Sterling Notes | Spring 2019

THE STERLING ALLEN BROWN ENGLISH SOCIETY NEWSLETTER

SPRING 2019

STERLING NOTES CO-EDITORS OF STERLING NOTES AIDAN KEYS ARII SYLVERS BREEZE DOE EVAN ALLEN GABI MONTGOMERY ADVISOR OF STERLING NOTES Ntozake Shange, Audrey Edwards, Vertamae Smart-Grosvenor, Toni Morrison, June Jordan, and Alice Walker. The Sisterhood 1977

DR. YASMIN Y. DEGOUT

S I I H H T T S N I I N

N O O I I T T I I D D E E N

Harvard University,Schlesinger Library on the History of Women in America, Radcliffe Institute.

1977. https://hollis.harvard.edu/primoexplore/fulldisplaydocid=HVD_VIAolvwork674506&c ontext=L&vid=HVD2&search_scope=everything&tab =everything&lang=en_US

A Note from the Editors

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For Your Consideration

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Passageway

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Theoretically

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All Consuming Fire

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Purple

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OUR City

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On Writing

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Contributors Page

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PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

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idea. It arose from the rich, black, free language of the contributors. The poets and writers in this Sterling Notes are taking the words of Womanism Yesteryear and bending them back, reworking them into something that fits today. And so, in a way, before I graduate, I feel like

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

everything has come full circle.

Farris, William. “Alice Walker.” Alice Walker on What Her Father Taught Her..., Brain Pickings, www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/06/alice-walker-lying-eleanor-wachtel-interview/.

A Note From the Editors

by Aidan Keys, Co-president of SABES

In the second semester of my freshman year, I wanted to start a Womanism club. I gathered all my friends to meet in the lounge of Crandall Hall for three meetings, and we came up with a plan, but nothing came of it. Instead, I dove into an organization that already existed, SABES. If honest, I forgot about my freshman dream until now, in the second semester of my senior year, when I am preparing to leave Howard. This issue is a selfish kind of poetry for me. The Womanism theme was not my

Bernikow, Louise. “June Jordan.” June Jordan Papers, Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe Institute, 1969, www.radcliffe.harvard.edu/schlesingerlibrary/collection/june-jordan.

ABOUT THE ISSUE Sterling Notes is the newsletter of The Sterling

who put it together for this issue. More can be found about

Allen Brown English Society (SABES) based out of

the contributors at the end of the issue, as well as other

Howard University. This is Sterling Notes first

platforms where this edition can be found.

online edition, Please enjoy the hard work of the writers who submitted their work and the editors

-Gabi Montgomery, co-editor of Sterling Notes

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PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

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M PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Greenfield-Sanders, Timothy. “Toni Morrison.” The Foreigners Home, www.theforeignershome.com/toni-morrison/.

TONI MORRISON

T Nobel Lectures, Literature 1991-1995, Editor Sture Allén, World Scientific Publishing Co., Singapore, 1997

“BEING A BLACK WOMAN WRITER IS NOT A SHALLOW PLACE BUT A RICH PLACE TO WRITE FROM. IT DOESN’T LIMIT MY IMAGINATION; IT EXPANDS IT. IT’S RICHER THAN BEING A WHITE MALE WRITER BECAUSE I KNOW MORE AND I’VE EXPERIENCED MORE.”

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For Your Consideration

by Nadira Jamerson When I try to say prayers in my head, I get distracted. I’ll be meaning to give thanks, and then I’ll start thinking about that fine girl from my chemistry lab who said “thank you” that one time I let her borrow a pencil, which she kept. And then, somehow, my pencil reminds me of a dick—my dick. And now Im imagining her asking to borrow my dick, and then keeping it. By the time I remember I'm supposed to be praying, my crotch is sticky, and I have to get out of bed to wipe off. So, instead, I am attempting to write out my prayers with the hope that, even though I am saying nothing, He will still be able to hear me.

Heavenly Father, PHOTO

BY MARTIN R. SMITH I feel like a walking paradox.

I like girls—a lot—but sometimes I like other things, too. I like when I get to be filled up, instead of always being the one doing all of the filling. And, I wouldn’t mind if it was a woman filling me, but it seems an inappropriate request to ask a woman. With another man, I don’t have to ask.

Two weeks ago I donated a hundred dollars to the Red Cross to help with hurricane relief. A few days later, I saw a homeless man begging for change on the sidewalk. As I walked by the jingling of his plastic collection cup, I said, “I do not have any money.” I had five dollars in my back pocket.

There was one day last year that I remember vividly. My best friend came to school smiling. She would not stop smiling all day. It put me in a terrible mood. At the end of the day, her mood soured because she received a poor grade back on an exam. For the rest of the day, I had boundless energy. I even tried to convince her to get ice cream with me after school, but she wasn’t feeling up to it.

Sometimes when I wake up and look at myself in the mirror, I am astounded by my own beauty. I have been late to class on several occasions because I could not look away from my own reflection. Yet, whenever my mother asks us to take group photos at family celebrations, I hide in the bathroom until the picture has been taken.

For years I have felt an immense fear that I could not pinpoint. I would wake up terrified, go throughout my day terrified, and fight sleep at night, too terrified to close my eyes and see darkness. I have never been abused. I have never been bullied. My friends and family love me. I had no reason to be afraid. Until I realized that I was afraid of You. Or, rather, afraid of what you would make of me.

I once read this story about a man who dedicated his life to growing plants. He established the largest operating greenhouse in North America. However, out of all of

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For Your Consideration this plants, his favorite was this small blue wisteria tree that grew in the center of the greenhouse. The man would spend hours each day standing in marvel of this tree he had grown. From all of his love, the tree flourished. Normal wisteria trees grew to be about 10 feet tall, but his was already 20 feet tall only a few short years after being planted. In fact, the tree grew so tall and so wide that it started to crowd out the other plants. Plants that needed sunlight now withered under the the shadow of the wisteria tree. The roots of the wisteria tree drank all of the water from the ground, leaving the rest of the plants dehydrated. The man knew that in order to save his greenhouse, he would have to cut down the wisteria tree. One afternoon, he took his axe to the tree. As he chipped away at PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH its body, the blue flowers hanging from its branches began to weep. Droplets of water fell on the man as he cut. By the time the tree fell, the man was drenched in water, and so was the ground around him. The next morning, when the man came to water and tend to the plants of his greenhouse, he found them all dead. In their place rose hundreds of budding blue wisteria trees.

I have tried to kill the wisteria tree within myself. I suppress my hatred of others through community service only for that hatred to be deepened by an unintentional wrongdoing of a stranger I should not care about.

If I am being honest, I hope every day that You do not exist. Without judgement or punishment, maybe I would finally be able to act as I want, to be who I am supposed to be.

Religious folk are always screaming about the liberation of the Lord. You calm the storms and lead us to righteousness. But what is righteousness apart from a set of rules that's from a set of rules that every one interprets differently but somehow must be exact and absolute?

If I am being honest, Lord, I must say that I find you cruel.

You have created me to be both good and evil, yet you only accept the goodness. Half of me you reject. Half of me you have decided does not deserve everlasting love and life in the Kingdom of Heaven.

So, tonight I pray that for your acceptance or your change. Change me into a person who deserves your full love or accept me for a person who can never be deserving of all of your life.

Tonight, I ask why you have created me to be both good and evil, just to force me to spend a life pretending that I am only half of who I really am.

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I'm the New Black

by Faith Turner I’m not the same black that is the opposite of white, full of anger, hatred, evil and wickedness. I'm not the black who is full of gloom and depression.

I am defined by urban words in a big book of different definitions. Who are they… to say I'm all these different things that aren't even close to classifying me.

I'm the same black who is shot down by holding skittles and a tea bottle.

I’m the same black who can’t breathe when getting beat down by policemen.

I’m the same black who says "don't shoot" while my hands are up.

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Yet we, as blacks, are defined as full of anger, wickedness, hatred and evilness.

I am a victim of a game that I don't want to play, unfair rules yet… America just turns the other way.

I’m the same black who faces the facts by living in an all-white community. They say I'm the "new" black who talks and is proper as a white.

No! That’s where they're wrong, you see… I’m the same black who speaks intelligently, who walks so eloquently and gracefully with my head held high.

I’m the same black with as much confidence as my integrity with my name in bolder letters in the sky.

I’m the same black who doesn't see a difference in the color of one’s pigment.

The same black who notices segregation in the country I live in, yet battles it through the forces of education.

I’m the same black who has a college degree majoring in math, science, and astronomy.

I’m the same black who is ruling today's nation while being a minority.

The same black who is still fighting for equal liberty and tranquility.

For if I'm not the same black who King wanted me to be, what would I be?

A white man’s puppet to finish the chapter of the N***** story?

The black… the white man wants to portray me as!

To prove the world that he was right?

Well I know … I’m the same black who is going to rewrite that story.

The white man writes a book of fictions from his figment of his imagination.

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I'm the New Black I'm not a white man's puppet. I'm not a stupid, obedient, low self-esteem, low life.

I'm not evil, wicked, or even angry.

I’m just me.

I’m the same black in today's economy.

The same black who is president of the United States.

The same black who is controlling today's music.

The same black who is risking life to protect us from our enemies.

The same black who is continuing Kings dream.

I’m the same black who won’t stop fighting.

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH I’m the new definition of Black.

So Webster, it’s time to update your book of terminology, because I'm the new Black and I’m going down in history!

When the Wind Blows

by Serene White grounded, old tree; although, your roots seem to be retracting and loose, altering your form as whispers surround.

HOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH you Pfeel them whipping by in opposition. graveled beneath is soil trying to PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH remind you that time is short. out with giving in or conforming; underneath is something worth cherishing. nobody sees your fruit, but you know your bearing ability, dig deeper with your roots, grip the soil, be enriched in the doctrine that equips you to withstand hurricanes. do not let the atmosphere distract you from the source so close.

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ミクス

Mi · ku · su “Mixed”

by Gabrielle Oliver Megumi’s piqued eyes shift between seemingly conflicted identities that coexist inside, nurtured by the warm pigment of a little girl her knapping hands tasking themselves, reforging Ghanaian, Spanish, and Japanese ancestry unmoved by dry, salty-white PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH streaks on the purple-tinged ochre cheeks of that granddaughter whose unfaltering skin tone wasn’t enough like her father’s.

I'm Lying through My American Teeth

by Kyndall Flowers i’d say excuse me for this spangled body but look at all of this glitter. all of this sharp reflection. i may not know how to live in all of this skin but that's fine. i can learn how to dance this american dance. fold thirteen times and slide myself into a good man’s back pocket. it’s summer so the cars slow down. turn and stare at all of this (black)blue skin. these trying legs. these snapbreak arms. i hate feeling small but when a tall and blond boy asks me to punch him i pull. i wish i didn’t. wish i watched him spit blood. a man tells me i’m “too much” and i say “here? in this grand country?” i say “thank you i’ve been learning how to swallow my food.” i steal a year of his life and give it to my mother. i say nothing at all and i tuck my hair behind my ear. lean closer and start the slow wane of myself.

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I'm Lying Through My American Teeth start wearing more mirrors. look at this american bend. of light. look at this american distraction this american halo this american potential. i wanna wave the flag in the middle of the drag car race. i want daisy dukes and sparklers. i want a gun in the kitchen drawer. a chevy pick up truck. a cold beer. a broad-shouldered man and a motorcycle. the perfect red lip. a sinkhole on the front lawn and all of my favorite bones to crawl up and up and out.

The Middle Passage

by Imani Shell "the Ocean is your home," she said "come my darling, return to where you belong return to where you belong. your ancestors are waiting."

Unknown. “Slave Ship.� The Middle Passage, Medford Historical Society and Museum, www.medfordhistorical.org/medford-history/africato-medford/the-middle-passage/.

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Bayou

by Josephine Schreier Before the speculators, the entrepreneurs, the architects, a soggy footprint rested on the Earth’s back, humid like the inside of a giant’s mouth, laying still and lush.

Her murky jade creeks rippled only by sure native footsteps.

Then came the leather boots of Spaniards PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH sinking into the silt, each step like a strike.

Rivulets of blood seeped into the earth, now sore with flag poles, settlements sprayed across like scabs.

Their roots slithered deeper and deeper as they tore cypresses and rattled the Spanish moss with their cannons and their houses with their maps and their metal.

Shots rang through the oak leaves as feet parted the sedge, some carving a trail meant to spread, some gently trekking north.

More districts, wards, and counties sprang up around the human ebb and flow, copper, tan, and sable.

Oh, the iron stitches, metal serpents, wire-crossed stalks and steel-boned towers ground deep into her skin, they cemented her into a deep slumber.

The marsh is dormant now, only stretching watery fingers into the city’s ditches weeping over the gray labyrinth until her tears flood the streets.

She waits for the gulf’s embrace.

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The Guise of Post-Racialism: How Multiculturalism and Prejudice Collide in a Modern United Kingdom

by Najah Lewis Context: My time in London as a student abroad brought a new sense of liberation I have yet to feel in the states, but it did not erase my Blackness. Many of my peers who decided to study in foreign countries often talk about how racism does not exist in Europe and Latin America. However, I found that racism simply functions differently abroad. It may not be as apparent, but the same violent and oppressive foundation exists.

PAs H O Tthe O B YUK M Abecomes R T I N R . S Mmore ITH ethnically and culturally diverse, many of its citizens have seemingly adapted a post-racial and multicultural worldview; however, evidence suggests that the UK is far less tolerant than it prides itself on being. Multiculturalism can be defined as “anything from people of different communities living alongside each other to ethnic or religious groups leading completely separate lives" (BBC, 2011). The term postracial can be described as the notion that one can choose not to see race, but instead a person’s character. Sociologist Bettina Love asserts, “post-racial signifies a society in which racial differences are no longer significant" (Love, 2010). It is true that the UK has progressed from its days of racial segregation. London elected its first Muslim mayor, Sadiq Khan, and is the most diverse city in Europe with half its residents having immigrant ancestry. However, it seems during this modern era old transgressions concerning race and xenophobia persist. In areas with dense Afro-Caribbean populations, citizens complain about discrimination and police harassment. Many immigrants from Muslim countries have been met with unwelcome prejudice in the UK. Since 9/11 and the infamous 7/7 bombing, anti-Muslim sentiments or Islamophobia has been on the rise. Also, far right groups like Britain First and the UK Independence Party have become increasingly popular as both have seen major spikes in membership. It can be argued that the notion of a multicultural Britain that has entered an age of tolerance is false as racism and xenophobia continue to affect the lives of immigrants and people of color in the nation.

To begin, before analyzing modern instances of prejudice in the UK, it is imperative to discuss the history of immigration in the nation to add context as to why these situations happen. After World War II Britain saw an influx of Afro-Caribbean people immigrating to the nation to re-build towns and cities destroyed by the war. During this time Britain began experiencing the beginnings of multiculturalism as communities that were once white became a mix of Afro-Caribbean. However, cultural and ethnic tolerance only went so far as The Common Wealth Immigration Act of 1962 was passed, restricting the entry of

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The Guise of Post Racialism Caribbean immigrants. Academics Jørgen Nielsen and Jonas Otterbeck assert, “The Commonwealth Immigrants Act of 1962 was a response to a growing public debate over the desirability of large-scale immigration of ‘coloureds’” (Nielsen, Otterbeck, 2016). The immigration act did little to quell increasing concerns about foreign integration. A member of British parliament, Enoch Powell, delivered his infamous Rivers of Blood speech a few years later in 1968, highlighting the fears of black immigrants overrunning Britain. He proclaims, “The other dangerous delusion from which those who are willfully or otherwise blind to realities suffer, is summed up in the word integration" (Powell, 1968).

One could argue that these are archaic instances of racism are no longer relevant.

However, these illustrations of intolerance serve as reminders that Britain has a historical PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH legacy of racism and xenophobia. One can see the same rhetoric in politics today; fear the other and the change they bring.

Also, parallels can be drawn between historical and modern-day instances of racial conflict in the UK, further proving that prejudice persists in multicultural communities.

For example, comparisons can be drawn between the Notting Hill and Nottingham riots of 1958 and the 2011 England Riots. The catalysts of both events were conflicts that were motivated by race; one being triggered by the opposition to miscegenation and the other by police brutality, both resulting in chaos in largely mixed and working-class communities. Media coverage surrounding both events was strikingly similar as well.

Photographs of black youth looting and setting fires were plastered across newspapers and other media outlets with sensational headlines alluding to savagery and discord.

Historical comparisons like this not only reinforce the fact that racial tensions in multicultural communities need to be remedied, but post-racialism is a false construct.

Writer Sheila Thomas claims, “This premise [of post racialism] is contradicted by evidence that people of color continue to be at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder and by the prevalence of racial issues in the headlines" (Thomas, 2010). A nation cannot claim total racial tolerance if a number of its citizens continue to experience marginalization that often results in violence and distrust.

Moving forward, modern day prejudice and xenophobia in the UK becomes more nuanced when discussing immigration and Islamophobia. Certain white British citizens feel an impending threat of a change, not only in the ethnic make-up of their communities, but cultural and religious make-up as well. Critiques on these worries as being Islamophobic have been shot down as encroaching on free speech and debate.

Political scientists Ronald Imhoff and Julia Recker claim, “A few British senior journalists characterized Islamophobia as a construct that's been used to cover an awful lot of people and censor debate" (Imhoff, Recker, 2012).

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The Guise of Post Racialism Far right leaders like Gerard Batten and Pail Golding have convinced many white British citizens that Muslims, immigrants and British-born alike, will continue to infiltrate white and Christian areas. In an interview Gerard Batten, current leader of UKIP, called Islam a “death cult” and said the religion was “propagated by invasion.” (Walker, 2018).

Though sensationalized notions based on racial and religious intolerance can be easily dismissed as hate speech, the communities, people like Batten seek to defend are indeed changing. Nielsen and Otterbeck found in London public records that“by far the largest concentrations of Muslims were to be found in two London boroughs of Tower Hamlets (36.4 per cent) and Newham (24.3 per cent). In the 2011 census, Tower Hamlets was one borough in London where the percentage of Muslims (34.5) was higher than that of PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH Christians (27.1)” (Nielsen, Otterbeck, 2016). Multiculturalism is continuing to re-shape communities in the UK, but as it does so Islamophobia and racial distrust persist.

Furthermore, Islamophobia and xenophobia have recently gone political as British government officials have introduced legislation that many citizens of color say limit their civil liberties. A poignant example of this is the British Nationality Act of 1981, legislation that gives the Home Secretary the right to rescind British citizenship. In 2006 members of the UK Parliament made changes to the Act. Political Scholar Shai Lavi states, “The new law broadened the power of the Home Secretary, allowing him to revoke British citizenship if he is satisfied that deprivation is conducive to the public good. The new measures have been justified as part of the war on terror” (Lavi, 2010). Many British Muslims felt targeted as they could have their citizenship revoked and deported based on alleged suspicion. The British Afro-Caribbean community also felt discriminated against as the legislation stated that paper work that proved an ancestor’s citizenship could not be provided, deportation would be justified. It is worth noting that there is an ongoing dispute between the UK government and citizens affected by the Act. Though it can be argued that legislation such as the British Nationality Act of 1981 are put in place to protect the British public, the prejudicial undertones cannot be ignored as it largely affects multicultural communities across the UK. Post-racialism is an ideal that sounds good in theory as it suggests abandoning prejudices; however, it cannot be applied to the modern-day UK, despite the increase of racial and religious tolerance. Discrimination historically rooted in xenophobia and the looming threat of Islamophobia persists. Immigration is also still an issue as immigrants seeking asylum in the UK are increasingly unwelcome.

When dissecting modern racial and cultural prejudice, much of the rhetoric one will find is echoed in Enoch Powell’s "Rivers of Blood" speech. Political Scholar Carol Murphy

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The Guise of Post Racialism asserts, “Refugees are most often represented in the mediamedia as an amorphous mass, a hungry beast, devouring all in its path...References to ‘rivers’ and ‘blood’ in Powell’s speech insinuate that violence will be inevitable in the battle to retain British identity in the face of a tidal wave of immigrants” (Murphy, 2018). Hating the other is simply misplaced fear of losing one’s white British identity as one’s community and nations begins to look less and less fundamentally white and Christian. Multiculturalism and immigration are warped into a threat, and thus xenophobia and racism become outlets for hateful distress and fear. One will only see a racially and culturally tolerant UK if these fears are absolved through a willingness to abandon hostility and welcome change and all its unfamiliarity.

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Works Cited

Imhoff, Roland, and Julia Recker. “Differentiating Islamophobia: Introducing a New Scale to Measure Islam prejudice and Secular Islam Critique.” Political Psychology, vol. 33, no. 6, 2012, pp. 811–824.

Lavi, Shai. “Punishment and the Revocation of Citizenship in the United Kingdom, United States, and Israel.” New Criminal Law Review: An International and Interdisciplinary Journal, vol. 13, no. 2, 2010, pp. 404–426.

Love, Bettina L., and Brandelyn Tosolt. “Reality or Rhetoric? Barack Obama and PostRacial America.” Race, Gender & Class, vol. 17, no. 3/4, 2010, pp. 19–37.

Murphy, Carole. “Rivers of Blood, Sea of Bodies: An Analysis of Media Coverage of Migration and Trafficking on the High Seas.” Beasts of the Deep: Sea Creatures and Popular Culture, edited by Jon Hackett and Seán Harrington, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, IN, USA, 2018, pp. 154–170.

Nielsen, Jørgen S., and Jonas Otterbeck. “United Kingdom.” Muslims in Western Europe, 4th ed., Edinburgh University Press, 2016, pp. 43–66.

Thomas, Sheila. “Debunking the Myth of a Post-Racial Society.” Human Rights, vol. 37, no.

4, 2010, pp. 22–23.

Walker, Peter (2018). “Ukip's Gerard Batten reiterates his belief that Islam is a 'death cult'” The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2018/feb/18/ukip-gerard-battenislam-muslims-quran.

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The Right to Rage: Claudia Rankine’s Citizen in 2018

by Sakile Grannum To be born black is too often to be born with the tragic wisdom that your body does not belong to you. It is to be born knowing that in some fundamental way, you alone are not the architect of your destiny; that there is some invisible force holding you up against Zora Neale Hurston’s sharp white background. To be born black is to be born vulnerable to the sharpness of that background, to know that in that vulnerability those who have pinned you immovable can fill you with whatever they choose. To be born black is to be born with your mouth open so that you will learn the art of swallowing as quickly as possible. To swallow P H O T O Bmeans Y M A R T Ito N Raccept . S M I T H the untruths that others force upon you, to understand that others are allowed to encroach on and defile the space of your existence without any repercussions. The law protects you, but the streets, the schools, the churches do not. The government buildings defend your rights, but those who work within them are party to your swallowing.

There is no law against making a black girl hate herself. There is no amendment banning the sharp white background against which most of us are forced to discover ourselves. It is a background that reaches across both sides of the Atlantic and touches every one of us within the diaspora, within the continent; Africans have made of the entire world. Citizen asks the question to which we almost always have the answer but that we all find ourselves asking anyway. ‘What did you say?’ ‘What did you say?’ after a long pause and uttered across from the wide suddenly created distance between you and your aggressor’s sharp comment, a distance as wide as the Atlantic, a sharpness as stark as the whiteness against which you were thrown, the whiteness through which you discovered that you were black. There was no law to protect me when a little light-skinned girl tilted her head, half-smiled at me and said, ‘You know, you would be so pretty if you weren’t so dark.’ There was no law to stave off turmoil that ensued between my mind and my body, the way there were no laws to protect Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown and Sandra Bland, but here we all are, black, alive, and dead, many of us a mixture of both, and none of us are protected.

‘What did you say?’

I cannot fathom how I am supposed to respond to this, so I swallow her words; I swallow the complement of my hypothetical beauty that she thrusts upon me, swallow rage and confusion and sadness, swallow it all so that I’m the only one in the circle of girls who is uncomfortable. I do not know when I learned to swallow; I only know now that I was doing it, and it felt the most obvious thing to do.

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The Right to Rage I think of this when I read about Serena and her black body held up as a spectacle, open to comment and critique and ridicule. I think of the whiteness of that background she was thrown against, and how I wasn’t so much thrown against a background then as I was the background, the negative space unto which whiteness and its entitlement was thrown. I think of the unique way in which black women lack citizenship and how swallowing for us can mean the difference between a paycheck, the difference between paying and not paying a $17,000 fine, the difference between winning and losing a match, even the difference between life and death.

To have citizenship is to have your humanity recognized and, even further, to have it deemed worthy of protection. I reflect on how I’ve crossed half an ocean to stand where PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH I’m standing now, and everywhere I look I see black bodies, and I still see them open and unprotected. I see that we are not allowed to open our mouths unless it is to swallow, unless it is to be fed our own distorted narratives and realities, to take what others have decided we are deserving of taking. We do not have the right to open our mouths in anger or confusion or rage since our rage is not protected, since our rage is not acknowledged, since our rage is not tied to some form of humanity. Black rage has been too often depicted as savage, deranged, unjustified fury, devoid of rational human thinking. So is it that we are incapable of being rational? Are we unable to be anything but savage? Or is our rage so demonized because the others do not understand how we could possibly feel deserving of anything but violence?

It has been about 4 years since Claudia Rankine’s Citizen but only two months since Serena Williams’ loss to Naomi Osaka and the whirlwind of coded accusations that painted Serena as yet another living trope of Black, barely feminine rage. How unfair it is to have the expectations of femininity thrust upon us, have it thrust upon us a little more every time we decide we don’t want it, decide we want something more, something more durable, more functional-- faster, stronger, better. How unfair to snatch it away and corrupt what is left for us to cloak our too big, too Black bodies.

We’re ridiculed for not playing a part we were told we were unfit for, but we’re chastised for not trying, for not subjecting ourselves to inevitable and perpetual failure.

Either way, we are met with violence, with refusal, refusal to be soft and refusal to be hard. Serena Williams embodies the antithesis of white femininity. She is not coded as truly desirable - an entertaining and curious spectacle, maybe - but never something soft and pliable enough to be molded by the dreams and fantasies of men. We live in a world that loves pliable women. Serena is not pliable. She takes up space decidedly. She wins matches and is not disillusioned about the scope of her success. She breaks things. She knows she is the best, and she is not afraid to acknowledge it. Serena Williams takes up an

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The Right to Rage irreverent amount of space. She does not care about the sharp background or the way it tries to swallow her up where the edges of its gaze meet her skin.

I suppose that is what Rankine is getting at, in a sense. A citizen is made up of rights --entitlements, understood privileges. Rage is an understood privilege of true American citizens. You can always tell citizenship by who is allowed to be angry. Those who are allowed belong. Their injustices are seen and acknowledged; their demands for retribution are justified. They should be angry because they have been wronged.

If she is not a woman, why not let her be a man? Why not let her shout and be angry and break her racket? That is what not-women do, right? But somehow not-woman PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH cannot be men, but they cannot be women either. We must be...something else. We must strain our limbs to embody the crossroads of depraved fetish, coded ridicule, and fleeting curiosity of that stark, colorless gaze. We are denied the protection and empathy the delicateness of femininity allows white women but also denied the right to rage of men.

We don’t get to be anything. We don’t get anything.

The violence discussed in Citizen Rankine identifies as decidedly American, but I would argue that this is present almost everywhere that black people are present, though manifestations may vary. We have been traumatized by this violence, but its persistence has forced us to normalize the actions of our aggressors, to master the art of defusing conflict, to apologize for things for which we are not truly sorry. In swallowing we relinquish, even only momentarily, our right to rage. We swallow all the daily ways our humanity is ignored, all the daily ways the real Citizens prove and remind us that we are not. And as we swallow, as we chose the option we think leads to our preservation, we slowly, silently choke.

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PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

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L

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

“Audre Lorde.” Your Scilence Will Not Protect You by Audre Lorde , 1989, www.silverpress.org/your-silence-will-not-protect-you/.

Audre Lorde

A Shultz, Dagmar. “Audre Lorde.” On Audre Lorde, thefeministwire.com/2014/02/on-audre-lorde/.

“OUR FEELINGS ARE OUR MOST GENUINE PATHS TO KNOWLEDGE.”

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Passageway

by Samantha Dumay Today...was the day I looked around for a passageway but found no other place to hide but my words.

Today was the day I jumped in the river hoping to baptize myself in the blood of my own demons, but they're still alive Today, I hoped I'd be able to say I was okay, but the words died at my throat I was wrong.

PHOT O B Y M AIR was T I N Rhurt. I . S M I T H was lost. I was slowly, slowly fleeting away; I couldn't find the passageway...back Yesterday, someone told to make myself as minuscule as I could to the point where I was I invisible So I retreated Back into a box, and I locked myself up until the buckles were breaking and I couldn't contain my own self I couldn't restrain my own stealth I couldn't scream any louder than my voice could register Yesterday, Someone told me that I was black as night So black, so black, someone told me that I frightened their child at night So black that I was dirty. Where do I belong? The kitchen or the soil?

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

The sun had raised me until I was old enough to bend over...backwards, but she couldn't decide if I was partly clean or partly soiled So soiled.. That's what I chose I could feel myself elbow deep in this rich Earth-- tree bark incense and smoky scent The Same place God put His hands in and formed me limb by limb Purposely making curvatures in areas that would both entice and offend

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Passageway Isn't that funny?

The pigmentation was skin deep But not enough to wash away with water or soap or even bleach So today, don't tell me or anyone like me that we are somehow weak or less or ugly or dirty or freaks Because today, I found the passageway to tomorro Facing an obscure line between breath and suffocation Do I spend the rest of my life with my hands up? Or do I make bullet holes with my eyes PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Looks can surely kill But only if they're filled with the pride of the very hands that have grown accustomed to the coarseness of cotton unrefined I... Have a river to go back to because by now, my reflection is much clearer Riverbank mud brown eyes, tightly coiled, curled hair, inflated thighs, and soil-stained skin I win And take my royal strut as a queen down the passageway entering into change With the past as black as it can be And the future perhaps shining a ray of sunlight into the sea Nonetheless, yesterday did leave. Today is me, and Tomorrow is Free

Smoke Alarm

by Khema Ebron I hear it ringing, it haunts my dreams the ringing echoes like a wailing bell of misery the memories flicker through the flames set before me the pain, it burns my soul like a fire that cannot be quenched but rather then feel like my hope has disappeared I look up to the light and find my escape

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Theoretically

by Ari Humphrey

The ground ached for her. It yearned for her, begged for her, opened its gaping mouth to create a space for her. And she was pleased with it, really. No one had ever wanted her as badly as the earth had, so she gave in to its advances.

They weren’t happy with it, of course. They didn’t understand the pull of the dirt, the bliss of the black soil. They thought they were the ones who wanted her the most. But she knew better. She knew that it was the earth itself. It was so alluring that when she gave in it was an animal action of sorts, a frenzy to complete the cycle of dirt to dirt and dust to dust. apologetic, neither in life nor in death. And while she didn’t leave P H O TShe O B Ywas M A Rnot TIN R . SMITH silently, she left quickly and without explanation. They would never admit it, but they resented her. Maybe deep down, deeper than one should reasonably be able to delve in human awareness, the resentment came from jealousy. They couldn’t acknowledge that.

More towards the surface, they were angry that she took with her all the answers to their sorrowful questions. Or question, because it really all boils down to why. And maybe deep down, in the same deep and unmentionable place where they felt jealousy towards her, they knew the answer to their question. Maybe they knew the temptation of the earth.

They all sat stiffly around the table, avoiding eye contact with the ghost floating above their heads, all thinking of her. Her father in particular was trying to remember the last word she had ever said to him, then cried when he couldn’t. Her mother almost laughed when she realized her death changed nothing, then cried when she realized she felt nothing. Instinctively, each person in the room silently blamed everyone else, but bit by bit some of them began to blame themselves. And more crying came. One would expect, in a room filled with a family that’s been separate for so long, that they would fall back into old comfortable dynamics of the caring and the cared for. Instead, they all took the role of wounded, and when no help came, they blamed the stronger ones.

There was an absence of sound, one of them noticed, as if the ghost created a vacuum. There was a feeling of numbness, another noted, as if cold water instead of blood coursed through his veins. In the end, it was he who broke the spell, standing up so quickly that his chair toppled behind him. He felt that if he sat for one more second, the cold water would turn to ice and expand, bursting his once hot veins and leaving him to join his sister.

Once he stood, they all did. Some unsurely, some as quickly as he had, but they all stood. The youngest one, the one with cold veins and shaking hands,

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Theoretically walked away from the table, disappearing through the back door so he could take his mind far away from his family and make his hands stop shaking. They all continued to stand, staring at him, knowing what he was going to do, but not having the strength to stop him.

The oldest one, the sister, moved next. She bent down and picked up the fallen chair, then clapped her hands loudly enough to make everyone flinch.

“Well it was a lovely service,” she said. “And everyone brought so much food over, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

Neither of them looked at her. They didn’t know that she had been sitting in PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH silence out of respect for the habit, not the dead.

“I’ll make you both plates then; I know you have to be hungry.”

Still neither of them spoke. She busied herself opening cabinets and drawers. She hadn’t brought her daughter or husband with her today, and she missed them. That missing was the only emotion she truly felt, the dull ache of turning to look again and again, the slightly painful forgetfulness that comes with love. She wondered if that was how her mother felt.

It wasn’t. Her mother felt nothing. That is to say, she felt a sense of loss, but only in the lack of emotion present in her. She felt robbed, really. Her daughter was dead, and she didn’t even get the wrenching relief of sobbing. Her tears dried as quickly as they came.

They continued to stand there ceremoniously, ignoring the hastily prepared food in front of them and feeling as if they were miles apart. Her father suddenly stumbled in place and vanished, heading towards the bathroom, his bedroom - anywhere he could get away from the pounding, rolling waves of grief and climb to an uneasy shore. But seas are often unending, and pain is often the same, so he found no blessed island once he had locked himself in his room. All he could do was silently shriek to God, water filling his mouth until breath itself was laborious.

And the brother, the youngest, the baby. It was the best moment of his life; every moment in which frail reality could be wadded up and pushed aside became the new best moment of his life. He was a happy person. Addiction didn’t plague him as it plagued others; it only gave him joy. Only moments before, as he was preparing to push the clouds from his eyes and the needle into his skin, he thought of her. He asked himself the question, the one they were all wondering, and elected himself most fit to feel what she had been feeling. He decided that she was weak; he wasn’t yet in a place where he knew exactly what was calling her, but he thought the fact that she gave in showed her

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Theoretically weakness. And then his mind slipped from her, from everyone, and he was truly having the best moment of his life on the steps behind his childhood home.

Once the father left the kitchen to try and find that island, there was another silence.

The mother was never close with her children; she didn’t think she had the capacity, and with one daughter freshly covered in dirt, she wasn’t sure what to say to the one in front of her. They stole glances at each other, trying to gauge the other's emotional disposition, only to discover that neither of their expressions gave anything away. The mother decided she should play her part and extended her arms to the girl she had created. She barely recognized her; she was too large, too bright. She thought of when both her girls were children-- how they played, how they fought. They used to be so manageable. They used HOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH to Pneed her. Now her remaining daughter turned away, placing both hands on the counter.

“Mother,” she began in a soft voice, “I know this is awful, and of course Daddy is hurting, but really, what’s going to change?” She paused, feeling her mother’s eyes boring into her back. She plowed ahead anyway. “I mean, theoretically, If no one had called us we wouldn’t even know she was gone. We would be living just like we always did.”

The mother didn’t respond.

“We didn’t know her anymore, Mom.” “You lost me at theoretically,” the mother said with a bitterness that made the sister spin to face her. “It’s not theoretical. She’s dead. My daughter is gone, and I’m not any different. Nothing has changed.”

The mother sat back down, begging herself to feel something, anything.

“It’s not theoretical,” she said again, shaking her head.

At that point the sister knew there was nothing more she could do, and simply walked out of the house to return to her real family. There was no doubt in her mind that they were mourning pointlessly; none of them had seen the ghost for years, yet her father wept as if he would never stop and her mother was as still as if the bullet had entered her own head. The sister drove away from them, planning for the week and anticipating her own daughter’s smile, already forgetting the ironic, pointless day that had occurred.

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Day In and Day Out

by Nadia Bartholomew Day in and Day out I lie, I lie to my family, I lie to my friends, I lie to my group, but most of all I lie to myself.

"Oh, everything is fine..." I respond when I get asked how am I doing I see in their eyes that they are not convinced I know they hear in my voice that I don't how I'm really doing P H O T Owant B Y M Atalk R T I Nabout R. SMIT H I don't want to talk about what's causing the deep sighs, sudden onset of anger and sleepless nights I willed myself to stay positive So hard that it turned into denial and then avoidance.

I did spiral, but this time I tried to fight it, then I ignored it.

I began to fall, so slow that it almost went unnoticed but still I slid, Back to the place where I promised myself, I would never go again.

And that is what hurts the most.

So, Day in and Day out I lie, Until that one small rock hit me.

Right between the eyes, shattering my facade.

Deeper and deeper I fall Into disappointment, judgment, and self-loathing.

Pride, Stupidity, and Fear keeps me silent.

Talking honest adjacent, I force myself to seek solutions for my circumstance But not my psyche.

Meanwhile the voice in my head that remains unchecked, Gets louder and louder.

No matter what I do to mute it, No matter what drugs I take,

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Day In and Day Out No matter how much I work, No matter how much time I sleep, it's always there, Haunting me, Taunting me, Reminding me that death is always an option I want to live, I am determined to live, I am going to live, But I can't keep living like this.

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH I can lie all I want but I cannot deny that he is there, Overwhelming me, My own personal cheerleader for my demise.

Suicide is an ugly word, It hurts my feelings and offends my sensibilities.

But the meaning; Taking one's own life Consciously crosses my mind.

But I am not afraid of what I might do I am afraid of what others think I might do.

I might get slapped with a label I might get slapped with a sentence, Maximum security in the closest ward.

I don't want to be forced away, I don't want to be locked up, But I can't continue to live on this path.

So, from now on, Day in and Day out I have to try to be honest.

When they ask, "how are you today?"

I will respond the truth.

Honestly, I'm drowning.

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Day In and Day Out I am trying so hard to calm down, Treading the high tides of stress, With my arms stretched out wide desperately grabbing for my life vest.

I am afraid to fail, But I think I am more afraid to succeed, The devil you know, ya know?

This Week

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

by Sade Johnson

Day Before Yesterday

The day before yesterday was one of those days. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to exist in silence, and I let him. He didn’t want to be held; he didn’t want any of my kisses. I almost thought he didn’t want me. I asked if he wanted to be alone, but he said no. The day before yesterday was one of those days where, even though we were in the same room, in the same bed, he was so far, far away.

Yesterday Yesterday he talked more. He seemed a little happier, but something didn’t feel right. So I asked him about it. I asked him what was eating away at him. He told me everything.

Everything that I didn’t want to hear because how could he keep this much pain a secret. I was embarrassed. Embarrassed because I couldn’t see the signs earlier. He wasn’t happy.

He wasn’t living. He was just waking up day to day, and I was a part of his daily routine.

That night, when I finally managed to close my eyes, there was nothing but nightmares awaiting me. Each one ended the same-- a life without him.

Today Today, I tried to do any and everything I could to make him smile. It worked partly, but I could see that he was still so stuck in his own head. I let him be for a while and it was quiet between us for a long time. I told him that some days will be bad, and some may be good, but I’ll be there with him. He gave me a kiss, held my hand, and things got quiet again. I let go of my urge to talk and pry into his thoughts. I guess just being there was enough. I don’t get it, but perhaps this is something I don’t need to completely understand. So I let him.

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PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

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PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Matthews, Liza. “bell hooks.” Lions Roar, 2018, www.lionsroar.com/toward-aworldwide-culture-of-love/.

bell hooks

b Dennison University. “bell hooks.” Looking Back, Looking Forward, 1988, digitalcommons.denison.edu/lookingback/12/.

“REDEEMED AND RESTORED, LOVE RETURNS US TO THE PROMISE OF EVERLASTING LIFE. WHEN WE LOVE WE CAN LET OUR HEARTS SPEAK.”

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All Consuming Fire

by Kyndal Buchanan It started with a thought of Late night honey-buns Left unchecked.

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

A mouth full of peanut butter.

Then another.

A mind full of fear.

Adrenaline pumping because nobody Saw me.

But you saw me.

I was afraid of real satisfaction.

I was afraid of knowing joy Without the taste of salt.

Without the delusion of sweetness.

I was afraid to find What it means to want for Nothing.

To have a thought and not Act on it.

I was afraid of the stillness.

Of closing my eyes, Pausing..

And for once, not being summoned By my cravings I was afraid to know contentment With an empty stomach.

To know a smile without a second thought.

To stand alone in my room, full of

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All Consuming Fire Your words, and knowing solace Without having to open my mouth.

I was afraid of ending the search.

I was afraid of not having To fill my belly for Comfort.

I was convinced that it would be Painful and unbearable To sit.

To look someone in the eyes Without my own satisfaction.

I was afraid to look in the Fridge And to hear your voice.

To look in the mirror, and still see Your face.

My belly is no longer satisfied By bread alone.

I pray this love, This knowledge, Fills me up every time.

I pray the stillness Swallows me up.

It's 2:30 AM and I still Don’t know Where I can Go from your presence.

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Music

by Chase Duffy Music Often imitated She could never be repeated My love, a sweet song A symphony of beauty, Grace and love plucks at my heart strings

Tendencies

by Danielle Hazart I tend to get lonely at night it’s a feeling I often try to fight but since I often get tired and I often lose the point I tend to get lonely at night I tend to notice that my skin is often tight it’s a reminder that I can’t afford a fit that’s just right but I often cast it on fire and I often disappoint I tend to notice that my skin is often tight I tend to stare into light it’s a wishful thought to lose my sight but amidst my plight, I’m admired and I hate to exploit I tend to look away in spite I tend to throw away paper at a large height it's to remind myself to try and write but saying that makes me a liar and all I do is rest unused joints I tend to throw my dreams away at a large height

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Purple

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Contest Winner: Fiction

by Emani Lesane Blue watched Red intently.

He was across the room, in the dimly lit bar, singing. Red's lips caressed the notes and pushed the harmony outward with careful elegance.

Blue's eyes fell upon Red's lips.

The fullness of them, how the light made them almost pink. Red's pink against his brown skin.

The black upon Blue's face became that of the object of her attention: red.

Blue glanced at Red's hands.

His fingers held onto the microphone tightly. Red's pink lips grazed across the top of it, his voice flowing. Slower than water, faster than molasses. Red sounded like honey. Sticky and sweet.

Blue noticed Red's closed eyes.

His eyelashes rested against his face, full and thick. His eyes closed tighter with the big notes, softened with the small ones. Red's eyes began to flutter until they opened, revealing eyes as brown as him.

Blue caught Red's eye.

He sang directly to her. The bar was full of people, but it felt as though they were alone. Blue's black skin burned bright. Red's pink lips made way for white teeth. Blue turned away. Her heart felt like it was going to burst.

Blue saw Red's movements.

His song ended, and he thanked the crowd. His singing voice was honey, but his speaking voice was molasses. He came down from the stage, walking towards Blue. Her black hands began to sweat.

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Purple Blue listened to Red's words.

"I saw you when I was on stage." Red started. Blue nodded, looking up slightly before their eyes connected and he looked down again. "The light wasn't too bright, but now that I'm closer, I want you to know that you're gorgeous."

Blue felt Red's skin.

His hand rested on top of Blue's, brown against black. Blue finally convinced herself to look up and keep his gaze. Red eyes darted from Blue's eyes to her lips. Blue parted them slightly to let out a shaky breath.

Blue met Red's lips.

He leaned forward with a sudden slowness. Slower than water, faster than molasses. Blue gave Red a honey kiss. Red's lips were soft, and so were his hands against her face. Blue pulled back with hesitant movements. She looked at Red, who had to force his eyes open again. They held a stare that made the dark room explode with a honey gold light.

Blue and Red together make purple.

Reminisce

by A. Nicole She loved me once I think I hope Only thing I know for sure is I loved her Her eyes, so kind, they make me lose my balance Her lips, so sweet, I could kiss them until sunrise Her laugh, so contagious, makes me happy on a cloudy day Her voice, so pure, I love to listen to the many stories she has Even if its for the millionth time The way her eyes squint The way her smile shows her dimples

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Reminisce If she was reading this, she would say it is so cliché And it is, but it’s all true Every word Every moment Every lost breath staring at her perfection On occasion, I look up at the sky and thank the heavens That even if we weren’t meant to be I still met one of their angels I loved her And that’s the beginning and end to everything PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Voices That Shake. “All About Love: New Visions.” Shake Reading Group, 2018, https://www.voicesthatshake.org/reading-group-all-about-love-new-visions/.

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W PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

“Alice Large Black Fro.” Beauty In Truth, www.alicewalkerfilm.com/2008/01/24/alice-walker-beauty-in-truth/alice-largeblack-fro/.

Alice Walker

A “Alice Walker.” Alice Walker Biography, AP/Wide World Photos, 1992, www.notablebiographies.com/TuWe/Walker-Alice.html.

"IS SOLACE ANYWHERE MORE COMFORTING THAN THAT IN THE ARMS OF A SISTER."

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OUR city

by Daphne Chantal Arko-Dadzie It's funny how the relationships and friendships That shape us, influence us Inspire us, create US Are also the most brittle things in the world.

Never long lasting.

But the memories they give The lessons they teach We will never forget.

PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Those nights lazing around on the mountain trails, at the parks At the balcony.

That balcony that overlooked OUR city.

Though we came from all over the world, And hated the place we were forced to call home, It was still OUR city.

It was where we had our firsts.

Many of us.

First kiss, first relationships, first heartbreaks First assaults.

It was OURS. Those nights wandering downtown for something to do.

Those nights at that karaoke bar where we never seemed capable of making a reservation.

Those nights spent in the waiting room with bottles of knock-off Budweiser Waiting for a room to clear up.

That night when we finally made one And spent most of it at the bar taking shots and making decisions we would regret the next morning.

I remember those two, wasted as ever Her more than him Making out on the sofa.

And the other,

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OUR City Screaming, “Get off! I’m next” Like she was a park ride.

Those nights spent in basements.

We always ended up in basements.

The first time, we got high On the life we gave each other And ended up jumping off sofas And making out with strangers Who knew we weren’t in the right state of mind.

I remember two boys, men A small room in the basement.

Always the basement.

The tunnel vision that made me realize “This is bad."

I remember one leaving.

He went somewhere, to meet someone.

So, I was free But she wasn’t.

So I dragged her away from him.

We got a cab and left With images of what could’ve happened next.

He didn’t even care That I was sitting right there.

Those times we just had to celebrate Things we didn’t understand.

Laughing and smiling as we passed the symbol of our friendship in a circle.

Surrounded by increasingly suspicious eyes in the parking lot And never remembering each other the next day.

Laughing and smiling on top of roofs that showed us the stars So high up, that we forgot about the life we had down there.

So high that we forgot I was still standing on the edge without a care.

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OUR City Those nights laughing and smiling as we trashed whole houses Just because we could.

Guzzling drinks like they were our life force.

In many ways they were.

Laughing and smiling while he entered where we’d left her And locked the door.

Laughing and smiling while the other one lay there, Slowly poisoning himself Laughing and smiling while the white lines drew out the night.

We always ended up on that balcony Overlooking OUR city.

The city we wanted to burn to the ground.

The city that embodied our worst moments That many of us faced alone.

That many of us seemed ready to forget the next day.

These friendships and relationships.

They never lasted.

Most left.

Graduated, moved away, grew out of US. We all separated with memories Always interpreted differently.

But I know for sure that If we were given a match We would burn OUR city to the ground And watch the flames cover everything From OUR balcony that overlooked OUR city.

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On the Bed

by Brianna Doe I am thinking about the sea. I am remembering a friend who fell into/ the water and the propeller tore open her arm. We sat hopeless on the boat while the sea turned red. We were only twelve.

--"The Sea", Tanya Shirley I'm thinking about the bed: the way the red; on the teal sheets made primeval purple; how Supraja's face hangs as she tells me it could've validated an intercaste marriage or five; that her father's father summoned her mother's sheets for this reason; that you, a man, sort of liked it.

I'm thinking about the sheets, specifically. the identical creases I'd folded to fit four fingers like paper fortune tellers, or resize with haste like hospital corners.

Supraja makes me wonder— P H O T O B Y MI'd A R Tkept I N R . them S M I T H so long. now—why to preserve what I thought I'd lost or to prove, to you, that I'd lost something.

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First It Was My Brother

by Evan Allen

The week after Kafele’s funeral, Alejo took me to one of the Proxima Preservation Party interest meetings. I didn’t really want to go, I still blamed them partially for Kafele’s death, but he convinced me that I should go to at least try and understand what my brother had died for. As we rode the mag train from our residential cavern, I noticed something different about the people around me. It was the usual mix of engineers, solar panel technicians, and excavation workers, but there was something unusual in their eyes.

It wasn’t everyone, but quite a few people had a fire in their eyes that wasn’t there before my brother and twenty-five of his friends had been gunned down by UN soldiers. I started to look over to Alejo to ask him if he saw it too, but he had resumed the same vacant expression he had worn since the funeral. Though we weren’t close, I knew that he and my brother had loved each other, and his death had effected Alejo deeply.

As the train pulled into the communal cavern, I looked out at the standardized 3Dprinted structures in the same arrangement as every other communal cavern on Proxima and tried to spot the little things that made each one different. The holo-ads and long stares from the local boys remained the same, but as we walked the streets, I spotted the anti-UN signs and slogans plastered on every other VR Hub and Multisport Center. There was obviously no love lost for the UN there, and it made sense that the meeting was held in that specific cavern. As we neared the community hall, I began to notice groups of people who seemed to be heading our way. In addition to the twenty somethings like my brother who were guaranteed to show up, there were many people my parent’s age and even some my age all walking up the steps of the meeting hall. Some of the older people even had kids with them. I remember being surprised that so many people were showing up despite what had happened.

Alejo and I arrived with a few other late comers and were forced to take seats in the back. Just as we sat down, a young Indian woman began the meeting with a remembrance ceremony for the dead. When the bell bearer joined the young woman on stage, I stiffened. When they began reading the names and ringing the bell, I became nauseous.

When they neared where I knew Kafele’s name would be, I began to panic. I still couldn’t believe he was gone, and I couldn’t handle another reminder that there was nothing I could do about it. Before I could get up to leave, Alejo put his hand on my knee, looked me in the eyes, and said in a low voice, ”He would have wanted you to stay.” With tears in my eyes, I grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and held on until the ceremony was over. We both flinched when they mentioned Kafele, but we stayed for him.

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First It Was My Brother After that, the meeting was called to order, and the young woman introduced herself as Elira. In a calm but forceful voice, she began recounting the history of our colony. She started with the original colonists who braved the rad storms and solar winds to carve out the first caverns years ago. Then she mentioned the Disconnect and how we had been cut off from Sol for five long years, coming together to form what became the CDF to survive famine, spacers, and the Borg Cult. Eventually, she got to the heart of things and mentioned that our next great trial was the “greedy grasping hand” of the UN. She proclaimed that if we didn’t stop them, they would use up our world just as they had used up Earth and Mars. She said that if we didn’t stand together against them, then the friends and family we had already lost would be the beginning. As she spoke, I began to understand why Kafele had joined these people. They saw a problem, and they had the passion and will to fix it. They had a purpose that was infectious, and purpose was something that I desperately needed. Ever since I heard what happened to Kafele, I had felt lost, but Elira’s speech was like a light in the darkness of my mind. Once the meeting was over, I went up to her, told her about my brother, and asked what I could do to help.

She said she knew my brother, and I almost burst into tears when she said he’d be proud of my taking up the fight. As she lead me away to discuss the details of joining them, for the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of hope.

Proxmia Centauri. Futurism, futurism.com/the-proxima-centauri-exoplanet-eso-press-conference-set-for-tomorrow.

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PHOTO BY MARTIN R. SMITH

Plachy, Sylvia. “Ntozake Shange.” Two Sister-Poets Gone Too Soon: Ntozake Shange and My Sister, 2018, www.newyorker.com/culture/personal-history/twosister-poets-gone-too-soon-ntozake-shange-and-my-sister.

Ntozake Shange

N Plachy, Sylvia. “Ntozake Shange.” Two Sister-Poets Gone Too Soon: Ntozake Shange and My Sister, 2018, www.newyorker.com/culture/personal-history/two-sister-poets-gone-toosoon-ntozake-shange-and-my-sister.

“I FOUND GOD IN MYSELF & I LOVED HER / I LOVED HER FIERCELY”

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On Writing

by Miyah Morales As the sunlight hits the bridge of my nose and forehead on the shaky MTA bus and a jazz tune flows through my headphones, I turn to the back of the neuroscience book I’m reading and pull a pen out from my bag. My mind switches gears from mechanical to artistic right away, as I write about the beautiful family I see before me. My mental camera snaps a candid shot of this mother and her two children humming to one melodic tune. I write about them. The way they interact with one another. The loving gaze the mother gives her younger child as he smiles up at her. The way the older boy squeezes his mother’s arm as she kisses him on the forehead. I have never bonded with my family this way, and it pains me to feel so far away from those who should be closest. Once I fill up the one empty page in my book, I return to reality and continue reading.

“Unnecessary thoughts,” my father calls them. My mother likes to remind me to “get my head out of the clouds,” as if I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD at the age of seven. My older brother taunts me for not socializing with those around me, telling me I will lack the capacity to succeed in college without social skills. I’ve never seen my writing as a negative aspect of my personality. It is my shield. My cheap vacation. My coziest pair of pajamas to dive into after a long day of life. The only comfort I allow myself to enjoy, knowing it can never be taken away from me. Yet it has always been a problem for those who seek intimate connections with me.

I seek the great beyond, far away from my apartment in Queens. Galaxies away from my family and their threatening words that burn like wildfire. I look years into my future, where I won’t need approval to be who I am. Away from the judgement endured daily by peers and strangers. I am looking for a life beyond my own.

I crave writing the way my throat yearns for warmth after inhaling New York City air at the end of January. I yearn for the familiarity writing brings me in the presence of others, but can never seem to find it.

My notebook awaits me the second I put it down. Entry after entry, I become more attached to the words written by me as the days go on. Not a single soul has seen what lies inside. I could only imagine this is the way infants feel when next to their mothers. At peace, blissful, safe. People do not hold the same meaning to me my notebooks do.

Nobody will open up to me the way my blank pages do.

I like to think my pages need me too. They would be lifeless slices of nature without my ink painting them vivid shades and ranges of emotion and experience. They call me throughout my days, coaxing me to stroke their flimsy yet strong pages. Enticing me to

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On Writing expose the words I dare not speak in public. Convincing me to leave the monotonous routine I am a part of for just that moment.

I like to think my pages need me too. They would be lifeless slices of nature without my ink painting them vivid shades and ranges of emotion and experience. They call me throughout my days, coaxing me to stroke their flimsy yet strong pages. Enticing me to expose the words I dare not speak in public. Convincing me to leave the monotonous routine I am a part of for just that moment.

I write to escape myself. Once my thoughts are on paper, I feel cleansed from them. I no longer need to dwell on the thoughts that pain me once they are freed from my tired mind. I do not need to look back once these musical notes of the English language are messily tossed onto scraps of whatever I can find. I write to free myself from myself.

I Flow

Contest Winner: Poetry

by Malik Thompson Flow I flow like raging tides Sometimes calm like storms’ eyes I flow within minds after every loss within anyone who is lost I flow in every clenched fist In many pastors’ crucifixes I flow within anyone confused Within every family feud I flow, sometimes fast, sometimes slow I flow sometimes in, sometimes out I flow in every jealous smile, in every crying child, in every wasted hour, in every revolution, in every institution, in anyone who lets me in, in those who shut me out, I flow again and again, I Flow

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Self-Affirmation

by Zia Thompson I am not conventionally beautiful, and I do not pretend to be. my body, both large and vast, contains enough ripples and waves to fill an ocean. naysayers have tried to shame my existence only to find that like a phoenix, I still rise, unabashedly, unrelenting, unequivocally. My greatest fear used to be taking up space, but now I hope that I do.

Buttered Toast

by Kiara Martinez Buttered toast A delicacy so often taken for granted Browned to perfection in a sauna frequented by the lukewarm hearts of us all Browned in a way some are frightened by Singed to itself as if caressed by a sheet made for one, housed by two Too many have found shelter there Metal to flesh sounds of bribery, sings like possession Looks of prison – of glass walls barricading the lost and the finders The base is sprinkled with layers of the past like a foundation for what we know will come Like a welcome letter for unsuspecting tourists who will fall in love and refuse to leave Lace those in wait Lace them with hope so that they never fear a blade So that their curiosity will act as a shield to pain Buttered – it is sure to be called Flattered and flattened Smoothed across a warm, golden field Cherish the savory Savor every cherry atop sour news For you can never guarantee fullness

SPRING 2019

Contributors Evan Allen

I am sophomore English major from Atlanta, Georgia. I enjoy writing science-fiction and fantasy that inspire people the same way the stories I read inspire me.

Chantal Arko-Dadzie

I am an Architecture major at Howard University College of Engineering and Architecture. I am originally from Accra, Ghana; however, I went to high school in Canada and the following submissions were written and influenced by my time there.

Nadia Bartholomew

I am a senior English major and Sociology minor from Brooklyn, New York.

Kyndal Buchanan

I am a senior Psychology major, Photography minor from Chicago, Illinois. I love the Lord, learning, reading, writing, photography and people. "All Consuming Fire" is a personal testimony of me overcoming food addiction.

Breeze Doe Ashlynn Donelson

I have been writing poetry for many years now as a form of stress relief. I am a sophomore at Howard University.

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SPRING 2019

Contributors Samantha Dumay

I am Sophomore Political Science and English double major, Creative Writing Concentration from Miami, FL. I'm slowly developing as a writer, but poetry comes to me most naturally.

Khema Ebron

I am an English major from Naugatuck, Connecticut, and will be graduating in 2019 with the hopes of going to law school the following year.

Kyndall Flowers

Kyndall Flowers is a poet from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Flowers competed in the international youth poetry festival Brave New Voices in 2017 and 2018.

She has been published in HEArt Online’s “Let Me Love Me” edition, Auburn Avenue’s 2018 Spring/Summer edition, and the Pufferfish anthology.

Flowers has been featured on National Public Radio, and in 2017, Flowers co-authored “Joy, Despite.”

Sakile Grannum

I am a Senior Political Science and English double major from Trinidad and Tobago. I write mainly creative non-fiction pieces and the occasional short story.

Danielle Hazart

Danielle Hazart is a sophomore English major from the Bronx, New York. She aspires to be a screenwriter and a storyboard writer - whichever comes first.

Arianna Humphrey

I’m a sophomore English major at Howard University.

Chase Duffy

I am a sophomore English major from South Dakota who loves reading and writing literature and poetry.

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SPRING 2019

Contributors Nadira Jamerson

I am a current sophomore English major from Pasadena, California. I initially began writing in high school as an outlet to deal with depression.

However, since then, my writing has evolved. I now write for magazines, newspapers, and compose short stories in my free time. In the future, I hope to be a travel writer, exploring and documenting the diverse experiences of cultures around the world in an effort to spread understanding of others and minimize prejudice.

Sade Johnson Emani Lesane

I am an 18-year-old English major from PG County, Maryland, by way of South Carolina. I'm an aspiring write, and I have been writing for as long as I can remember. Being a part of the SABES Literary Magazine would be an immense honor, and I hope you all appreciate my work!

Najah Louis

I am a Caribbean- American English major from Orlando, Florida, graduating this year.

Kiara Martinez

I am a freshman English major and poet.

Miyah Morales

I am a sophomore English major and photography minor from Queens, New York.

Gabrielle Oliver

Gabrielle Oliver is a senior English major, Japanese minor from Silver Spring, MD, attempting to reach cosmological enlightenment through the recovery and study of language and culture.

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Contributors Josephine Schreier

Josephine is a junior English major and German minor from Houston, Texas. She plans to pursue German translation and poetry after she graduates.

Imani Shell

Imani Shell is a sophomore, Sociology major, Administration of Justice minor from California.

Malik Thompson

I am a sophomore, Philosophy and Afro-American Studies Major from Stone Mountain, Georgia.

Zia Thompson

Zia Thompson is a senior English major and Political Science minor from Anaheim, California.

Faith Turner

I'm a freshman legal communications major from outside of Phildadelphia, PA. I usually keep my writings very private. But, I've decided to remove myself from my comfort zone and submit one of the poems I wrote in the past. I thought about making changes, but I didn't want to tamper with my 15-year-old self's original wording because thats what makes it special. For me, it doesn't matter the outcome, this is a big step for me, and I'm quite nervous, but I'm glad I'm putting myself out there.

Serene White

Serene White is a senior English major, Secondary Education minor from Philadelphia. As a young girl, she enjoyed writing poetry as expression; "When the Wind Blows"Â is the first poem she has written since about the tenth grade.

Sterling Notes can also be found on issuu.com/sterlingnotes

SPRING 2019