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A Brief Word
2020 was a year fraught with pain. While countless names were lost to a global pandemic, several remain in our collective consciousness - Breonna Taylor, Daniel Prude, and Ahmaud Arbery. Sadly, there are many more victims of state-sanctioned violence to name. Yet somewhere between heartbreak and resistance, creativity flourished. The Amistad saw numerous submissions speaking to systematic racism and police brutality after the murder of George Floyd. We’re honored to share some of them here. We’re also thrilled to showcase guest contributors New York Times bestselling author Roxane Gay and celebrated poet Nicole Sealey. Together, we have again proved that art emerges amidst warlike states of survival. We also have fresh, exciting news to report. As The Amistad continues to place budding talent next to seasoned writers, I worked with the Howard University Office of the Dean, College of Arts and Science to fund an annual creative writing award for students and alumni. The new prize is aptly named after alumni, poet, writer, and educator May Miller. The Bog Guide helped establish Miller in the Black cultural scene and further works cemented her as the most widely published woman playwright of the Harlem Renaissance. Miller devoted her life to writing and education and, at every turn, prioritized the value of Black lives and stories. Her life’s work speaks to the very heart of our literary arts journal. We are proud to honor May Miller’s legacy with this new award. This year, Professor Dr. Tony Medina served as our inaugural guest judge - thank you Tony. We are proud to share that Saschael Carter, author of the short story The Do Over, was our winner and Jayden McClam was our runner-up. The staff and I are indebted to Nick Cave for his permission to use Soundsuit for our cover imagery and his representatives at the Jack Shainman Gallery in New York. Thanks to Dean Kim Lewis and Dean Oclan Hollister for their financial support as well as Dr. Yasmin DeGout and the Department of English for their encouragement. Despite the difficulties the pandemic has presented, including moving the production of the class/journal totally online, I’m very proud of our staff. Our ongoing conversations about creative writing and publishing made for another wonderful semester and a beautiful edition of The Amistad. - Nick Seifert
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Lately I have become accustomed to the way The car’s interior suffocates me On my drive to the grocery store– So distinct from a run to the grocer’s fruit stand, The absence of wind in the face. Things have come to this. And now, every morning I put my hand over the kettle. And every morning I count how long I can stand the steam’s heat. And every morning I count how long I can stand the steam’s heat. Sometimes I forget to make tea at sunrise; so, I make tea at midday And pretend the rolling boil misses me. Nothing dances anymore. And then, this morning I imagine up Myself talking to every woman I ever came from, and I see them Eating sugar cornbread and milk, But when I hug them, there is only ink leaking onto My clenched thin fingers.
Boy got up early and put on the pants his mother had pressed, his socks, the shoes his father had shined. He cheesed and sunrays poured from his mouth. Butterflies fluttered against his stomach. He stood in front of the mirror buttoning his shirt while his father stood behind him, smiling on the crown of neat black waves atop Boy’s head. “Coal money,” the proud daddy bragged and he walked to the bathroom to wash the black of the 3rd shift from his face. The telephone rang. Boy answered it. “Good morning, Nigger,” the voice on the other end menaced. Boy lost track of his smile. He asked his father what that word meant, nigger—and why it sent a shock to his stomach that killed those butterflies. Boy’s mother hugged him and a tear dripped from her eye. Daddy kissed his wife’s eye and pulled his son from mother’s hug. He took his boy outside. “What mamma cry for? What do that word mean?” he asked with worry seeping through cracks in his voice. “Boy, that word means God.” “It do?” “Yes, Boy. But don’t let them crackers know you know it. They ain’t humble enough to know God. And you bet not tell your mamma. She liable to rebuke us,” the father laughed. He tied Boy’s shoes and patted his only son on the back, sending him on his way.
Alexis Jackson
Integration, KY (1963)
Quinton Marcellus Lawerence
After Preface To a Twenty Volume Suicide Note by Amiri Baraka
A Rude Uncertainty
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MOOR. n. f. [moer, Dutch; modder, Teutonick, clay.]1 1. A marsh; a fen; a bog; a tract of low and watry grounds. See Sahmboh swing, suspended by fettered wrists wrung with rope. watch from down low,lower than the moor’s blood sinking into summer sward of blue violet, a sweet breeze beaten into copper waft. Whips drive into his back and chariot the soul a little further from Salem with every lash, his body already be- coming earth, even though breaths still shift the sun on his shoulders. 2. [Maurus, Latin.] A negro; a black-a-moor. say a prayer for every moor’s shadow tied to dangling feet, whether dead or too living to be cured from drapetomania. no matter the years emancipated, I will always carry the heaviness of those days in my clay- colored shoulders. though it may cost me my life, I am willing to let skin fall down my back, like Sahmboh’s flesh gravitates home. 1.From Samuel Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language, published in 1755.n 1755.
With such a distinct voice and wide-reaching audience, it’s hard to know where Roxane Gay is heard most deeply. Maybe through her various works of fiction; maybe via her numerous essays where she critiques popular culture through feminist and/or racial lenses; maybe in her new podcast ‘Hear to Slay’ with Dr.Tressie McMillan Cottom; maybe somewhere amongst her 834k followers on Twitter, or perhaps it’s in conversation with her wife Debbie Millman. In any case, we are lucky to have such an electrifying writer who serves us so capably in so many genres and outlets. To better understand Gay’s entry points,The Amistad staff felt compelled to explore her work in a classroom setting. We thought critically about her style, her theme(s), and her commentary. In our discussions, Gay continually asked us to reevaluate body image, sexuality, and race; we learned to question how we think and how we act. Based on those conversations, the staff collaborated and wrote the following interview questions. We’re now honored and thrilled to share our dialogue here. We thank you, Roxane, for your honesty, inspiration, and humor.
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Solidarity is important and it is in our best interests to work together instead of against each other.
You often say that “fiction is your first love,” yet you write in so many forms. Is there a place fiction cannot take us? If there is a place fiction cannot take us, I hope to never find it. Fiction can take us anywhere our imaginations allow us to. It is a very malleable genre which is one of my favorite things about writing fiction. In your memoir Hunger you showed us how deep vulnerability can spark conversation and change. Coincidentally your book was published mere months before the rise of the #metoo movement. Since #metoo, how have you experienced so many women sharing their long-held truths? As someone who writes about gender, bodies, and sexual violence, people do tend to share their stories about their experiences with these things. It can be really overwhelming and it is a constant reminder of how much suffering there is in the world. I’ve had to develop strong boundaries because I am not a therapist and while I try to hold space for people who confide in me, I cannot help them beyond offering them empathy. And there are days when I cannot hold their stories and mine, too. As a Haitian-American, are you following the diaspora wars? When it comes to Black issues, is understanding “origin” (African-American, Jamaican, Nigerian, etc.) necessary? I’m certainly aware of diasporic tensions. I think war is a bit much. Regardless of where we come from, we do have our blackness in common but we also have our differences and I try to celebrate those differences and learn from them rather than place them in opposition. Origin matters to a great many people, and certainly, as a Haitian I think our history of liberation is critical to understanding who we are. Nothing productive comes from trying to create diasporic hierarchies. Solidarity is important and it is in our best interests to work together instead of against each other. As a critic, you often investigate pop culture and its relationship to feminism, equality, and social justice. What themes or part of American history do you wish someone disrupted for you when you were a young Black woman? I wish I had known more about the richness and depth of black literature growing up. I was raised by Haitian parents in Nebraska. Their cultural foundation was Haitian and the cultural foundation of my education was predominantly white. It wasn’t until high school and college that I was exposed to black writers and intellectuals beyond the mainstays. I feel like I am still catching up, in some ways. How has Twitter fame impacted your writing? Does your popularity online push you to become more candid than you would like to be? Twitter fame hasn’t really affected my writing beyond the time I waste online that I should be spending with my work. I am exactly candid as I want to be and, in fact, have very firm boundaries around what I will and will not share. Popularity has no influence on my candidness. In fact, it makes me reticent to be open because it feels like too much exposure. Black authors are often asked to explain or resolve the world’s problems. How do you prioritize your well being, especially your joy? I try to remind myself, and others, that I am only human. I can only do so much. My work cannot speak to everything or everyone. And I am finally at a place in my life where I do experience some joy and I try to hold onto that joy, fiercely. I try to protect it and make choices that allow me to have that joyful time with my wife, our family, our friends together and separately. I try to remember that I am not defined by my work and that it is the people in my life that matter because work is fickle. Okay, we’ve got to know, what’s been your embarrassing pandemic binge watch? I am not embarrassed by what I watch. I’ve recently enjoyed the utterly irredeemable Bling Empire on Netflix. It’s a lot of fun.
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New Yorkers were supposed to have a good sense of direction. After some trouble, which included walking two spans of the block and a five-minute search of the general area, Mischa finally entered the diner. Mischa’s snail-like walk from the train station was not how she wanted to characterize this encounter which reeked of an uncomfortable air. It was not unfortunate that she was having lunch to catch up with a friend, it was the circumstances under which they were meeting that proved to be quite unfortunate indeed. For every positive, two more negatives appeared in its place. Mischa should have known letting a non-New Yorker choose the setting would never have led anywhere good. Mischa liked to think avoiding diners, as well as any place that could not be considered stylish or refined by Manhattan standards, made her more of a New Yorker than she actually was. Upon entering the diner, Mischa adopted the illusive New Yorker look with which read “you’re wasting my time.” Mischa believed she was better than the people she grew up with in Haddonfield, New Jersey. She was able to survive the gritty city which helped gain credibility and boost the resume for her New Yorker application. Mischa scanned the booths looking for dark hair with a low cut and fade. Just as a waitress prepared to offer assistance, the face she searched for straightened. Those familiar skittish eyes locked with her own neutral brown ones. Her companion’s smile writhed itself into a more palatable one as she approached the table. Mischa elected for no hug and instead sat in her designated booth row. Hugging was no longer appropriate for the two. “Hey... Elijah.” Mischa kept it casual - not too friendly, not too formal. The greeting was cool and light but also ata distance She laughed at her inner monologue. This prompted a surge of warmth in the man sitting across from her. Elijah stiff shoulders slackened and his detailed plan to confront Mischa and accept no bullshit was now gone. “Hey Mimi.” Mischa’s inside curdled as the words touched her ears. “So, what’s uh good here?”Mischa asked as she picked up the menu. She did anything to avoid making eye contact with his oh so hopeful brown puppy eyes. Even as her eyes scoured the menu, she could feel his on her forehead. Elijah had no intentions of letting the past stay in the past. The horrific dalliance she worked tirelessly to forget reared its ugly head back to haunt her. Unfortunate this was indeed. Elijah shrugged. “I’ve never been here before, but it’s a diner. You should try something from the breakfast section.” “Ah.” Mischa closed her mouth as soon as she realized it dropped open. Mischa considered Elijah as a ‘pity’ friend. She’d never said it out loud. She felt bad for thinking it. If the circumstances aligned in any other way, they never would’ve been friends. Mischa sighed. Elijah wore contacts and had a full beard now,but the raise of his eyebrow still evoked the image of that four-eyed, socially awkward math tutor. It was pity that got him in the door, but nostalgia that allowed him to stay. Mischa came away from college with memories and ambition alone. She didn’t have those“lifelong friends” everyone makes in college. What Mischa did have were memories of day drinking, parties, and a skinny math geek who always found her around campus and wanted to talk her ear off about one topic or the other. Although at the time it was annoying, now at twenty-two, they reminded her of simpler times. Mischa missed having to worry about getting to the dorm before curfew, making decisions between going to class, and staying out because it was the first warm day of the year. Elijah was also somehow was a part of these thoughts pulled on her heart. Not as a singular entity, but what he represented. Elijah was at what Mischa referred to as a MINI Cooper; a person who thought they could handle the New York City grit until they arrived and it became apparent almost immediately that the fast paced atmosphere and nature was too much. What MINI Coopers needed - and preferred - were long stretches of land, carpooling to work and cul-de-saques. Elijah thought New Yorkers were too full of themselves, too caught up in being the next big thing. But wasn’t that what the city was all about? Mischa was New York. Elijah still had yet to acknowledge it could never work. “A crackhead tried to take my wallet the other day,” Elijah said. “That’s New York.” Mischa tried and failed to hide her smile. “Chaos and structure all wrapped up in one. It’s great.” “It’s insanity.” “That’s what makes it great.” The fucking, now that was a different story. Mischa was blessed with a proportionate face. As if god took the time to make sure each and every element was in the perfect spot down to the degree. Her big brown doe-like eyes had men to fall in lust with her anywhere she went. Men believed, because of her soft expressions and never wavering smile that Mischa was a lover, that she could never hurt them because someone as beautiful as she was not capable of such things. Mischa had very few male friends for that reason. Not a factor she chose but one she lived with. It was better than thinking she was making a friend when he just wanted to wiggle his fingers into her pants. From the first moment Mischa met that Elijah, she knew he fell into that category of“friend” or maybe just needed Elijah to graduate. Maybe Elijah needed Mischa to believe he could pull women who looked like her. Mischa successfully ignored Elijah’s infatuation until one night when he left intoxicated kisses on her neck. Mischa stopped him. Elijah looked defeated as though his life led to this one moment. The look of failure made Mischa sympathize. She let Elijah throw her onto her back and fuck her. After it ended Mischa collected her things, thanked Elijah like a business associate would, and left.O ne and done, Misha thought. While they waited for the food, Mischa and Elijah exchanged some odd comments about the weather, the train schedule, and the ridiculous rent prices. Mischa was adamant that New Yorkers didn’t do small talk. Life was too important, too fast paced to focus on such irrelevant things. Mischa’s mind had numbed after the first few minutes of the conversation. It would always be too rainy during fall, too cold during winter, just right in spring and then too hot in summer. The trains were rarely on time. A fact anyone living in New York for more than two months should know. And if the rent prices didn’t escalate every fortnight, was it really New York City? Why waste time exhausting insignificant topics when there was so much else to be doing. The food was a godsend. Mischa smiled down at her plate of two pieces of French toast with a side of hash browns, bacon and eggs Benedict. She poured syrup over the entire thing. Elijah cringed. He opted for a humbler meal, two eggs scrambled, two pieces of bacon and two pieces of whole wheat toast. Even though Elijah dictated to the waitress on several occasions that not one single piece of food was to touch the other, he still had to separate the bacon from his eggs. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” Elijah said. Mischa choked on a hash brown. She scanned for the exits. There was no way she could make it out of the door or the window with the plate of food intact. Elijah’s grip on the fork tightened as his throat cleared. “Well, the other week when we.... you know.” Oh sure, the painful experience normal people get to call sex, she thought,yea I know. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it. And I decided… I want to give you the night you deserve.” Mischa racked her brain for the right words. She wasn’t sure which one pained her more, to sleep with him again or to hurt him. Mischa settled for a smile and called upon her oblivious nature. Elijah smiled.Elijah continued,“A do over…If you will.” “Like, thank you, but uh don’t, don’t worry about it.” She interested herself with a pigeon across the street pecking at an apple. Thinking she misunderstood, Elijah continued.“I want to. I want to do better. I know I can.” Elijah moved his plate to the side. He’d only taken a few bites of the toast. Elijah took a deep breath, folded his hands together to keep from banging the table. “Mischa?” “Huh.” One idea flashed across Mischa’s mind, Talk before he had the chance to continue this nonsense.“Do you see that pigeon? It’s, like, plotting on that lady’s bread.” Elijah bit his tongue, he reminded himself it was rude to curse at women. Even irritating and naive women who didn’t know a good thing if it spat infaces. He opted for a more user friendly sentence. “Did you hear what I said?” Elijah assumed an authoritative tone. There was no trace of a a smile, in fact he seemed like a person incapable of smiling. Mischa’s warm expression no longer had the same effect. “Yea,” Mischa said. “t’s okay though. Don’t worry about it.” Mischa’s tongue now tasted sour and rotten as a result of the lie or the churning in her stomach. With each second spent on the topic, Mischa felt she could the food making its way back to her mouth. At this point jumping through the window seemed like the best option. No pain no gain, right? Elijah’s eyebrows furrowed. Anxiety grew in Mischa’s chest. Her few years of acquaintanceship with him taught her one thing, Elijah is not the kind of person who needs company in his moments of anger. mastered the disappearing act, In a split second, his level headedness could be gone. There was a chance Elijah would emerge as a dejected soul, or more often than not, he would transform into what Mischa labeled as‘the beast.’ Elijah rarely seemed like his normal self after that form where his red eyes had an appetite to destroy. Get Out, Now! Mischa thought.It’s best to create physical distance before the words fully sink in. “You know, my boss is actually calling me” Mischa said. Even over the chatter in the room the absence of a phone ring could be heard.“I meant texting. She’s texting me. My phone’s on vibrate anyway. I… I should go, it’s probably important.” Elijah stopped Mischa’s hand as it reached into her bag.“Mischa.” Elijah’s tone reminded Mischa of the boy she used to babysit when she first moved to New York. The child had a way of acting like the world’s most unfortunate kid when he didn’t get what he wanted. Now that client’s persona seemed to inhabit Elijah. It was subtle, but a pout nonetheless. Elijah’s eyes bore into her soul. Okay, so Mischa felt a little bad. Mischa cleared her throat,“What I’m trying to, like, say is we shared something, and we can just let it be what it was. Without tainting it or anything, you know?” The gears turned until it clicked for Elijah. She was abusing the soft spot he held for her. It was the all too familiar of“it’s me not you” with a little spice. An“I’m not really looking for anything right now” with a hint of“I’m trying to be nice don’t push it.” The women and the words might be different, but the message was always the same. If Mischa was going to treat Elijah like a nobody, he was going to show what that really felt like. “You,” Elijah said, “who would fuck any living thing think you’re doing me some kind of favor?” The parents at the booth behind them turned around. Mischa tried to soothe their wide alarmed eyes with a smile. “Keep your voice down.” Elijah rolled his eyes. A male waiter walked over, instead of their bubbly young server Cathy to presumably dissolve any potential domestic fighting that a family friendly restaurant like Capone’s did not condone. The waiter lingered longer than any of them liked. Elijah understood Mischa’s ensuring smiles at the waiter, who was clearly more attractive than he was, to be flirting. The humiliation exhausted him, but he was on a roll, he couldn’t stop. Elijah didn’t yell, he wasn’t that kind of guy, but his voice was deep enough to command an entire room. That is exactly what it did. Conversations around the room doused. “Thank god you won’t fuck me,” Elijah said. “You’re a slut. You probably have chlamydia.” Mischa’s mouth dropped. She wanted a shooter to bust through the doors and choose her as his unlucky victim, or a tornado to snatch her right out of her seat… something… anything. Mischa was content with being glued to her seat for the rest of the day, but the lingering pity looks rubbed salt in her wound. Gathering her things and the little courage she stood to leave. “I won’t fuck you again because you’re terrible in bed.” “Oh and, I slept with you because I felt bad.” Mischa then knocked over the mug of piping hot coffee the waiter brought onto Elijah’s pants. She stomped out of the diner. Laughter from a few younger women followed her. Mischa added love to her list of ‘non-New Yorker things.' Love wasted time, space, and energy. Being a tortured artist was a full-time job. It made more sense to fall in love with work which didn’t cry when you didn’t call back. Work didn’t make a big fuss if it wasn’t the only piece or take you to outdated diners to rehash moments of regret. Mischa had to admit body chemistry made it impossible to escape the jaws of horny desire which is why one-night stands were invented. Men who understood their purpose never whined unless you overstepped those boundaries.
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The circumstances under which they were meeting that proved to be quite unfortunate indeed
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Why waste time exhausting insignificant topics when there was so much else to be doing?
Don't be Looking Through Our Wardrobe
Johnathan William Potter
of the shirts we lost and the boots they gave, we hand-me-down men with hand-me-down names, wearin’ worn shoes we still don’t quite fill, in breeches whose seams split as we squeeze, never washed ‘fraid we be left bare, closets locked for the bones in there.
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We wake as if surprised the other is still there, each petting the sheet to be sure. How have we managed our way to this bed—beholden to heat like dawn indebted to light. Though we’re not so self- important as to think everything has led to this, everything has led to this. There’s a name for the animal love makes of us—named, I think, like rain, for the sound it makes. You are the animal after whom other animals are named. Until there’s none left to laugh, days will start with the same startle and end with caterpillars gorged on milkweed. O, how we entertain the angels with our brief animation. O, how I’ll miss you when we’re dead.
Shakirah Peterson
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days before my grandma takes her last breath, my mother and I are in her apartment. I am sitting on her plastic covered couch. my mother is sitting perpendicular to her mother, in the seat she always sits in, at the head of the dining room table. my mother’s seat is reserved by dozens of pill bottles stored in old shoe boxes – the main reason for our frequent visits. my grandma has osteoporosis, a slow onset of Alzheimer’s and a medical device attached to her heart to pump its blood. each diagnosis comes with its own array of medication my mother miraculously memorizes. she knows the name, the shape, the color; where the sun should be when it’s time for a dose. “you take these when you going to sleep and it’s dark out” “you take these when you wake up and it’s light out” my grandma nods in agreement and watches her daughter draw a sun or a crescent on her pill organizer, next to the day of the week. it’s Sunday. stacks of nostalgia tower from the carpet. in the midst of performing her miracle, my mother looks around and asks her mother to explain the disarray. “I don’t want you to forget that I accomplished things” “remember my awards” my grandma points to a pile and I crawl on my knees to each small mountain – her certificates from church, her teaching awards, her sobriety chips. I climb through each one, catching small glimpses of a life my grandmother had before she was a grandmother, before she was a mother – a life she did not want forgotten but in hindsight, was ready to let go of. when a mother is pregnant and labor is near, it is custom for her to begin nesting – cleaning, organizing, and preparing the home for new life. the same occurs when death is near. my grandma was nesting – cleaning, organizing, and preparing to leave this life behind. my mother needs a smog check and my grandma knows a guy who will pass her regardless of the gray smoke purging from the car. they ask me if I want to go, I say no. I stay behind. I weave my way around the valleys of my grandma’s life to unspool in her bedroom. in the mirror of her dresser, I fashion myself into her image. I coat my nails with a dark hue of red. I adorn my fingers with her gold – there are enough rings to cover my fingers to the nail and for boxes of more to be left on the dresser. I slide four gold hoops into my ears and three chains around my neck. to complete the persona, I paint my lips burgundy while staring into the mirror, I assume her posture – spine lengthened, chin raised. I smile. I pose. I am no longer the pubescent version of myself. I age five decades. I become Corene.
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Corene
A measure of how much the Sun has loved me, you have stayed into the cold quiet. A message from the old season, from the summer my shoulders softened, when the earth & all her gazes were a hand at my back, urging, trust. When I learned mugwort and found it tall at the corner. I wished for lilac and, dew- brave, crossed the dirt to see the blossoms. I touch you and feel the wind as I pedal, treading the air, speeding towards the water. When my brother and I took turns with the skateboard’s clatter his laughter bubbling the parking lot. I look as if to tell time & remember the Black walnut tree pods fragrant like skittles; Natasha giving me her home for those five quiet days, tomatoes ripening over dirt in a pot, catnip’s promise; when I laid in Mari’s bed, stoned, and wasn’t devoured by a wound— I saw hearts dance in the ceiling’s crackle! And doesn’t the best love remind you of your other loves, sweet in the day? Doesn’t it plead that you deserve every ounce? O arc of skin, I see you and time-travel. I skip days & marvel at the miracle of heat, once christening me Black as mud. And here you are to tell me. Every day I held the dirt in my hands. Every day I unclasp my watch & find you, beaming— the only thing that’s holding me ‘til summer
Ode to the Tan Line that Hugs My Wrist, Feb. 2020
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After Angel Nafis, 'Ode to Shea Butter'
Jayden McClam
A Last Name
Marla was wearing a long floor-length lace dress that ran the full length of her 5' 11" body if we're counting the 4" heels strapped to her feet and underneath nothing but small black shapes over and around specific curves. The doorman stopped her in the street and let us into the club for free because the view of her slim pale figure moving in the window to Despacito was more than likely to drum up some business and I was allowed in as well, like the cost they paid to obtain her image for the night. Cars keep driving into bodies. And the bodies fly. Which sounds like a dream. But it's not. Because cars kill people. Cars don't kill people. People kill people. With cars. People kill people with their cars and then speed off. People kill people with their cars and then speed off and everyone flies like it's a dream. I – I’ve – I’ve dreamed I could fly and it looked nothing like this – I-5 is paved with broken bones, and jaws and skulls. I-5 took two of my friends but I-5 doesn't kill people. People kill people. With cars and with guns and with lead in the water and with knees on necks and while they're sleeping in their beds or trying to make a dollar selling singles or gardening in a park. And all we are doing is repeating all of the monstrosities we have available. While I stand on the street corner with the white man who seemingly doesn't possess a mask. While we drink beer and talk Barth and Benjamin. While we sit writing words to be read surrounded by the thousands of bodies who can't breathe. We can't breathe and you need breathe to read and write and dance on the freeway and plant flowers and sit under the sunshine in the summer and drive a car. August picked up a cocktail shaker which was ridiculous because when would he shake cocktails in between shots of well whiskey and Platinum vodka. Neither of us drank for the taste. Not really. And we knew it. Seven shots behind each other's backs or in front of each other's faces. As a grad student my professor lived in this same city, he wrote of melanin and white passivity and threat. He wrote of waking up and stumbling to the Mill, a place I probably wouldn't be going. It seemed even with the shared complexities of navigating a midwestern town in a black body he had had something I could only yearn for. There was this feeling that we would all be waiting for the program we all were already attending to start, indefinitely. This chapter called pandemic didn't offer restaurants or drunken bar crawls. Instead, I sit inside and write. Oh poor me. My mother sends me a photo of a whale at Sea World with the caption. "Next time you complain about quarantine, imagine you had to swim in this for 50 years". I respond that the experiences are not mutually exclusive. A false comparative narrative along the lines of - starving children & - war zones. Are our brains so fractured we cannot hold many pains? The last. The lasting. Violence. The lasting exhaustion of violence. Seven times. We are all shot seven times in the back and we're running so hard we can't breathe. The email says, there may have been some of us injured when a car ran into the protest downtown. And there in my mind is Summer Taylor’s Vigil, and I-5 and broken bones. And it has followed me to Iowa. Where above us he was shot seven times. In the back. While walking. To his car because cars don't kill people. Cops kill people. And people kill people. And you can't take breathe back. And maybe some of us were injured. Downtown. And maybe some of us are walking wounds. Because I remember the phone call on the fourth of July. The way his knees pressed into the dirt and his body collapsed. The way everyone kept looking at me as if to ask when the tears would start falling. Feeling trying to force through the numbness, through the image of fire on my curtains. The escape plans. The Kekistan flags and their ring of fire and the riot gear standoff, barricaded down the red brick. Down the middle. And the snipers on the roof. When the alarm sounded we had already begun leaving the building. My classmate looked up from their cell phone and said the school’s alert system had just informed us of the need to evacuate. I remember how my facility stayed behind until every one of us walked out the door. And I remember thinking this job requires the strength to know you might take the hit to see others out the door. And the alarm is ringing. And the speakers no one knew we had are saying “Active Shooter Threat On Campus. Evacuate Immediately.” But all you hear, all anyone hears is - active shooter on campus. And you don't walk across the field to get home because your friend won’t let you. Because an open field poses the most threat. But later that same friend drives a car full of you across that same field. And those not lucky enough to be near the makeshift escape route are stuck in the lot for something like two hours, more than enough time for seven shots right in the back. We are all lost in the chaos. Tragedy morphing into something tangible, hanging over everything like this humidity, claustrophobic. And maybe my mom is right. There are too many to count, too many to hold. I had already accepted the eventuality. At the Vigil, their best friend said Summer paid monthly land rent to the Duwamish tribe whose land Seattle was built upon. Summer who flew. Summer who died, dancing on I-5 trying to fight for bodies that can’t breathe. Trying to pay for the land covered in blood. And the layers stack. Because there is: Land theft, and life theft, and violence against protest against violence, and murder and murder and pepper spray and gunshots and gas leaks and tear gas. And August has asthma and he tells me the store employees' eyes stung as they locked up the doors. And Fox news tells me Capitol Hill is full-on Anarchy, but all I see through the haze is riot gear and rubber bullets and I think maybe they are right, if we’re taking a textbook definition because whose authority do we bend to? “Whose streets? Our Streets!” And people are dying in beds on ventilators, while schools open in person like they can receive tuition from dead bodies. You can't give breathe back once it's gone. Once it's really gone. Schools close from active shooter threats and the Mill is temporarily closed so I can't go there just yet because when I walk outside I see undergrads in groups with no masks. Smiling on the sidewalk not holding a coffee cup or La Croix and the correspondence says we all have an individual duty but they will learn that you can't collect tuition from dead bodies. I learned as we drove across the open field. I learned when the dreams of fire through windows became too bright and my brother refused to leave and I say, I tell him, “don’t go outside because your hair has more of a kink and your eyesight is limited and they are patrolling in pickups and please dear god just keep breathing.” or something like that. Because it is necessary to say something like that. Because isn’t it always necessary? Do you feel the concrete collapse every time you enter the classroom? Does the cop shoot you seven times as you walk away? Do you make it off the freeway? Do you own the land under your feet? Can you breathe? Do you sleep anymore? I don't. Do you lose the ability to verbalize when you fall apart? How do you fall apart? They say we will be an Impressive class ‘by virtue of' the collapse. By virtue of the collapse of western civilization, by virtue of the pandemic and the social unrest and the prisons which will empty, or not. By virtue of California's fires and Iowa's derechos. By virtue of isolation and zoom classes, of face masks, and gas masks, and “no justice! no peace!” and orange spray tans. By virtue of Summer’s body flying when at one time Summer’s white body danced on the freeway and close to my black one. And there's Vigils in Virginia and New York. And school shooting threats that come in from New Jersey. 800 new cases in August. And August has asthma and collapses to his knees in the dirt because Summer flew. Summer flew right on by and now when I see the white of someone's teeth I cringe because it’s nothing short of a threat. And always there is the question of what do we tell the mother. That Summer Taylor should be dancing in the window to Despicito but they died dancing in the street with the Black Woman’s March. Because they knew like I know that Black bodies should be more than a price paid. That a white Porsche sped up full speed and they flew? That Breonna Taylor’s killers still walk free and now they share more than just a last name.
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Georgie Fehringer
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The lasting exhaustion of violence.
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Liza Macawili
I Can't
Essie Johnson
we lost ahmaud i cried to my momma the night we lost ahmaud it’s unfair unjust uncivil it’s a modern day genocide the victims are my people why can’t we run in peace? we lost juice i cried to my daddy the night we lost juice when they made us feel lesser than since birth, how can a black man live a life they filled with pain instead he’s filled with codeine, addys and percs why can’t we die in peace? we lost breonna i cried to my sister the night we lost breonna they raided the wrong home an accident they said “we promise we don’t condone” why can’t we live in peace? we lost x i cried to my brother the night we lost x he was gonna be a dad he spoke words of wisdom to black youth but was assassinated young over a LV bag why can’t we drive in peace? we lost pop i cried to my cousin the night we lost pop we’re all we got left, but we don’t got trust black on black crime they call it so they can finally blame us why can’t we sleep in peace? we lost george floyd i cried to my friend last night about george floyd 4 cops, one with a knee on his neck we protest retweet retaliate somehow we can’t keep this system in check why can’t we exist in peace? we lost houdini tonight is the night we lost houdini and i can’t sleep where’s the peace?
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We Lost Ahmaud
“...listen: a [ ] ain’t no slave if you get paid and a field ain’t Antebellum if you on one instead of in one. Don’t confuse what we gave you for something you earned. Wait. A cotton pickin’ minute ain’t training camp hours just like good ol’ pig skin ain’t chitlins, you conflatin’ patriots with runaways. Not my boys. Hold outs might get cut. Where is your hand—on your heart or wallet or over your mouth? Yes, over your mouth—your speech is free but muffled. Deep in the heart of Texas we play for the lights and for the song. Dance fddddk. Dance fddddk. I said: dance fddddk! I said: you know how many folk would kill to be you— in this house, my house? I said: I love all God’s boys, but under these stars we just [ ]. Praise America ‘s team! You best show up, shut up and [ ]—that's just how it is between owners and []. You people Entertainers should know better, imagining your knee could change America ‘s channel…”
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When I Come Back
I want to be woman in another language another way to beauty without a man’s tongue I want my name unpronounceable by misogynists & pedophiles & taste like honeysuckle & lilac to would-be lovers I want my body to be an unbirthing a reverse hysteria where my nulliparous womb does not etch my epitaph Let my uterus be worn across my torso like a satchel & be filled with fairy dust & apples that men with little hands eat then choke on Let me be a woo who origamis herself into phoenixes & fires up whenever a cad tries her — sprinkles him with fairy dust so he can’t mansplain his way out of ash & dust like Adam did.
.chisaraokwu.
Saschael Carter is a fiction writer from Brooklyn, New York. She will receive her bachelor of arts in English from Howard University in May of 2021. When she’s not writing she enjoys baking, nature activities and traveling. You can connect with Saschael on Instagram at @Saaschael. .chisaraokwu. (she/her) is an Igbo American poet, actor & healthcare futurist. Her poetry and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Glass, Obsidian, Berkeley Poetry Review, Midnight & Indigo, and others. She is currently working on a biomythography set in Lafayette, Louisiana. Find her on Twitter: @chisaraasomugha. Georgie Fehringer attends The University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing MFA. She is an Iowa Arts Fellow and Co-Editor at Pixel & Fragment Press. Originally from Seattle, she currently lives in Iowa City with her roommate Richard and her (very) clumsy cat Mushu. You can contact her through her website GeorgieFehringer.com. Roxane Gay’s writing appears in Best American Mystery Stories 2014, Best American Short Stories 2012, Best Sex Writing 2012, A Public Space, McSweeney’s, Tin House, Oxford American, American Short Fiction, Virginia Quarterly Review, and many others. She is a contributing opinion writer for the New York Times. She is the author of the books Ayiti, An Untamed State, the New York Times bestselling Bad Feminist, the nationally bestselling Difficult Women and the New York Times bestselling Hunger. She is also the author of World of Wakanda for Marvel. She has several books forthcoming and is also at work on television and film projects. She also has a newsletter, The Audacity. Alexis V. Jackson Black Woman Writer and Philadelphia native, Alexis V. Jackson earned her MFA from Columbia University’s School of the Arts in 2018, where she was a Chair’s Fellow, and her Bachelor of Arts degree in English with a concentration in writing from Messiah College in 2013. Erica Hunt selected Jackson’s forthcoming debut collection, “My Sisters’ Country” (Fall 2021) as second-place winner of Kore Press Institute’s 2019 Poetry Prize. She has served as a reader for several publications, including Callaloo and Bomb Magazine, and her work has appeared in 805 Lit + Art Magazine and will appear in Jubilat's forthcoming publication. Jackson lectures in the University of San Diego’s English Department. She has also taught poetry at her alma mater Messiah University. Esther Johnson is a Nigerian-Canadian student studying nursing at Howard University in Washington, DC. Esther graduated from secondary school with various academic and athletic awards and is currently a Howard University Freshman Scholar. Esther has a passion for social justice, a field in which she pulls most of her inspiration when writing poetry. Her goal is to become a nurse anesthetist and contribute to the work done to improve the experiences of black people in hospitals and other healthcare facilities. Quinton Marcellus Lawrence is a writer and educator who lives in Baltimore, MD. His work is occupied with reclaiming language and decolonizing form. He is currently completing a collection of short fiction. He shares ideas and inspiration on IG @qu.lawrence. Liza Macawili While quarantined during the pandemic, Liza found her voice as a fine artist. Being dyslexic with a light and depth perception impairment, she found she could see the positive in the negative. Her work is gaining attention, having been chosen to show at The Long Beach Airport in “We Got This: Art in the Time of Pandemic.” She is looking forward to sharing more of her work. Liza can be found on Instagram at @sketchyoldbroad. Jayden McClam (they/them) is a student of rest and water from Buffalo, New York. A multi-medium writer, healer, and organizer, they are a senior at Howard University, where they study Psychology, Afro-American Studies, and Creative Writing. Their writing explores Black sapphic identity as a divine practice of re/calling the spirit/self and this is their first publication. Jayden is the recipient of fellowships and scholarships from the Schomburg Center, The Speakeasy Project, and Davis-Putter for their scholarly, creative, and movement work. Connect with them on twitter and instagram @jaydenamira. Gabrielle Oliver Born and raised in the DC area, Gabrielle Oliver is a second year MFA Creative Writing Poetry student at the University of Kentucky. She holds bachelor’s degrees from Howard University and Kansai Gaidai University in Osaka, Japan.She was the Japan-America Society of Washington, DC’s 2018 Tanaka Green Scholarship recipient for her diachronic research on the aboriginal Ainu language of Japan. In the summer of 2019, Gabrielle was awarded a writing fellowship with 7x NAACP Image Award-winning poet, Nikki Giovanni. Her poetry has been published byA Gathering Together Literary Journal, Penumbra Literary and Art Journal,andJelly Bucket. Instagram: @rabbi_gabbeye Twitter: @b4apreposition Shanika Peterson is a writer from Los Angeles, California. She's in the second year of her MFA program at Louisiana State University where she serves as the assistant editor of The Southern Review. Johnathan William Potter is a senior Creative Writing major at Stephen F. Austin State University. Though born and raised throughout South Houston, Potter owes the Texas panhandle a great deal in helping him to discover a love for language and storytelling. He has been published for both fiction and nonfiction in Midwestern State's Voices. Nicole Sealey was born in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, and raised in Apopka, Florida. She received an MFA from New York University and an MLA in Africana studies from the University of South Florida. Sealey is the author of Ordinary Beast (Ecco Press, 2017), which was a finalist for the PEN Open Book and Hurston/Wright Legacy Awards. Her chapbook,The Animal After Whom Other Animals are Named (Northwestern University Press, 2016), was the winner of the 2016 Drinking Gourd Chapbook Prize. In 2019, Sealey was named a 2019-2020 Hodder Fellow at Princeton University. She has received fellowships and awards from Canto Mundo, the Cave Canem Foundation, the American Academy in Rome, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and the Elizabeth George Foundation, among others. She was the Executive Director at the Cave Canem Foundation from 2017–2019 and was the curator for a special series of Poem-a-Day from August 31–September 11, 2020. Sealey lives in Brooklyn, New York. Junious Ward is a poet living in Charlotte, NC and author of Sing Me A Lesser Wound (Bull City Press). Junious has attended and/or received support from: Breadloaf Writers Conference, Callaloo, The Frost Place and The Watering Hole. His poems have appeared or are upcoming in Four Way Review, Crab Fat Magazine, Cutthroat, and Diode Poetry Journal among others.
CONTRIBUTORS
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