and honor the philosophy. These same students not only understand the philosophy, they feel it. They smile when they hold the publication. It helps them to feel seen and heard.

Since 2016, the Student Writing and Reading Center and its Director, Clint Gardner, sponsors SLCC’s African American Read-In (AARI). The idea of Ubuntu grew out of listening to the writings of Black, African, and African American authors at the African American Read-In (AARI) in 2020. That year the read-in was virtual only, which made it easier to listen to the words and stories. About the same time, I virtually attended Utah’s largest Black church, Calvary Baptist Church in Salt Lake City, Utah, which often has an Ubuntu moment during its service.

Out of those events grew Ubuntu.

We are honored to publish a second edition and hope it takes flight and that we continue to publish it annually with your support.

This publication was produced with the support and efforts of SLCC’s Black Student Union and the Department of English, Linguistics, and Writing Studies.

Ubuntu 4ever. . . .

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Table of Contents p. iii p. 1 p. 3 p. 7 p. 8 p. 10 p. 13 p. 15 p. 17 p. 19 p. 22 p. 26 p. 27 p. 41 p. 47 p. 52

Jerri A. Harwell, Preface Tawananyasha Dzenga, A Young Shoana Knight Tawananyasha Dzenga, Rhythms of Resilience: A Tapestry of Black Experience Tawananyasha Dzenga, Hold On Tawananyasha Dzenga, Under the Same Sky: A Journey of Hearts Jerri A. Harwell, Switches Maggie Walton, The Way Here (Middle Passage) Jaycee Galvin, For My Ancestors Barbara Nelson-Harris, I’m Still Royalty Barbara Nelson-Harris, How Glory Johnson-Stanton, Daddy Glory Johnson-Stanton, My Mama Photos of Black Student Union by Scott Fineshriber Glory Johnson-Stanton, Excerpt from Untitled Novel Jevahjire France, What Do I See When Seeing the American Flag Sonja V. White, Leaking Time

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A Young Shoana Knight Tawananyasha Dzenga

In Zimbabwean heart, American dreams take flight, Under the stars, striving for the light.

In every heartbeat, a story untold, Of courage in the new, love for the old.

Across oceans wide, under skies so vast, A young spirit blooms, forever to last.

Where ancient songs meet modern tales, A young Shona knight, on life’s vast trails.

In the land where the mighty Zambezi flows, Where the baobab proudly stands and grows, He dreams of places far and wide, Where different worlds in harmony reside.

With a heart as vast as Victoria Falls, He hears distant lands’ enticing calls.

Yet, in his soul, the mbira’s sound, Roots him firmly to his native ground.

His spirit, a blend of past and new, A bridge between the skies of different hue.

Carrying tales of ancestors’ fight, Guided by the Southern Cross at night.

From Great Zimbabwe’s ancient stone, To the bright lights where liberty is shown, His journey, a tapestry rich and deep, Of promises made and promises to keep.

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In each step, a new rhythm he finds, Echoing the beat of diverse minds.

A young Shona knight, with dreams unbound, In his quest for knowledge, world-renowned.

Through trials and triumphs, his story weaves, A tapestry where hope never leaves.

In a dance of cultures, bold and bright, Lives the tale of the Shona knight.

In his eyes, the fire of ambition, Fueled by a noble, heartfelt mission.

To bridge worlds with wisdom and art, A young knight with an ancient heart.

So under the stars, he charts his way, From Zimbabwe’s dawn to America’s day.

In him, two worlds beautifully blend, In his story, our own journeys extend.

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Rhythms of Resilience:

A Tapestry of Black Experience Tawananyasha Dzenga In the heart of a bustling city, where the pulse of life beats in sync with the rhythm of diversity, there lies a story—a story woven from the threads of Black culture, resilience, and dreams. This story, a multifaceted narrative, reflects the lives and experiences that shape the Black community’s essence.

At the core of this narrative lies the spirit of DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion). In classrooms, offices, and community spaces, the principles of DEI serve as guiding stars, illuminating the path to a more inclusive and equitable society. They remind us that every voice matters, that every story deserves to be heard, and that our differences are not just to be tolerated but celebrated. The pursuit of DEI is not just a goal but a journey that is continually evolving, challenging, and enriching. Take, for example, the work of Kimberlé Crenshaw, a pioneer of intersectional theory. Her words, “The better we understand how identities and power work together from one context to another, the less likely our movements for change are to fracture,” encapsulate the essence of DEI. It’s a journey of understanding and unity, where each voice weaves into the fabric of a more inclusive society.

Music, in all its forms, is the heartbeat of this story. From gospel choirs in churches to hip-hop beats on the city streets, music is the language through which the Black community expresses its joys, sorrows, struggles, and triumphs. It is a 3

legacy passed down through generations, a powerful tool for cultural expression and social change. The sound of a soulful melody or the rhythm of a drumbeat is more than just entertainment; it’s a testament to the enduring spirit and creativity of a people. Music, the soul of the Black experience, echoes through generations. It’s in the timeless melodies of Nina Simone, who once said, “Music is a gift and a burden I’ve had since I can remember who I was.”

Representation, a key theme in this narrative, is about seeing oneself reflected in the stories that society tells.

It’s about turning on the TV or opening a book and seeing characters who look like you, and who share your experiences. Representation matters because it shapes our understanding of the world and our place in it. It’s about shattering stereotypes and building a world where every child can dream big and see those dreams reflected in the world around them. Representation shapes perceptions and dreams. It’s seen in the impactful work of Ava DuVernay, whose filmmaking brings diverse stories to the forefront. As she said, “If your dream only includes you, it’s too small.”

Representation is about expanding the dream to include all, breaking stereotypes, and inspiring future generations.

The American dream, with all its complexities and contradictions, is a significant chapter in this story. For many Black Americans, including immigrants who have journeyed to the U.S. in search of a better life, this dream is a beacon of hope. It represents the possibility of success, equality, and freedom. Yet, this dream is often pursued in the face of systemic barriers and societal challenges. It’s a dream that requires resilience, determination, and the courage to keep pushing forward, even when the odds seem stacked against you. Barack Obama’s presidency was a significant milestone.

His words, “The audacity of hope” resonate as a powerful reminder of the relentless pursuit of this dream against all odds.

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The church, for many in the Black community, is not just a place of worship but a cornerstone of life. It’s a sanctuary where faith meets action, where spiritual nourishment intersects with social justice. The church is a source of strength, a place where people unite to uplift each other and fight for a better future. The church, a bedrock of the Black community, offers not only spiritual guidance but social solidarity. Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s words, “The time is always right to do what is right,” echo in the activism and community support fostered within church walls, blending faith with a call for justice and equality.

In the realm of sports, Black athletes have long been at the forefront, breaking records and shattering barriers. Sports is more than just a game; it’s a platform where talent, hard work, and perseverance are on full display. It’s where young people find role models who inspire them to strive for excellence.

This story, in all its richness and complexity, is about overcoming adversity. It’s about the triumphs and challenges, the victories and setbacks. It’s about a community that stands tall, despite the winds of discrimination and injustice. It’s a story of people who face each day with unyielding optimism and unwavering strength. Figures like Michael Jordan and Serena Williams symbolize excellence and resilience. Jordan’s mantra, “I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life.

And that is why I succeed,” speaks to the relentless pursuit of greatness, a sentiment echoed in Williams’ dominance and strength on the tennis courts.

“Rhythms of Resilience” is more than just a narrative; it’s a living, breathing tapestry of experiences that define the Black community. It’s a story of past and present, of struggles and successes, of a people whose contributions have shaped and will continue to shape the fabric of society. The story of overcoming adversity is vividly personified in the life and 5

words of Maya Angelou, whose poem “Still I Rise” serves as a beacon of unyielding strength and resilience. Her words, “You may shoot me with your words . . . But still, like air, I’ll rise,” encapsulate the enduring spirit of the Black community.

In this story, every experience, every voice, every dream contributes to the rich mosaic of Black culture. It’s a reminder that we are all part of something greater—a community united in its diversity, resilience, and enduring hope.

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Hold On

Tawananyasha Dzenga In the grip of life’s relentless tide, We cling to hope, side by side.

Through storms and calms, our spirits hold, A bond unbroken, brave, and bold.

In the clasp of dreams, we find our song, Holding on, forever strong.

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Under the Same Sky: A Journey of Hearts Tawananyasha Dzenga

In a remote corner of Zimbabwe, where the earth sings with the spirits of the ancestors and the sky stretches endlessly, there lived a young woman named Tendai. She was a weaver of tales, a dreamer whose heart danced to the rhythm of ancient drums and modern beats. Her village, a tapestry of traditions and dreams, was her world, but her soul whispered of distant horizons.

Thousands of miles away, in the heart of a bustling American city, Michael lived amidst a mosaic of cultures. An African American man with a thirst for stories untold, he carried within him the legacy of his forebears—a legacy of resilience, strength, and a relentless pursuit of dreams.

Destiny wove its thread when Michael, driven by a quest to trace his roots back to the African continent, arrived in Zimbabwe. It was there, under the vast African sky, that their paths entwined. Tendai, with eyes like the twilight and a smile that mirrored the sunrise, captured Michael’s soul with stories of her land—tales of joy and sorrow, of sunsets and savannas.

Their connection was a confluence of two worlds—her voice, a bridge across continents; his heart, a vessel of shared histories. In the glow of the evening fire, they found solace in each other’s stories, discovering in each other a kindred spirit.

Tendai, who had longed to explore beyond the acacias and baobabs, found in Michael’s tales a window to a world she yearned to see. And Michael, in Tendai’s narratives, found threads of his own story, woven into the fabric of her words.

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As days melded into nights, Tendai’s dream to traverse the ocean and experience the land of Michael’s heritage grew.

With his encouragement, she embarked on a journey to America, her heart abuzz with a symphony of emotions— hope, fear, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.

In America, Tendai’s eyes were wide with wonder at the sights and sounds so different from her homeland. The soaring buildings, the relentless pace, the kaleidoscope of people—it was a world away from the rolling hills and tranquil rhythms of her village. Yet, in Michael’s community, she found echoes of Africa, in the food, the music, and the warmth of the people—a testament to the enduring spirit of the motherland.

Tendai’s journey became more than a physical voyage; it was a pilgrimage of the soul. She shared her heritage through song and dance, her voice weaving a spell that brought her audience to tears and smiles. In her, they saw a mirror of their journey—a journey of hope, resilience, and the unyielding pursuit of dreams.

Under the American sky, just as under the African sun, Tendai and Michael’s bond deepened. They became more than friends—they were custodians of each other’s stories, guardians of a shared legacy that transcended oceans and continents.

Their story, a tapestry of two worlds, became a beacon of inspiration—a reminder that no matter where we come from, our dreams, our stories, and our hearts are woven from the same fabric. Under the same sky, we are all connected, part of a story much larger than ourselves—a story of hope, courage, and the unbreakable bonds of the human spirit.

And so, Tendai and Michael’s journey continues as a testament to the power of dreams and the indomitable strength of the human heart—a heart that beats under an African sun, and pulses to the rhythm of an American dream.

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Switches

by Jerri A. Harwell (© February 2021) I must have done something But I don’t remember what.

Still, I had to bring Momma a switch.

I don’t think I swore.

Because when I did that, Momma washed my mouth Out with a piece of Ivory soap.

To this day, Every time I smell Ivory soap, I can taste it too.

Whatever I did It was bad enough that Momma told me to go outside And bring her a switch.

That meant Momma was gonna Whoop My behind with it.

Obediently, I went outside.

I looked at the two trees in our yard And decided They didn’t have Any branches Good enough to make switch.

I walked down the street Past the Owens’ tree, 10

Past the little white house That mirrored ours And its tree, Past the Lees, Taylors, Browns, And all their trees.

Finally, I walked into the backyard Of Miss Gladys’s house.

My older sister and I always played With her youngest daughter.

My oldest sister Was friends with Her oldest daughter.

Her youngest boy, Julian, was Named after my mother, Julia.

Anyway, Miss Gladys Had a cherry tree In her back yard.

I climbed up in the tree And sat.

I’m sure Momma had called And told her To look for me because I was headed towards her house.

Cuz as I sat there, Miss Gladys stuck her head Out the back door and said, “You be careful of snakes Up in that tree.”

I weighed my options.

Snake. Switch.

Snake. Switch.

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Snake. Switch.

I stayed in the tree Swinging my legs And watching for snakes.

I stayed in that tree a long time Hoping against hope That I could stay There long enough For Momma to forget why She sent me out for a switch.

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The Way Here (Middle Passage) Maggie Walton

Can’t run forward anymore Weak legs give way beneath the spine Long days, long way to walk, no water but we’re just fine.

Shhh. There’s a sound.

Too faint, too late Distant words, clouded mind Much rain, but it’s fine.

Planting those seeds, Splintered hands slip on unmerciful stems.

Singing songs of a journey some call hymns To drown the metallic tune of rustling chains And desperate cries.

For they’ve died, And I’m here And they’re where Memories fear to tread Much dread, but we’re fine.

Rough seas Scraped knees From earth that tears the skin Bone thin— Wrists bound, And there again, that ghastly sound Of “hims” and hymns handed down or lost Between the years.

No tears— Because it’s over now.

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Or is it though?

Cause sometimes In the cold Embrace of Silence, I can’t escape the sound of waves From an unforgiving sea, Crashing into a tomb Filled with the living On a frightful journey From a world They’d soon forget, That we’d forget to remember Because we want to be just fine.

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For My Ancestors Jaycee Galvin When they ask me where my ancestors come from I tell them Missouri, Arkansas, or Mississippi When they ask me “No, where do they really come from?”

There is no answer that I can give to satisfy their curiosity or my own I say to them “See, my ancestors were taken by force from where they called home Forced into bondage on a Eurocentric land that didn’t belong to Europeans” They give me a strange look and no longer seem interested to know the answer about where my ancestors come from But this is mine and my ancestor’s history Should I sugarcoat it? Should I tell them the “nitty gritty” details? Should I even mention my last name?

My last name comes from my father’s side of the family My Black side My last name is Irish, yet I have no known Irish blood on either side of my family When I search the meaning on the last name Galvin, it comes from the words “bright” and “white” 15

But this is the origin for the Irish Galvin’s My last name was placed upon my ancestors like a stamp to show that they were somebody’s property As we descend towards today down the ancestral line, you will find me Strong blends from Sweden, England, and Switzerland to create my olive skin As some may call it, “destroying the bloodline” At times I get overwhelmed at the thought of what my ancestors think about me Do I make them proud? Would they associate with me?

Would they claim me as proudly as I claim them?

Maybe I was born a traitor?

All that I can know for sure is that I am a proud biracial Black man And that I am what remains of my ancestors today.

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I’m Still Royalty Barbara A. Nelson-Harris

(Jan. 13, 2013) AH! What happened, how did I get here?

I feel sick at the stomach, oh how did I get here?

It’s so dark in here. Is that the ocean I hear?

No space, can’t breathe, the stench, the moans Mommy!

My Daddy is a great and mighty warrior, the king of his tribe.

I am a beautiful African princess, royalty . . . much pride.

The warriors are gathering, lead by Daddy, they’re coming real soon now. I can tell.

What happened how did I get here. Am I in hell?

I can not move. The smell of sweat. Body eliminations. Death all around me.

It’s so so dark if only I could see.

Do I want to see? Can I bear to see?

No no, go away. Take your hands off me!

Oh, great! Maybe it’s Daddy! With all the warriors, they are finally here today.

I knew that he would come. I’m his little princess, I’m royalty, he’s come to take me away.

Away from this hell hole. Back to the comforts of my home.

My family.

We’re royalty.

I can see them. Men and I know not one. I can smell the ocean air so fresh and now I see the sun.

But the land, I cannot see. But the land. Where is the land? I cannot see past the water forever and ever.

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Those familiar to my language they groan and cry out. Some to the whoals of no hope, no escape a possible hop from this vessel the only chance of a buy out.

I am still Royalty. I still have hope. I am still Royalty. No not death on me by me. I am still royalty, decedent of the strong I shall find a way. I shall, maybe tomorrow if not on this day.

Dan Harris Jr. & Barbara A. Nelson-Harris

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How

Barbara A. Nelson-Harris How could you leave without me?

Of all the things in my life.

My Life. Your Life.

Together. One Life - Our Life.

I could have never placed me—without You. From Day One to minus 6 weeks of year Fifty-one.

And “THIS”, I did see.

They say there is rejoicing. Another soul is in Heaven.

Rejoicing!

Huh! That sounds like a party!

And, You left me!

How could you party without me?

How could you leave without me?

Of all the things in my life.

My Life. Your Life.

Together. One Life - Our Life.

I could have never place me—without You. The first time that our eyes every truly met, The locked stare signaling for You. For me.

The Beginning of a Love from Day One. To marriage 6 months later And Minus 6 weeks of Year Fifty-one.

So now, the remembrance of our eyes meeting.

Our final locked stare of love that seemed.

To pierce to the core of our souls as never before.

A room full of people. Yet, JUST YOU. JUST ME. An unbroken stare signaling what my mind and my heart Was still REFUSING to accept from YOU to ME, 19

The Ending of Our Love, Our Marriage.

From Day One to minus 6 weeks of Year Fifty-One. I could have never placed ME without YOU. YOU without ME. The warm and protective comfort I felt as your hand held mine On our very first walk.

A Heart Capturing moment as we stopped and you picked wildflowers that activated my allergies.

TOGETHER FOREVER. Our hearts did say.

So how could you?

How could you leave me this way?

And in, our last embrace. I remember it all, so well.

I felt the power of your love in your touch Though you were weak and frail.

AND now THIS! But I never imagined My Live. Your Live other than One Life. Our Life.

As you party without me I will hold onto your last embrace.

Your many “I LOVE YOU’s”.

Those locked stares of voiceless love that needed no words of interpretation. Your silly jesters when I was upset and you were determined to make me laugh.

But now, if you can climb the stairways of Heaven.

Walk and jog and not become breathless.

If you are pain free and minus all of the struggles of your last years, I ask for strength to be at peace with your peace while struggling thru my tears.

I know that life has a beginning to end And then, a new beginning.

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BUT, Still my heart says: How could you leave me?

Of all the things in My Life, My Life, Your Life.---Our Life.

I could have never placed ME without YOU. From Day One to minus 6 weeks of year Fifty-one.

Dan Harris Jr.

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DADDY

By Glory Johnson-Stanton

I stayed home with my Daddy, during the week of March 21, 2022, when he came home from rehabilitation. This was the last week, and days that I would have in this lifetime to spend here on earth with him. I was at the kitchen counter working remote on my computer when I heard loud breathing. I rushed to his side, and he was taking deeper, shorter breaths. I called for my Mom, who was in the kitchen.

No response. I called my husband who was downstairs, no response. As my Dad stopped and started breathing again, I yelled for each of them to come to Daddy’s bedside. They both heard me this time. My husband had a look of surprise and disappointment in his eyes and on his body. My Mom as slowly as she walks now, moved as fast as she could to his side. She watched as he breathed in and out.

He stopped breathing, and Mama said, “Is he dead?”

Daddy began to breathe again, and my Mom said, “He’s not dead yet?! He’s still breathing!”

I called each of my siblings so that they could say their final goodbyes. One of my sisters, Janice came to the house with her mask on. I told her to take her mask off and tell Daddy goodbye. She called her son, Michael, who never arrived until after Daddy passed. I called for his nurse Maryann, who came within 5 minutes. She checked his pulse, while I sang songs, 22

with my face beside his. I’d sang so many songs to him since he came home the Thursday prior to his passing.

My daughter and I held his hands and sang, “A Wonderful World,” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and other songs.

But she’d left going back to Nashville a few hours before his passed away. I think he waited for her to leave.

Now it was just me. So, during his last few moments, I sang gospel songs including, “I Won’t Complain,” and “The Lord’s Prayer.”

After my last Amen in the Lord’s Prayer, Daddy took his last breath surrounded by his family who loved him dearly. He was gone, his soul had departed from his body. Our Daddy, Mama’s Jesse/husband, partner, and friend was gone. The grandchildren’s grandfather was gone. Now what was I going to do?

Days before his death, I had an opportunity to ask for his forgiveness for anything that I’d ever done or said to him, for any argument and disagreement. I also told him that “I forgive him for all the arguments and the unpleasant things that he’d said and/or done.” I said, “Daddy you’re a good man, a good Daddy, a good husband and a good person.” But I also said, “Daddy, you were not a perfect man, a perfect Daddy, a perfect husband or a perfect person.” It’s not often that we have the time to ask for forgiveness, but I did. I was one of the fortunate ones.

Daddy’s very strong force and presence is missed. I asked him before he passed away, to come back and let me know how he is doing. But he hasn’t yet, not for me. My daughter and I saw a bluebird on late Monday afternoon, 3 days after his funeral services, which was on April 1, 2022. She’d asked for that sign, the bluebird from the song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “if happy little bluebirds fly, then why, oh why, can’t I?” 23

I knew that this day would probably come . . . but not really.

My Daddy said last October 2021 that he wanted to live to be 100 years old. I said, “Okay Daddy, I’ll help you.” But who the he_ _ am I? I have no power. Everything that I’ve done for my parents since October 2015, when they came to live with us, was all with the help of God. I failed to mention that I am by no means a perfect daughter, woman, wife, mother, friend, person and so on. But I did everything that I could do to keep my parents healthy, happy, safe and together. My home became their home. I took care of them, better than I took care of myself. BUT I have NO regrets.

If I had the opportunity to redo December 2021, (which was the last Christmas that I would have had with my Daddy), I would have stayed in Utah. Unfortunately, Daddy couldn’t fly anymore because he had a Cardiac Arrest while 35, 000 feet in the air on Delta Airlines on January 11, 2020, when we were returning to Utah after Christmas in the South.

So, I couldn’t take my parents with me to the South that year when I visited my children and grandchildren at Christmas time. But there aren’t any redos in life. What’s done is done.

Death does sting. The day that I saw my Daddy take his last breath was and still seems unreal. It was like . . . is this really happening! Is he leaving me? It was so permanent. He was actually gone, and his body that I’ve always seen and known as Daddy was still there. He was still warm to the touch, his hands were still soft and still moved when touched, but his breathing had stopped. His eyes were permanently 24

closed. His deep voice, I would not hear again. His messiness between our immediate family would be no more.

I touched his face, his head, his mustache, his arms. I laid my face beside his face. I couldn’t leave him alone. As I tried to be as close as possible to him, I had my right arm across his stomach as I sang in his right ear, then my left arm across his stomach as I was singing in his left ear. I knew that life for me would NEVER, EVER be the same.

My Dad loved my Mom and my daughter more than life itself.

Even so, when he needed me, I never left his side. When he was in the hospital which was more times than I could count, he never spent a night or days alone. I only went home to bathe and give my Mother her insulin. I would forever be his advocate, until his death on March 22, 2022, at 4:19 PM at 95 years old. I realized that I had lost control, in taking the best care of him that I could provide, trying to be a good daughter, and caregiver. I had no control over death. He was gone.

I miss him every day. My heart hurts. Death stings.

Jesse James Johnson Sr.

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My Mama

by Glory Johnson-Stanton My Mama is and will always be my first love, my first teacher, my first role model, my first president, my first dictator, my first chef, my first baby sitter, my queen, my genius, my first protector, my first spokesperson, my first driver, my personal shopper, my employer (without pay), my judge and jury, my peace keeper, and butt spanker, my caregiver, my first doctor, my first nurse, my first dentist, my first provider, my first counselor, MY EVERYTHING! I’m so blessed because of My Mama. My Mama. My First Love. My Best Friend. Forever and Ever. And Always. I’ll Love You.

Pearl Beatrice Lee Johnson

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Left to right. Jevahjire France, Carlos Martinez, Shari-Fa Harrigan, Hamda Ibrahim, Milasse Doho, Jaycee Galvin

Left to right. Jaycee Galvin and Shari-Fa Harrigan

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Left to right. Jaycee Galvin and Shari-Fa Harrigan

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Left to right. Jevahjire France, Shari-Fa Harrigan, Milasse Doho

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Left to right. Jevahjire France, Hamda Ibrahim, Milasse Doho

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Left to right. Jaycee Galvin, Carlos Martinez, Milasse Doho, Jevahjire France

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Jevahjire France, Jaycee Galvin, Milasse Doho, Shari-Fa Harrigan

Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim, Errol Madondo, Tawana Dzenga, center stool-Carlos Martinez,

Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim, Errol Madondo, Tawana Dzenga, center stool-Carlos Martinez,

Jevahjire France, Jaycee Galvin, Milasse Doho, Shari-Fa Harrigan

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Jevahjire France, Jaycee Galvin, Milasse Doho, Shari-Fa Harrigan

Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim, Errol Madondo, Tawana Dzenga, on center stool-Carlos Martinez,

Left to right. Shari-Fa Harrigan, Hamda Ibrahim

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Left to right. Shari-Fa Harrigan, Hamda Ibrahim

Left to right. Carlos Martinez, and Milasse Doho

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Left to right. Carlos Martinez, and Milasse Doho

Left to right. Errol Madondo, Jevaahjire France

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Glory Johnson-Stanton

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Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim & Thierno Bah

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Thierno Bah

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Left to right. Jevaahjire France, Thierno Bah, Adam Ibrahim

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Left to right. Jevahjire France, Jaycee Galvin, Adam Ibrahim, Milasse Doho, Thierno Bah

Left to right. Adam Ibrahim, Jevahjire France

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Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim, Glory Johnson-Stanton, Shari-Fa

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Left to right. Jevahjire France, Jaycee Galvin, Adam Ibrahim, Milasse Doho, Thierno Bah

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Milasse Doho, Shari-Fa Harrigan

Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim, Thierno Bah, Jaycee Galvin, Glory Johnson-Stanton, Jevahjire France, Adam Ibrahim,

Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim, Glory Johnson-Stanton, Shari-Fa Harrigan

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Left to right. Glory Johnson-Stanton, Jaycee Galvin

Left to right. Thierno Bah, Shari-Fa Harrigan

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Left to right. Thierno Bah, Shari-Fa Harrigan

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Left to right. Adam Ibrahim, Hamda Ibrahim

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Left to right. Hamda Ibrahim & Thierno Bah

Left to right. Shari-Fa Harrigan, Adam Ibrahim

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Left to right. Thierno Bah, Milasse Doho

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Adam Ibrahim

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Exerpt from Untitled novel Glory Johnson-Stanton Chapter One “Dr. Rancifer, first, I’d just like to say it’s such an honor to meet you. I’ve read your book at least 20 times over, and each time I turn the last page I can’t help but feeling like, you shouldn’t be here; you should’ve died out there. But my question is . . . how did you survive?” the expectant yet sympathetic ocean blue eyes of a brown haired college student boldly asks. Her name tag says “Ashley K.”, and that she’s a senior here at NYU; I remember those years, such a thirst and sponge for knowledge thinking you’ll be the next Gandhi and change the world.

It’s a naïve thought, my internal commentary snidely responds.

A unanimous gasp takes over the auditorium and hushed whispers quickly follow. I stand as still as stone completely caught off guard.

This was #1 on the damn list of questions never under any circumstance to EVER ask me, I think still under a temporary state of paralysis.

I begin to clear my throat, and stop myself from wanting to immediately curse her out.

Deep breaths Uri, you can do this, just answer her question, I champion myself to do.

“Well, I uhh . . .” I sputter out, feeling the moisture collecting on my palms and forehead.

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Breathe Uriyah!

“I survived because—” “Ladies and gentlemen I believe that’s all the time we have for today, Dr. Rancifer has another engagement we must attend to. Thank you for your time,” my publicist remarks coming to my rescue.

As the auditorium erupts in applause, I give a light wave and smile as I make my way off the stage with Anna, my savior in this moment. No sooner than I walk behind stage does my breathing pick up again and the beginnings of an anxiety attack rears its head, relentlessly trying to make me relive a past I’d rather forget.

“Are you okay Uri?” she asks with a sympathetic look in her eyes. It’s Pity, my brain says stating the ugly truth.

“Yes, I’m fine Anna, I just need a moment alone if you don’t mind,” I say already walking back to my green room without waiting for her response.

Just before I turn the corner to the room, I hear Anna’s thunderous voice demand, “I intentionally put the subjects to AVOID on the first page of her contract this should have never happened! Who is responsible for this?!” she yells looking to draw blood.

When I close the door to my fortress of solace, I lie down on the small black leather couch and close my eyes trying to steady my breath.

You’re in New York, not there, you’re safe now and everything is okay, I repeatedly chant trying to convince myself that it’s true.

Suddenly, I hear a loud bang followed by yelling and I’m 60

violently thrusted back into the past. *** As the coppery stench of blood permeates the air, and the red-orange purple of the sunset floats across the sky before me. I know. I know this is my last day on earth. I know I’m going to die here on this damp patch of dirt, in the middle of nowhere Zimbabwe. My breath becomes shallow rapid struggles, and the colors of the sky distinctly begin to fade in and out, while my hand tries to apply pressure to my gaping side. Maybe it’s better this way, I can’t say I don’t deserve this, maybe it’s just karma, my repulsive thoughts suggest. While I slowly lower my lids and make peace with my reality, my life flashes before me like a black and white silent film. My first day of kindergarten, my first real crush, the winning 3-pointer shot during my jr. high basketball career, my high school graduation, college graduation, my white coat ceremony, the day I saw him, and the day my son was born. A pain like no other overtakes me at the thought of my son. My baby, I silently wail out.

In the distance I hear voices coming nearer, and I say a prayer hoping I’m dead before they find me. I feel my body being lifted and dragged onto something cold, with the last of my strength I open my eyes and see the sweetest face of a woman looking down at me with complete fear in her eyes, she’s talking but I can’t hear her words. A distant ringing starts deep in my head and my sight turns into a blur. The darkness overtakes me. *** “Uriyah! Uriyah! Wake Up!!” I hear followed by a violent shaking. “Call 9-1-1 NOW!” the voice screams out, still shaking me. As I begin to come to, I see Anna standing over me with a worry I’ve never seen marring her soft features. I try to speak 61

but it comes out as an incoherent groan. I see relief rush through her body while she helps me into a seated position and hands me a cup of water.

“What the hell was that?!” she yells in a high-pitched annoying voice.

“No, ‘hey Uri, are you okay’ or ‘how can I help you?’” I shoot back.

She narrows her gaze on me getting ready to probably curse me out when a man rushes in the room.

“I have 9-1-1 on the line, they want to know what the emergency is?!” he shouts clearly in a panic.

“It was a false alarm, please send them my apologies,” Anna practically snarls out while standing up wiping non-existent dust from her skirt.

With an irritated glare he turns on his heel and walks back out of the door profusely apologizing to the police dispatcher.

“Care to explain?” she asks turning back to me clearly on her quest for answers.

Why are you friends with her again? I wonder to myself.

Because she’s one of the best at her job, even if she is nosier than Olivia’s ass on ‘Law and Order: SVU.’ At least Olivia’s a detective. What’s Anna’s excuse?! I say snickering at my own joke.

“I’m going to assume that look and giggle are from you reminiscing on that date you had the other day,” she states interrupting my monologue.

“Then, you would be wrong, I don’t date Anna,” I blandly reply.

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“But I really think he could’ve been good for you. He has everything that you could possibly want in a man. HE EVEN COOKs . . . FOR FUN for crying out loud. If I wasn’t already married with a baby, and polyandry was legal I’d marry him myself,” she says in a less than convincing tone.

“Yeah, okay. Good luck telling Chris about that,” I say smirking at her, knowing her husband would lose his shit if she even considered taking that idea seriously.

“Don’t change the subject Uri. Why are you not going to see him again? And be honest,” she presses in the aggravating way that only she can.

“Let it go Anna, please” I beg her.

“No. Now tell me, there is absolutely no reason why you should not be 2 steps away from planning an engagement party, or at least thinking about it,” she said exasperated.

“Anna, I’m not—” “URIYAH! For God’s sake just tell me!” she bellows out interrupting me.

“I never saw him the first time Anna, I didn’t show up! I told you and everyone else that I wasn’t ready. But somehow you and them have it all set in your minds that I should be over this by now; I should be healed after eleven months.

Eleven freaking months! I was over there for two YEARS, and experienced some shit that came straight from the clutches of Hell. But sure let me come back and act like nothing happened, plaster a fake smile on my face, get married have more babies and live out some demented version of the ‘American Dream’, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time,” I lash out. No longer wanting to be in her presence, or anyone else’s for that matter, I grab my purse from the coffee table

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and head for the door while Anna tries to piece together my rant.

“Uri, you said more, ‘have more babies,’ why did you say more?” she questions softly.

Shit!

With no more fight left, and definitely not ready to touch this topic, my voice begins to break. “Let it go Anna,” walking out of the door sunglasses on, back straight, and never even sparing her a glance back I make my exit.

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What do I See When Seeing the American Flag Jevahjire Fance

As I am watching a panel debate video from Vice News about different members from the Asian American community discussing their political views, I found some of them dissecting every aspect of their identity and why do they feel the need of being called “Vietnamese Asian American” or “Pacific Islander Asian American’’ rather than simply identifying as American. Some of them talked about the complexity that comes with it, how some days they would rather not be asked “where are you really really from?” and some days they want people to acknowledge their unique culture, heritage, and history. Those different identities play a role when it comes to their American experience, and that it is not all a monolith.

It reminds me of a long delayed topic that I need to unwrap with myself. For instance, earlier this morning as I was heading home, I was all smiley when seeing some neighbors playing cornhole and seeing balloons in the shape of the number “20”. I was saying to myself whoever is celebrating their birthday is exactly my age. Then I saw the cornhole boards with the American flag, and quickly turned my head elsewhere, only to see even more star decorations with the red, white and blue colors of America at other neighbor’s houses. I couldn’t help but wonder what is the obsession of these people with having the American flag colors on everything. However, I had to recognize how deeply of a polarizing symbol the flag is sadly becoming and the fact that 65

I am in some ways triggered by it. This is what is prompting me to ask: what is it that I see when seeing the American flag?

There is a painful legacy of U.S. intervention in Haiti. This is evident in the photos I have seen growing up of American soldiers posing with dead bodies of local Haitian farmers similar to a trophy hunting prize. And Charlemagne Péralte, a Haitian freedom fighter and leader of the occupation resistance, was assassinated by the U.S. government. They tied his body to a door with the Haitian flag and distributed photos to Haitians to discourage guerilla resistance. And at the entrance of my hometown, Les Cayes, there is a cross that the area is named after, Croix-des-Martyrs (translation would be Cross of the Martyrs) or Kwamati in my mother tongue, Haitian Creole. The cross stands tall as a reminder of the location where dozens of peasants were machine gunned by U.S. marines for protesting their conditions of living during the American Occupation of Haiti. This event is known as the Marchaterre massacre.

60 years ago, Haiti was self-sufficient, now we only produce 40% of the local consumption, due to failed policies and pressure from the U.S., like the drastic reduction of rice tariffs in 1994 as documented by newspaper, the Guardian.

As admitted by the former U.S. President Bill Clinton, the removal of the tariff barriers was a disaster for Haiti—and it significantly increased malnutrition.

My family’s transition from farming and trading to education for survival is not just a statistic; it’s a personal narrative.

I have learned about the U.S. persecution of the Vodou religion and its practitioners, and how they went on to demonize this faith on a global stage. I have read about the terror that comes with American boats nearby and how they use it to put my native country under pressure in order to obtain control over one of our most important ports, and all the incessant invasions over the years.

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However, my view of America is not one dimensional, I vividly remember the night when I was ten years old, it was dark in the house due to the usual power shortage in my community. I found my mom pensive and lying on her bed.

I reclined myself next to her. She gently caressed my head, everything was normal until she asked: “Do you like your godmother?”

I replied “yes”, hesitantly while trying to figure why am I getting asked this question.

Then she continued, “Would you be willing to live in America with her, loving her like your own mom, as some sort of an adoption?”

Keep in mind that day, I just watched the Disney movie, Let it Shine. I had a Hollywood picture of America in mind. We are talking about big buildings, land where dreams do come true.

Surely I am going to be able to become a rapper or a soccer player over there, was thinking of a 10-year-old me.

I replied, “Yes mama, say less!”

Just kidding, I say “yes”, but I may as well have due to the level of excitement though I also understood that meant I would have to leave my parents.

Although Let It Shine was in Atlanta, Georgia. I landed four years later in Salt Lake City, Utah. Worlds apart as you can imagine. There is no worse false advertising than this. I so wanted to say to Godmother that this is a scam, and not the America that I have been seeing in Disney movies, on my way from the airport to their apartment.

I eventually learned to like it here and see the U.S. from the lens of my parents. A place where I can have a future for myself, though there is not a perfect meritocracy, it is more so than almost anywhere else. I was reminded of this everyday 67

by my parents and the older elders in my family.

I am a Black Immigrant. I am part of the group of Black people who came to America, not by force but by will, believing in the American Dream. Like many people from different diasporic communities, I walk around seeing the American flag as the land that can provide you with the means to become self-sufficient. I also see the American flag as a symbol of Imperialism, the neighbor that “speaks softly while carrying around a big stick”, that has made life harder through policies and interference in so many countries in Latin America, in the Caribbean, including mine. Policies that caused us to have to come here in the first place.

As of right now, I say to myself if I were to obtain American citizenship one day, I would not identify myself as HaitianAmerican but simply Haitian. However, I understand the need to say I am “Haitian-American”, “Vietnamese Asian American”, “Pacific Islander Asian American”, “African American”. It is acknowledging the living experience in these intersections. The stories that cannot be silenced.

Now, in 2024, Utah House Republicans passed an antiDEI bill, a move that contrasts sharply with the recognized importance of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives, particularly in educational spaces.

I see the beauty of DEI initiatives because they offer safe spaces where individuals from diverse backgrounds can share their personal narratives and those of their ancestors, fostering understanding and unity within a diverse society.

In the midst of these developments, the American flag, with its complex symbolism, continues to provoke introspection and spark dialogue about identity, about the sense of belonging, and about the complex, multifaceted nature of the American experience.

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References Raymond, P. (2011, May 13). Haitians could, once again, feed themselves | prospery raymond. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/poverty-matters/2011/may/13/ haitians-self-sufficiency Marsh, S., & Pault, A. (2020). Reuters | Haiti political morass fuels growing crisis of hunger, malnutrition. https://www.reuters.com/article/idUSKBN20D1UN/#:~:text=Haiti%20was%20 largely%20food%20self,contributed%20to%20investment%20tailing%20off. https://www. reuters.com/ Acknowledgement: Thank you to Kathy Tran-Peters and Zach Johnson for helping in editing this piece.

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Leaking Time Sonja V. White

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BLACK STUDENT UNION Student Club

Club meetings every Thursday, 12:00 PM Room 221/223 in the Student Center Advisor: Glory Johnson-Stanton Glory.Johnson-Stanton@slcc.edu 71

Remember to visit slccfolio.org to view the web edition!

Thank you to all who submitted to Ubuntu 2024.

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Work in the SWRC! Writing something? As a student, you can work with consultants in the Student Writing & Reading Center for any writing (or reading) assignment for any class here at SLCC. Stop by any of our locations (RWD: AAB129; SCC: 1-137; JRD: JSTC206) or visit our website at www.slccswc.org to find out more.

Need a job? We also have employment opportunities for SLCC students to work as SWRC Consultants.

Contact Clint.Gardner@slcc.edu for more information.

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