A C K N O W L ED G EM EN T S
I
t is with great pleasure that the Broad & Central editing team acknowledges the many people
who helped to make this vision a reality. Although we cannot name every contributing force, it
is crucial that we thank the following people due to their overwhelming support:
•Mr. Mann, Ms. Harris, Mr. Chiger, and Ms. Burgess for your leadership and support.
•Mr. McCluskey for your vision, literary guidance, and many hours of advising and editing.
•Mrs. Mann, Mrs. Verrilli, Ms. Whitehead, Ms. Mastrocco, Ms. Schrag, and Mr. Taubman for guiding us in our pursuit of mastery in the craft of writing and for guidance in the
editing process.
•Stephen Mendonca for his brilliant graphic designs, our cover art, and for his exceeding willingness to help in the final production of our literary magazine.
TH E B R O A D & C EN T R AL EDI T O R S I N C H I EF
Jessica Debrah ................................................................................................................C lass of 2014
Sandra Osei-Frimpong....................................................................................................C lass of 2014
Jordan Horton.................................................................................... .............................C lass of 2015
TH E B R O A D & C EN T R AL EDI T I N G B OAR D
Edward Acosta........................C lass
Amir Ballard...........................Class
Jennifer Carr...........................Class
Ebony Felton..........................Class
Tiaja Harley............................Class
Charisma Lambert..................Class
Nicole Ransome......................Class
Sierra Stridiron......................Class
Maymouna Sissoko.................Class
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2014
2014
2014
2014
2015
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2014
2015
Iman Yussuf..................................Class
Rosemarie Archer.........................Class
Nigel Harvey.................................C lass
Tyanna Hawkins...........................Class
Dianeth Her nandez.......................C lass
Shatavia Knight ............................C lass
Adaobi Njoku-Obi.........................C lass
Sean Smart ....................................C lass
Ke’auna James................................C lass
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2015
2016
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This literary journal could not have been synthesized if it were not for the dedication and support
of many people who believe in the potential of Broad & Central, particularly those mentioned
on this page. Indeed, because of the many hands lifting us to greatness, a fusion of the creative
voices in our high school community permeates the pages of the literary jour nal you now hold in
your hands. Broad & Central is born of our love of writing and our emphatic belief that the closet
writers and artist in our community must be celebrated and, I would argue, freed. Our mission
rests upon the simple words that drive us: write and be embraced, draw and be celebrated, create
and be remembered. Our mission allows all of the caged birds in our community to use their
voices to sing of truth and beauty. While some may hide behind their bars, not allowing escape
or tasting freedom, we step up and face our bars, open our mouths, and free ourselves with our
songs. Truly, writing is freedom. Hence, on behalf of the editors of Broad & Central, it is my
great pleasure to acknowledge the people who have allowed these walls of our closet artists, our
North Star friends and family, to be demolished. Indeed, these walls have been conquered and in
their stead stand tall the love, beauty, strength, and truth of our voices, our songs.
- Charisma Lambert, 2014
“
“
January 31, 2014
A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art,
those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.
—Albert Camus
Dear Community,
A, B, C, D. The simplest tools can create the most powerful instruments. In Broad and Central,
we recognize this simple truth. Just twenty-six letters can yield our hearts. Just three primary
colors can create a new world. Art creates influence, propagates power, and inspires movements.
In our literary magazine, we seek to embrace the simple aspects of life, while also recognizing
that they have the capacity to produce complex and profound creations. Broad & Central creates
a haven for our community’s artist and writers to set free these complex and profound creations,
to unleash the beauty that lay dormant around us all. On the vastness of paper, where anything
is possible and anything can be written or drawn, students have the opportunity to illuminate the
unseen beauty residing within through the simplicity of letter and color.
We as a writing community encourage each other to express our innermost thoughts through
unique writing exercises every week. In an attempt to challenge our writing abilities and hone our
creative capacity, we begin every session by using a collection of seemingly disconnected words
and phrases to craft a poem, and we end each session with a collaborative one word poem. In
between these two activities we explore myriad forms of poetic, artistic, and literary expression
in an attempt to broaden the scope with which we can express ourselves and centralize our ideas
on paper. We attempt to master these skills because each form of expression is an instrument.
The more instruments one has at his/her disposal, the more capable and free he/she is to create
something amazing. Broad & Central serves as an oasis for all to explore universal truths, to
discover our own personal truths, and to fill the silence with this truth. Individual expression
holds tremendous potential, and, although one may create art in hopes of untangling his/her own
puzzles, art can influence, motivate, and serve as the catalyst to unraveling the mystery that lies
within our hearts. Inevitably, art creates a stronger, safer community.
In each issue, our submissions are filled with personal instruments that grapple with melodies
of simplicities and intangibles, adversity and diversity— life, love and everything in between.
Students and faculty make personal decisions to trust in Broad and Central and our community to
share what their instruments produce. And this, above all, is the purpose of Broad and Central:
to allow others to feel safe in trusting us with their inner most experiences and expressions, to
create a collaborative symphony for our community using the varied personal instruments of
each of the community’s members.
In the profound solidarity of the pen,
Jessica Debrah
Poetry Editor-in-Chief
TA B L E OF C O N T EN T S
Cover Page................................................S tephen Mendonca.............................................................i
Acknowledgements Page .........................Charisma Lambert............................................................i i
Letter from the Editors...........................Jessica Debrah.................................................................ii i
Table of Contents....................................Broad & Central Team. ............................................... iv - v
POET R Y
The Key (Poetr y Cover Page)..................... Dianeth Her nandez ..........................................................1
We Real Cool............................................. Adaobi Njoku-Obi............................................................. 2
The Cub.....................................................Bruce Osei-Frimpong.......................................................2
The Silver Lining......................................Edward Acosta.................................................................. 3
The Willow Tree Wee ps..............................S ean Smart ........................................................................ 4
From Past to Present..................................E bony Felton ....................................................................4
Standby......................................................Akira Caruth.....................................................................5
Black is Beautiful.......................................D estiny Little.................................................................... 6
My Destiny Lies Through Darkness ...........Nakia Green......................................................................6
Lying.........................................................Tyanna Hawkins...............................................................7
Axis of Rotation........................................Jordan Horton...................................................................8
Ameliorated............................................... Mr. Matthew McCluskey..................................................8
The Better..................................................Jessica Debrah ..................................................................9
Red Door in the Lilac Field.......................B ren’et Muldrow............................................................... 9
Empty.........................................................S andra Osei-Frimpong.................................................... 1 0
Imagine If..................................................Nigel Harvey.................................................................... 11
Socks..........................................................Rae’ Quan Nelson............................................................1 1
Stay............................................................Rosemarie Archer............................................................ 1 2
Spark ........................................................Niiya McSeed..................................................................12
Dee per........................................................Ms. Anna Taylor.............................................................13
Ageism.......................................................Shaquan Nelson .............................................................. 1 3
The First Time I Ever Sle pt Late..............Taylor Simmons.............................................................. 1 4 For Myself..................................................A mir Ballard....................................................................14
Inner Tragedy............................................Iman Yussuf.....................................................................15
Daisies.......................................................Ms. Alyssa Mastrocco.....................................................16
Tear y-eyed................................................. Maymouna Sissoko ..........................................................16
Moving On.................................................M ichelle Veras.................................................................17
In Love and Technolog y.............................Sierra Stridiron .............................................................. 1 8 “I” in We................................................... Ty’airah Echols .............................................................. 1 8 Do You Know Her?....................................Yashae Dunbar................................................................19
Sweating Words, Part 1.............................Tiaja Harley.................................................................... 19
I Question..................................................Na Tarria McSeed .......................................................... 20
TA B L E OF C O N T EN T S
Sweating Words, Part II............................Tiaja Harley......................................................................20
If You Only Knew......................................Reginald Bullard .............................................................. 21
Who’s to Blame..........................................Wilma Arias de la Rosa.................................................... 22
P ROS E
Paragraphs (Cover Page)............................Dianeth Her nandez......................................................... ..23
Sweating Words, Part III...........................Tiaja Harley...................................................................... .24
In De pendence.............................................E dward Acosta............................................................... ...25
We..............................................................Amir Ballard..................................................................... .26
A New Perspective......................................Nicole Ransome.............................................................. ...27
My American Dream ..................................Michelle Yaruqui............................................................... 28
The Christian Atheist .................................Adaobi Njoku-Obi ............................................................. 29
Calvin Died on the Shower Floor................Shatavia Knight................................................................. 30
Tainted American Dream............................S andra Osei-Frimpong...................................................... 30
The Kidnapping..........................................Jessica Debrah................................................................... 31
The De pths of Fear....................................Himaayah Agwedicham..................................................... 32
Please Don’t Take Her................................C hane Kaba ............................................................... .. 33-34
Dirty Laundr y............................................G race Agbadou ............................................................35-37
“ WH E RE T HE S I DE W A LK E NDS ”
{ Poetic Selections from our Middle School Family of
Artists
}
Where the Sidewalk Ends (Cover Page)......Amir Ballard.................................................................... ..38
A Letter to my Television............................T ia Suggs.......................................................................... .39
Dear Douglass............................................Kiah Ster n.......................................................................... 40
Dehumanization.........................................Cheaka Wilson.................................................................. .41
Momma’s Black Leather Strap....................Izhane Parrish .............................................................. ..... 42
VI S U A L A RT
The Power of Art (Cover Page)..................Jordan Horton................................................................. ..43
Salt of Life................................................ Amir Ballard...................................................................... 44
Norma Jeane...............................................Rosemarie Archie............................................................. .45
Faith.......................................................... Nigel Harvey..................................................................... .46
Still............................................................Mikaela Sam-Hinton.................................................... .....47
Melodious...................................................Jordan Horton................................................................... 48
Nirvana......................................................M ishak Sam-Hinton.......................................................... 49
1
THE KEY
By: Dianeth Hernandez
WE REAL CO O L
By: Adaobi Njoku-Obi
*An ode to Gwendolyn Brooks*
We real cool.
We play basketball after school.
We the class fools.
We drink 40 ounces,
Making it 30,
Making it 20,
Making it 10.
We need more gin to kee p the pain in.
We players by day,
Rappers by night.
But limited words
From a limited education
Make it hard to rap about what goes on here.
We out late,
We trap great,
We make mistakes.
We pay --- with our lives
THE CUB
By: Bruce Osei-Frimpong
A cub
Captured and sent to live where
Trees had no leaves.
Grass was green,
And animals had hearts of metal and roared a thunderous vroom.
The cub was put through rigorous training.
Ever y time it roared, it was punished.
When it meowed, rewarded.
When it attacked with the ferocity of its ancestors,
It was stripped of its toys and meals.
But when it rubbed its fur on its masters legs,
It was praised and adored.
When it hunted, it was starved.
When it asked for food, rewarded.
When it finally reached its full size,
Its masters saw it could not be what they hoped.
So they sent it back to where it came from.
Whereas others hunted for their food,
The cub waited to be served.
While others played fiercely,
It stayed isolated, seeing the actions as below it.
It soon died.
And no one shed a tear.
2
3
TH E SILVER LI N I N G
By: Edward Acosta
There’s just a numbing feeling that’s beautiful to the touch,
That thought that ever ything would come in perfect patterns
But perfect isn’t even what matters,
Rather, it’s the silver lining that exists.
The silver lining that persists
Beyond soft winds and soft rains,
Beyond calm springs and calm scenes.
It’s a string of hope that is too improbable to de pend on
But which comes in by sheer work and luck,
Sheer force and lust,
For the dream we all kee p in the back of our mind
And wish with ever y second to never have to re primand.
Sometimes man must ste p back and look around
To the forest he calls life,
Then he can see where he is and where he’s headed;
But also where he came from;
Ste pping in mud, in water, in dirt
First to ever y single plea
That mother nature heaves,
Ever y oblique even if he cannot see.
Sometimes there’s a time when it comes crashing down Reality, that is A silver lining that one never de pended on.
A lining one never thought would exist.
But it was there, that dream at the back of your mind that
Always remained a chance;
It never left even if it felt that it did;
Never fell short even if you thought it did.
That silver lining is called a hopeless dream,
The possibility of the near impossible - that is the silver lining.
The one hope you thought would never grow.
And when you see it in that forest,
Among all the leaves, twigs, and trees,
You realize how numb you are and question if sanity is here or if you’re by yourself;
I just can’t explain it to you; I can’t even explain it to myself.
A WILLOW T RE E WE E P S
By: Sean Smart
The anchor for a dee ply rooted community,
Left alone as the time period progressed.
Community changed and rearranged.
The anchor of a dee ply rooted community,
The sole remaining survivor as the world has gone from dense jungles to cities.
The anchor of a dee ply rooted community, unchanged and left alone.
Now it is taking damage from all sides,
Wee ping willow not hurt and damaged
Struggles to anchor itself
In the concrete jungle of the modern era.
FROM PAST T O P RE S E N T
By: Ebony Felton
Crisped air ran through pressed hair,
It was winter and mother had always warned her of chilly weather.
Today, like any other,
She covered her ears.
But this day the words “Blackie, ugly, stupid girl” Bled through her like black ink on paper.
It was the way the chant went.
Raising anger, fear, and tears into the eyes of her, the darker girl.
They laughed and stared and pointed with glares,
Until the darker girl was left in despair.
It was the way it went, and it was the chant
The lighter skinned and whiter girls ranted,
Making the darker girl soon hate what she reflected
And desire the pale skin she wasn’t granted.
She stared and glared at the painted images of the fair skinned women of her time,
It warmed her insides with the hope of one day being granted lighter children.
So then they would be the ones ranting the fearful cheers,
Leaving another dark girl with harder tears.
Through the pitiful pits of her self-esteem,
The woman evolving like a baby’s first craw,
Evolved while reality hit her.
And in reality, her daughter’s child had children,
Who were mirror images of her,
With skin seen darker than before.
Her son and daughter landed,
Into the modern day world of the 2000s,
With abundant complexions
That build off of what their mirrors reflected.
It wasn’t a chant that got her in despair.
It was society’s views of a darker girl with thick brown hair
That made her daughter desire straight and relaxed hair.
4
5
STAN D BY
By: Akira Caruth
It’s 30 to 1 and I’ve said I was done,
yet my hands succumb to my heart’s wishes.
As I reach for the phone, I wish I wasn’t alone
as my lips tr y to picture his kisses.
Ring.
And the memories flood back, just like that,
without so much as a warning
Ring.
His voice says hello, croaky and slow,
followed by “it’s almost one in the morning.”
There’s so much I want to say, I need to find the right way,
but all that comes to my mind is “I love you.”
Think Kira think, you’re making this harder than it is.
So what I say is, “Oh! my butt must’ve dialed you.”
He knows it’s a lie and responds, “nice tr y,
now tell me, what’s the real reason you called?”
I gulp in some air, take a seat on my chair
and observe as my walls start to fall.
“I need some advice...about life,
ya know? Since we said we’re just friends?”
A brief pause in time, then, “Tomorrow is fine,
I guess I can talk to you then.”
I hang up the phone, no longer feeling alone,
and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I decide to get some rest, which was harder than you’d expect—
all I thought about was the rest of my life unfolding.
As I arrive at the place, my heart’s floating in space,
and there it stays for a while.
The words we exchange don’t remain in my brain for
all it registers is the magic of his smile.
Time is on standby, but from the corner of my eye
I see a girl whose cheeks seem to glisten.
I feel my heart shatter and my confidence splatter
As this girl walks over to kiss him.
I feel a ball in my throat as I pull on my coat
yet manage to whisper a “thank you” once more.
He smiles that...him smile, and it lingers for a while
then says that’s what friends are for.
I can’t seem to ignore, I need him more than before—
I need that smile to take over my cries.
Yet I tr y to conceal the secrets my lips won’t reveal
and pray he doesn’t search my eyes.
BLACK IS BE A U T IF UL
By: Destiny Little
They say black is poison.
Black is evil,
Black is dangerous,
Black is cold hearted.
Let them say as they will.
We know black is potent.
Black is beauty.
Black is unity.
Black is me!
MY D ESTIN Y L IE S T H RO UG H D A RKNE S S
By: Nakia Green
I’ve always been told to live in darkness, and I listened.
The darkness surrounds me in ever y corner
But there was still light—
Light right on me, ever ywhere I went
But I ke pt on walking
As if I didn’t see it
Because the darkness was my comfort and I was safe.
The darkness was my comfort and I was safe.
The darkness pulled on me in ever y direction.
I was exhilarated.
While the light was exasperating,
The light was ignorant.
It was filled with complex ways,
While the darkness was like a stroll in the park,
But I had no clue!
I was going in the wrong direction.
I was told to turn around many times afterwards Told to go to the light –
But I refused and ke pt going.
Pain and weakness approached me quickly.
Soon I was suffering ver y badly.
Hoping to find hope in the end,
I ke pt on walking.
Then for the ver y last time I was told to turn around,
Not by anyone else but by myself.
The pain grew stronger.
So I turned around while I still could.
The light was a pleasant feel.
It was not until I made it to the light
That I realized I was walking the path to hell.
From then I pledged never to turn back.
As success had found me.
6
7
LY IN G
By: Tyanna Hawkins
Lies.
Deceit pushed through clenched teeth, through eyes.
Showing true underlying emotion beneath.
Heartbeat racing when it comes to facing the moment of truth.
Then, an indifferent celebration of undeserved confirmation,
And the start of a new beginning of devious sinning.
The sincerity,
Seems to be heard
Understanding its clarity,
Vision blurred.
Getting easy as
One time, two times, three times told.
This is getting way, way too easy,
And harder to control.
Believability, becomes stability; to overcome
Personal inferiority and insecurity.
But can’t stop there,
Because the addiction becomes predicted.
Yelling, “I don’t care! I don’t care!”
Now lies to yourself, are being thrown in the air.
In distress, now your sins you must confess.
You reach and reach for those
Who tried to teach and teach you,
But they froze.
They want to help so bad but they can’t.
Losing your grip, your footing you look around and you pant.
You begin to apologize.
And through your eyes they tell a stor y A stor y so long and so gor y.
Reading the minds of those they say,
“You lied! You lied!”
Alive you hang, but inside you died.
After your rescue, you discard the scams,
And you drop to your knees
With your face in your hands.
You’ve had a near death experience
Due to your condescending selfish arrogance.
They still walk around with worr y for you.
Wondering if what spills out of your mouth is the truth.
Now with this infamous re putation you’ve earned,
Those still there surround you with their concern.
Will this happen twice?
No, never again!
Never again relying on the most common sin!
Those have deemed you ready.
Meeting adjourned.
You’re free to walk amongst them once more,
Lesson learned.
8
AX IS OF RO TAT I O N
By: Jordan Horton
Today is the mark of a year.
One full axis rotation: 360.
A 360 is supposed to be a turnaround Starting the same way you ended.
But though this world made a 360, you’ve made a 180,
and I guess I can say the same for myself because I haven’t been feeling the same lately.
And it’s hard to see you pass by me because less than 360 axis rotation ago ever ything was right like 90.
I don’t know what went wrong causing this emotional domain error.
We made it halfway through, like 272, and now I feel as little as a decimal.
So typical - believed we were past positive infinity and beyond, but oh how you flip like reciprocals.
It figures though.
Time flies as fast as people go.
AMELIORAT E D
By: Mr. Matthew McCluskey
This is all too familiar,
comfortable,
safe,
exciting in its reoccurrence—
almost fresh.
And, yet,
despite this gray day,
heavy eyelids,
and my current destination,
ever ything
has
changed.
And not just
because of
her.
But, because I am new—
better.
I am a much better man.
9
THE BETTE R
By: Jessica Debrah
The purpose of capitalism produces slaver y:
A system of servitude—
We become slaves to the labor, the money, the obsession of the human dream
to rid oneself of the rags burdened with from childhood,
to the riches gained with hard work and talent.
The people are the oppressors, not the oppressed.
We support, guide, aid, and fertilize the greed, hunger, and exploitation.
We allow others to control people who believe they are lesser.
We foster regression.
Shut our mouths as brothers who love brothers are crucified for the sanity of religion.
We hold our tongues as foreign nations become Americanized and dominated,
but shake our heads at imperialism.
We blacklist our sisters that are raised in the same wombs as our brothers and treat them like helpless herds.
We pride ourselves on humanity and use the justification that better is not better for all,
and that the oppressor must be punished.
When our punishments are only led by the guilt in US
as we see our oppressors as mirrors of ourselves.
RED DO O R I N T H E L IL A C F IE L D
By: Bren’et Muldrow
On a hot summer night,
I had a dream of a cool breeze
And a field of lilacs
Whose nectar was so sweet
It left hummingbirds like drunken contented men.
In the midst of the heart shaped flowers was a door,
A red door,
With a golden knob.
Engraved in this door was a tree
Whose roots were long and tangled.
The beauty of the lilacs stole my eyes.
With ever y look away from the door,
The lilacs reached up and covered it.
Feeding off the door,
Mesmerized.
I will never see what was behind the door.
I will never know why it was there.
I just know
There was a red door with a tree on it
In a lilac field.
10
EMP TY
By: Sandra Osei-Frimpong
Empty empty empty yet…
Oh so full … filled up
Bursting… need to escape
Too much
Need to escape
But…
Empty empty empty
Yet unable to contain (hold together),
It ping pongs in her mind
Up and down side by side left and right corner to corner
They want to escape
But
Empty empty empty
No words
They refuse to come
They refuse to boxed in
Categorized and shaped and labeled and written down
Oh they fill her up and overflow in the form of tears and hunger and need
They fill her up till there is no room for nothing else
They flow from her head
To her heart
To her hands
In the form of
Destruction
But never the creation she wishes them to be in
Empty empty empty
They leave her canvass empty
An artist with no ink on her paper
A singer with no lyrics
A sculptress with no statues
No melodies
No words
No portraits
Nothing
Empty empty empty
Too much... nothingness
Empty … blank… white… pure…
Yes a pure white canvass with a volatile tainted artist
She wishes it were the opposite.
11
IMAG IN E I F
By: Nigel Harvey
Imagine if
There were no winter.
The cold wouldn’t hug your body,
Raise the hairs on your arms,
Stab at your spine and drag its frosty blade up to your head,
Until you hated the winter.
Of course the sun rises,
Of course there is snow.
The combination of the two being so beautiful touches your cheek and says
I love you.
Of course you can’t help but say the same.
And now you love winter
Just as you came to love them
Imagine if there was no “them”
SOCKS
By: Rae’Quan Nelson
Like a load of laundr y,
We’re tossed into this world.
Some of us have an
Extended tumble dr y,
a bumpier ride than others.
Se parate and distinct, yet similar enough to be grouped together.
We’re jumbled into the world,
Confused and confronted,
Se parated and dried.
But all too often, we take out our loads of clothes.
We are
Socks.
We spend our entire lives being washed and dried,
Waiting to be paired with our missing sock.
And if your matching sock,
Makes it through the extended wash.
Well, consider yourself
A lucky sock
S TAY
By: Rosemarie Archer
Stay.
Won’t you stay?
Oh, no, I cannot stay
But I will always be in the Bay.
Sweet Claxton, what has become of you?
Hold on, I am the way - you just have a distorted view.
Me? It’s true.
I am Americanized.
Oh, I wish you knew it all,
But it took too long to realize.
Far - we are far away
From the rich earth and clay.
Oh, yes the clay,
And pan - steel pan yes we can.
Always a fan.
Don’t forget carnival,
Which represents us most of all.
Yes the parade in the streets
Of people short and tall.
The culture is rich, and sweet.
If only we can meet.
So long Claxton Bay.
My earth will miss you when you’re away.
But we communicate.
Yes, continue it is fate
You send me messages in song.
But getting together will take long.
Sweet soca’s in you,
It’s the language you speak.
Yes, from our ancestors an antique.
Trinidad, my home
I will always be with you, you are not alone.
If only I could stay under the sun
Here, home with me in Claxton Bay.
S PA R K
By: Niiya McSeed
As the window brings in light and life,
the people that are in this room
are filled with energ y.
A plant is filled with love from the
sun. And the plant brings life
to the Earth as the sun is giving love.
The love from the plant as it touches his
hand to her - a spark, a connection of love –
12
13
DEEPER
By: Ms. Anna Taylor
her looking glass doesn’t sound the same
the foreign tongue reflects foreign images
of sponge rollers round the deceivingly gold
tresses whose roots need taming
and further dece ption for the grayish white truth
along the edges has grown amuck
and so has crows’ feet frown and laugh lines
discoloration and blemishes from mid-life acne
her glassy eyes that sit dee per into her face
are dee per than before
and rimmed in fleshy darkness
while her nose oils and her upper lip sweats
her bottom lip spotted unless made over fuchsia
sagg y bits and spreading hips
her stems don’t stroll like they used to
spider veins on the inner sides of her knobby knees
cellulite that penetrates dee per into the flesh
and harder to ignore
her fingertips callous and nails faded yellow
her old back unforgiving of her young feet
her childhood cut from the Campbell’s can is dee per
it’s now dee per than before
what once was a resonance
has quieted to a hum
and is most unfamiliar
but she understands
because she is dee per
dee per than before
AG EIS M
By: Shaquan Nelson
I’m 16 reading up on 20somethings.
I’m pretty sure
I don’t work like before,
and my bones start to shake.
I’m getting older now,
and knowing how the world is,
I’d read my son Plato before he reached metamorphosis.
I’m wiser than my years,
but I still hide from my fears,
and, truth is, I’m reading up on 20somethings,
looking for the happiness hypothesis in the wrong places,
and looking for my bread in the wrong aisles
and finding truth in all of the fake faces.
THE FIRST T IME I E V E R S L E P T L AT E
By: Taylor Simmons
It was on a Wednesday
During summer vacation.
The sun was shining,
But my eyes wouldn’t open.
I was tired.
I was hot.
I couldn’t move.
My eyes opened,
But they closed again.
I would wake up
Then fall aslee p again.
I continued this process.
Finally I would stay awake.
I would move my body.
The sun was bright.
It was hot.
It felt like a Saturday.
Nobody was still in the bed but me.
As I checked the time,
It was 11:30 am.
I finally sle pt late in the morning.
I was relieved and happy.
FO R MY SE L F
By: Amir Ballard
For myself…
I will forgive you for your unspoken apologies
that your hubris told you to never utter.
I will cast my feelings into the sea of forgetfulness,
Along with the darkness that protected me from the pain of memor y.
I will not remind you
Of all that I, that we, invested in you.
Or of the sharp loneliness you endured and are sure to face again, but this time with only
False comrades to fight off the reality of your existence.
For myself…
And no one more,
I will not turn this into a war.
I will not let allow others to be caught in the raging whirlwind of my anger,
Or the silent tears of your betrayal.
For myself…
I will cleanse me of the poisonous thoughts that see ped through the world’s fingertips
Into the crevices of my soul.
I will strive to retain bliss,
Despite what I know to be my dee pest sentiments.
For myself and for no one more.
14
15
I N N E R TR A G E DY
By: Iman Yussuf
So foul and fair the place I have been Into the inner workings of an old man’s heart.
Though seemingly aesthetic-wise,
Could not mask his grief
In the folds of sagging skin.
To be or not to be…
That was his question.
To journey from this world into the hereafter
When his soul still nailed him to earth’s soil.
Thus,
Dreams do make cowards of us all.
For his unfulfilled dream was his tragic flaw,
Anchoring him down and pulling him into the de pths of hell.
His regret was sickening Leaving behind cruel aftertastes of
If I hads or I wished I dids.
Forgetting anachronistic times,
When Alexander the Great
Forged an empire in his name,
Dying soon after reaching the age of wine.
But his intoxication lives in infamy,
Never ceasing to blow minds in awe .
So what excuse does an old man like you have
To be hanged by the foul coils of regret?
Here re presents the calamity of so long life
Which causes us to lose the name of action.
To be or not to be?
That is not the question—
BE!
And spur on in the name of action.
Fulfill dreams now, while the sun still shines,
That thee may bask in warmth of heaven’s glow.
Rather than burn in the dunnest smoke of hell.
DAISIES
16
By: Ms. Alyssa Mastrocco
Your bags were packed,
sitting on the floor
at the foot of the bed,
and you sat beside me there.
I watched your heartbeat flutter
under your thin grey tshirt.
It was the day before you were
supposed to cross the ocean.
My dress was dirty and
I thought about going
to the laundromat but
we had spent all the quarters
at the arcade the night before.
Your tickets were sticking
out of your back pocket
with the daisies I had put there.
They were silently falling apart.
I could relate.
TE A RY- E YE D
By: Maymouna Sissoko
black and silent, but green and loud.
black like a city’s asphalt after rain during the night.
silent as if her right to speech was revoked,
and green with the tendrils extending from a leaf droplet
fluorescently loud, so bright others, shut their own so not to stare.
but there in her eyes tells you the dark and mute past she has had.
when smiling they turn almond-shaped diminishing the size and darkening the verdant lightning of them.
long and curly, her hair disguises her face
forcing one to strain into her eyes – but much longer is needed than a fair glance.
she seems spoiled always getting what she wants without even asking for so
though, it only spoiled her mind, shaping it into a sharp cutlass—
fierce, standing on the roughly drawn edge, strong,
but go backwards to what has not been reached where it rounds full of potential of a resurrection to thee former
self that once was, only green with innocence and loud with energ y
she became tear y-eyed after cr ying so much
coming home to no one
damaged by those who choose to “love” her
escaping into a new identity that relieved and rounded the edge into a curve
for not long enough
tt was too late she gone tear y-eyed
now the loud turned silent and the green turned black
with death
and a note.
17
MOVING ON
By: Michelle Veras
When my uncle died,
My mother died with him.
When she got the news, her quivering eyes turned bloodshot red.
Her chest caved in.
The gasps of air made her reach for her heart
Because she feared it would slip through the edges of her mouth.
I watched as she collapsed to her knees and let her head hang from her shoulders.
I couldn’t embrace her in comfort for my legs were paved to the floor.
My ears didn’t hear her wee ping, for it did not come.
She refused to cr y in front of me.
I was seven and I couldn’t understand why she muffled her cries as she sle pt at night,
Why she took refuge underneath black cloths that draped her soul.
I couldn’t understand why the world had been so cruel to my mother,
The one I couldn’t bear to watch get hurt.
Only when I saw her one day hollering at the heavens
With her palms up and arms outstretched did I see her wrath.
Only then did I see her cr y in front of me.
But I hadn’t heard that cr y before—this cr y was different.
I wanted to understand that if behind those wails, she was cr ying for herself rather than her brother.
Could she have been cr ying as it finally struck her that life was short?
And what if perhaps she was disappointed that she hadn’t made the best of the gift of life,
That she had let her days drag on by,
Not rejoicing in the splendor that she was blessed to see a golden, new horizon ever y morning.
Perhaps the cries she shed were dee ply rooted in frustration.
But while my mother took refuge in cr ying, screaming, and accusing God of doing her wrong,
I too indulged in a sea of red, agonizing wrath.
It was directed towards the world.
I could not understand how, with my mother suffering,
The world still functioned.
Why did cars still cruise the streets as if nothing was wrong?
As if I wasn’t losing my mother?
Why did people still roar with laughter? How dare they.
How dare they laugh while my mother was succumbed by agony.
Why did birds not drop from the sky?
Why did they not lay lifeless on the concrete?
Why was the world not folding in on itself ?
Why were sympathetic lamentations and condolences not reaching my ears?
Why were sweet words and hugs of reassurance not comforting my mother?
I ke pt losing her and the world didn’t seem to notice.
What was it with this world?
Was the land satisfied as my uncle’s frail body recoiled and withered dee p within the entrails of this earth?
Did the scorching earth grimace as bodies were buried dee p within its tainted dirt?
Did ashes satisfy its selfish desire to decompose our loved ones?
Did it rejoice when beloved people were snatched from those who dee ply cared about them?
Had this world cultivated within its womb that with love and attachment, came pain, loss, and devastation?
Then why love if it brought with it unbearable pain?
The world had moved on.
And so did I.
I N L O V E A N D T E C H N O LO G Y
By: Sierra Stridiron
They look at you and see something more than just an
Artifact;
Than just an
Object;
Than just a
Thing.
They look at your bright screen and drink your piercing
Resolution
Like it is water.
My friends look like early parents staring down at their child of no resemblance –
The counter witnessing your adoption.
But don’t be convinced that their love and affection is everlasting,
Because when the next baby comes crawling to their feet, with better resolution and easier to hold
You will be increasingly aware of how you truly are just an
Artifact,
Just an
Object,
Just a
Thing.
“I” IN WE
By: Ty’airah Echols
My world is a contradiction.
Filled with paradoxes,
I am bombarded by
Sympathetic Scrooges,
Whose only warm-heartedness
Comes from the constant clanging of my pigg y bank.
Why couldn’t you love me for me?
My past is—well—my past.
And to move toward the future,
I must endure, embrace, and embed myself in my present.
Voices so silent from the whispers of our unspoken love,
Our eternal flames of fire that rise from the darkest parts of hell
explain why I hate you so much when I love you the most and it hurts.
You’ve put an “I” in we, and now I see that it makes no sense, alas,
I look to you for clarity where the lines are blurred
and words become a slew of emotions & memories.
Here I find the most concise answers to hold me over until I am thirsty for more.
Like the last drop of a junkie’s fix, I needed you and when you weren’t there
I suffered the slings and arrows of being alone.
A
. place I never thought I would be but the same place I’ve found my freedom.
18
19
D O YO U K N OW HE R ?
By: Yashae Dunbar
The question people ask me: “do you know her?”
But what I see is what I know:
her plump pink lips flow with music of lies that give more pain to realize.
The lips that kiss with a poison feeling—
I thought I knew her.
The wind blows to give me chills,
the wind blows through , around, and under
the thighs.
The thighs that birthed a child who didn’t know her mom’s face—
I thought I knew her.
The arms, the arms that hold me tightly without love—
I thought I knew her.
We share the same house, not knowing our real home—
I thought I knew her.
We look into each other’s eyes, not knowing who the other is—
I thought I knew her.
SWE ATIN G W OR DS , PA R T I
By: Tiaja Harley
My heart is my soul—
I live to be controlled
By the ambitious men
Who take what they want
Without permission.
Numb, swollen,
Utter sounds golden.
Pain, passion,
unpleasurable pain,
passionate hate,
strong sounds frozen
within the wooden room.
Re petition, agony,
heart turns black a sweetened blackness that opens her body,
acce pting her faith of becoming like them.
Worthless girls
roaming the streets,
drinking and beat,
used, abused
but she isn’t.
She is smart.
20
I QUESTIO N
By: Na Tarria McSeed
What is America: is it the land of the free?
Is it the place where ever yone has a right to be seen as an equal?
No, America isn’t this high and mighty land.
It is a place where corrupted people hide behind the law.
A land where injustice is served.
A land of inequality.
And why?
White privilege.
The culture of power that will forever be on top.
We as kids don’t have a say;
We are to be seen and not heard.
Let me tell you something.
America is nothing.
It’s a sick place with no justice, no safe haven—
It is not really the home of equality.
The struggle is real when after hundreds of years we still aren’t equal.
I question—
What does America stand for?
SW EATING WO RD S , PA RT II
By: Tiaja Harley
Lies cries out—whaling, swallowing the truth that identifies who she is.
All she knows is nothing she portrays.
She is drowning by societal betrayal
And acce ptance for who she isn’t.
The label by the words of
unknown names,
Dehumanized by the satire lace,
colors of hurt and pain
that seem to control her revulsion of lies
that cries to know the truth
And finally be one of a kind:
Different and alive.
21
I F YO U O N LY K N E W
By: Reginald Bullard
I now hate slee p whole heartily,
As it leaves me with this unsettling uncertainty,
A possibility of sorts,
That if I close my eyes,
I am playing dice,
A game of chance—
A game with more losers than victors,
That if I lay my head to rest I may never get a chance
to see you again,
To gaze in your eyes that mesmerize me so,
To play in your beautiful strands of hair,
To make you smile laugh and giggle,
To cheer you up a little.
I hold on as long as I can,
But
When I awake, I think of my future yet to come.
The joy, the gayety I will share with one,
The one who makes me burst with joy
The one I once secretly loved and adored.
I now know what I will give you if you’d like to know—
I’ll hold
A palace made for a Queen,
A husband to call your King,
A life that has been abandoned the reasons we will later explore.
I will give you your wildest dreams ten times over
I will give you luck itself – 777, four-leafed clovers.
Once in my life,
I cried for a companion day and night.
There were no tears, just a void.
A void I know you will destroy.
A space you fit into just right,
Completing my heart,
Becoming my love and my light.
Guiding me through the night to complete the work that must done.
You are this light.
So pure, so incandescent,
So strong and bold,
I wonder the secrets that you hold.
I’m sure I’m ready to travel down this road,
for my destiny is great.
I’m eager to see what it beholds.
As I ascend to a higher state,
I hope you will take this place.
22
WH O ’ S TO B L A M E
By: Wilma Arias de la Rosa
Some people say things happen for a reason.
It’s out of our control - just let it go by like the seasons.
Other times, it consumes you from the inside out.
The pain in your heart pumps blood through the wrong routes.
Some walk on the earth thinking that they have the right
To assume power and take someone else’s life.
But that just isn’t right.
Maybe I went left when I said that I hated
The man with the gun who silently degraded
My cousin with his hate that pierced through his life.
Silver bullets in his back because he was proud of his strife.
Racially profiled for being a little darker
Or having ease in his ste p and being a proud walker,
He didn’t care about what people thought—
He was afraid of no man but the one on top.
At the wrong place and the wrong time,
That’s almost ever y hidden criminal’s favorite line,
Who said going to the corner store at 7:09,
Just to get a bag of chips was so big of a crime
That he deserved to lose it all.
Whoever it was, I know they have it worse.
Walking with blood on their hands that can’t be dispersed.
I went left, bottling those feelings of aversion,
But at the end of the day he wasn’t even worth it.
When you lose someone special, don’t holster the pain.
Just kee p it moving rather than sit down and play the blame game.
Don’t give murderers power over you.
If you go left, there’s no limit to what you’ll do.
When you’re laying down pondering and overthinking at night,
Remember they’re always with you - just go right.
When you lose someone special, don’t holster the pain.
Wipe your tears and let it out—
During seasons, it rains.
23
Par agraphs
By: Dianeth Her nandez
S WE ATI N G W O R D S , PA R T I I I
By: Tiaja Harley
24
“But I am love, I am pain, I am painful love”
“But, in all actuality, I am what I want to be.”
As I again collected the scattered emotions that bounced around my room, I sat on my bed with
a black pen and a stack of white paper scribbling random words all at once. With each traumatic
moment I experienced, I became filled with words, allowing my writing to be my way of expressing
my emotions and character.
Tears blurred my vision as I thought about “the ambitious men—who take what they want without
permission.” I collapsed on my bed and buried my face so deep into the pink pillow that it became
discolored by the tears streaming down my face. I started recalling those distinct five moments of
abuse in the solitude of my room. The first two experiences overwhelmed me, making my “heart
turn black, opening my body to acce pt my fate of becoming like the girls that roam the streets and fill their
void with drinks.” I found myself befuddled by the “lies that cried out –whaling, swallowing the truth
that identifies who I am,” soon realizing that from the accumulating frustration of abuses that “all I
know is I am nothing I portray.” I recognized with each tear that ran down my face that “I am labeled
by the words of unknown names.” This awareness of being “dehumanized by the satire lace, colors of
hurt and pain that seem to control her revulsion of lies that cries to know the truth and finally be one of
a kind: different and alive.”
I have lear ned to tell my life’s story through poems. A story that is not just pages of words, rather
pages of words that flow out of me as though perspiring from my pores. My life’s story started
when I was ready to throw in the towel after experiencing these abuses; however, my desire to
persevere originated from my mother, who has engrained in me, “When life knocks you down, try
to land on your back because if you can look up, you can get up.”
Reflecting on a ten year span of abuse, I realized that my poetry was my own unique art work,
serving as my escape from my adversity, pouring from my true self. My life cannot be explained
in one word, two words, three words, four…
As I retur ned to staring at my wall, I became conscious of the fact I was fixated on the open scars
and empty promises. I looked to my faith to see me through the pain, but it became evident that
my only way to cope with the burdens I carried was through words.
When sophomore year came around I jumped at the opportunity to join our school literary
magazine. This not only allowed me to express myself through my words, but also offered me the
opportunity to learn more about the struggles of other’s through revising their work. Ultimately,
I shared with my community my life in Broad & Central, our high school literary magazine. I use
my talent not only to express myself, but to also contribute to the larger community and those
who might be going through similar issues in life.
“I am what I want to be,” and I aspire to be a young lady that strives through the “pain,” one who
helps others find their own unique way to overcome their own personal strife. I know that as I
continue on this jour ney, life will present entirely new set of challenges – some academic, some
personal. With my black pen and white paper, I am confident that I will be more than capable of
overcoming whatever is thrown my way.
25
IN DEPENDENCE
By: Edward Acosta
Papito quiero que mantengas tu raza. “I want you to maintain your race” is what my mother told me a
year ago. I remember it perfectly. With a stern and tired look, she sat me down as she spoke. I looked at her,
noticing the occasional wrinkles and a few rebellious hairs that stood out, the half opened eyes that told me
she worked long hours the night before. But even as the sympathy and love settled in, I heard words that I
did not agree with. My conscience dismissed her argument with condescending ideas. I was too stubborn, she
would say. But was I really wrong? I was going on a date the next day with an African-American girl who
I met at a career day event, and, even as I looked at my mom who nurtured me in the ever so loving way only
a mother can, I felt no shame in saying that I would not heed her words. “I am not a racist; stop making it
seem like I don’t care about what you’re saying; please, respect my opinion!”
I will never forget that conversation. To me, what matters most is that I was breaking away from the
conservative views that my family raised me with. Emigrating from Montevideo, Uruguay in South America,
I grew up in a poor, immigrant family with little hope. Those circumstances and twelve years in the US
taught me that I would not attain my goals if I did not perform well in school. What I learned from the
twenty-minute conversation with my mother, however, was that I had a voice. That I will not sit and say yes
in the face of what I thought was inherently unfair.
Ever yone has a stor y. Mine came in the form of impulsive arguments, heated yelling, and eventually peaceful
rejection. I know now that to get an idea across, one should not raise his voice, rather he should improve his
argument. And as I finished my junior year, that is what I ke pt in mind heading into my last year at my high
school. As a child I was torn between my family and my beliefs. My parents actively rejected the idea of me
having anything more than a professional relationship with people who are from African-American descent
or races that did not meet their standards. My growth in the United States, however, the melting pot of the
world, told me that was wrong. So I stood at a fork in the road, my parent’s conservative beliefs and what
I felt was right, and I chose the latter. There are times when you just have to take a ste p back and reflect on
who you are; that was my time to learn who I was.
Today, I still talk with my parents. I don’t scream, I don’t yell, I don’t complain. But I listen. I listen and
softly say, “I’m sorr y, but I just can’t”. There’s a certain force in me that tells me to go out into the world
and tr y to make it a better place; one that tells me not to let the past define my present and future. That’s why
I’m more inde pendent today. I realized that no one will stand up for you if you can’t stand up for yourself
first and “be the change you wish to see in the world”. Even if my parents still don’t agree with my beliefs
today, at least they respect them because of the maturity with which I handle myself.
Today, when my mother and I have those difficult conversations, I listen patiently and attentively until she
finishes speaking. When she finally stands up, sighs with exhaustion, and starts to walk away, I tell her
respectfully, “I’m sorr y, but the world is changing.”
26
WE
By: Amir Ballard
In our dreams, we carried the sun. The darkness of the forests had to submit to our will, and we were like
kings, living in peace. Some of us lived in simplicity, surviving comfortably in tin or aluminum houses of
our own design. Others lived in palaces made of marble and gold, and reaching the sky, like the tower of
Babel. We all carried different languages in our tongues, and we knew different lands. Some of us carried
water jugs more than a gallon across the desert back to our houses. Others carried guns as we fought against
oppression, or against our own people. Some mothers carried their children behind them on their back,
walking quietly and sung lullabies as the babies slowly drifted out of consciousness.
We loved the sky. We carried the memories of the gods in our hearts, and explored the frontiers they had
graciously created. We felt the soft soil beneath our feet, and ran to the shade of the baobab trees for comfort
from the glare of the sun. The clouds were our friends, and on occasion their tears gave us life. The Nile
carried life, and we lived abundantly. We harvested cassavas and ate “bush meat,” dried overnight and eaten
on special occasions, signaling a birth of one of our children. Although there was some toil, we endured.
We laughed. We hoped. We wished. We survived.
******************************************************************************
The sun had betrayed us. We toiled in the fields until noon, with desperation in our skin and a desire to
escape. We gripped the cotton with our hands, and it scratched our hands, as though it knew we were not
supposed to be here. Our royal blood filled the ground, and we could hear it cr y for us. Our skin burned, and
the sun was unforgiveable, ever y day. Our backs stung as we gained new scars, and shards of glass became
intertwined with our skin. We carried chains in our hands, and the metal weighed us down. But what
weighted us down more was our shame.
We hated the ground, for its “King” decreed our suffering. The women huddled in corners, praying over
those with what happened. Their eyes were empty, as their tears had been dried up. We hated that the most.
The resignation. The emptiness.
They took our children. We ran towards them, at our knees, begging for them to sell us instead, to let them
stay with us. They did not respond, for they thought our pleas the mumblings of an animal. Our children
left, screaming at the tops of their lungs. They would carr y them away, and we would watch them in futility
as they struggled to fight against them. The last thing we saw was our children’s face covered by their dark
blue cloth. We would have nightmares about those moments for years.
We would never recover fully from that. In our lives, we would know more toil. They would never apologize.
They would never re pair us. They had done too much. We looked at the sun, our executioner. We sighed. We
moved on.
27
A NEW PERSPECTIVE
By: Nicole Ransome
The bull is baited into attacking the Matador. The first ear is cut off with the ritual knife. As it bleeds, the
bull kee ps fighting, attacking while the red cape is swinging in the air. The knife glints, the Matador goes
for the kill, and the blade swings home.
As the blade cut through the abdomen of the bull, I covered my eyes in fear and disbelief. However,
my intellectual curiosity is what forced my hands back to my side and my eyelids back open. I
watched the bull fall to the ground gasping for air, blood pouring out profusely from its side. The
crowd roared in excitement as I sat their quietly pondering how this was acceptable.
While visiting Spain, one cultural difference that honestly challenged me, not only morally but
intellectually, was bullfighting. After seeing an actual bullfight, I was astounded and dreadfully
confused. How can someone actually torture and slay an animal as a sport? As an appreciator of
animals, to see one slain before me was a true culture shock. In my mind, at that moment, I decided
it was wrong. How can I appreciate something that contrasts so greatly with my own belief that
animals should be protected and cared for as one would for a human?
While having a conversation with my pen pal, I then learned that bullfighting was rather
controversial in Spain. Some Spaniards wholeheartedly concurred with the tradition, while more
modern Spaniards tur ned their backs on such anachronistic practices. When the bull is young, it is
fed the best food, given a luxurious life, and is treasured. The bull is sacred for the cultural activity.
Learning the ritual and controversy behind it caused me to put my biases aside and look at them
from an objective lens.
In Spain, I judged, but then began to question myself: could I say that it is wrong just because I had
not grown up with such customs? Visiting Spain last summer was an eye-opening experience for
me. Visiting old cities like Toledo, traveling to see the rich art and even learning to play traditional
Spanish card games, allowed me to absorb the Spanish culture and expanded my cultural awareness.
This trip taught me that maintaining the identity of a country is what makes a country unique.
Before, I saw myself as a person who will defend her beliefs no matter what. However, this experience
helped me take a step back and view the world from a new perspective. I was not in my own society,
but a society with different traditions, culture and history than my own.
In the end, I gained a better understanding of how this culture comes about. Like Spain, the history
of America is also made up of many controversies that have evolved over time. For example, gay
rights have recently become the most debated topic in America. This is a divisive topic that many
(whether they support gay rights or not) believe clashes with the identity of America. As society
modernizes, global media expands and people become more culturally aware through educational
platforms. The world is becoming more liberal and open-minded to ideas that were traditionally
taboo. And on the contrary, things that were once common (like smoking and having children at a
young age) are becoming distasteful.
Intellectually, when I reflect on my visit to Spain, I see a country trying to hold onto old traditions
as the world around them is moder nizing. Learning about Spain’s culture has really sparked my
interest in lear ning more about other cultures, their histories, and how they are similar and different
than my own. Even though I am still not in support of bullfighting, I am glad I can say I’ve been
to a live bullfight in Madrid, Spain!
28
MY AMERICAN DREAM
By: Michelle Yaruqui
Today, we are going to announce the North Star expeditions,” proclaimed my 11th grade Spanish teacher
with enthusiasm! Ever yone broke into cheers and smiles. The chance to discover an unknown place was
available to all students. I was on the edge of my seat waiting eagerly to hear the locations of where we
might be able to travel and explore.
A cold feeling of disappointment permeated my body once Mrs. Zapata revealed that the trips were to Spain
and Cape Verde. I knew I would be unable to apply, but I asked Mrs. Zapata anyway. She responded, “You
definitely have the work ethic, maturity, and grades to be selected for one of these trips!” But the beacon
of hope vanished when she added, “All you need is a U.S. passport.” I took a dee p breath, thanked her, and
moved on to my next class. I was disappointed, but I knew this was not the moment to lament the situation.
During lunchtime, Mrs. Zapata’s words bounced around my head, and I could not help but ask myself, “Why
do I have to be illegal? Why is the one thing that I have no control over holding me back?” For the first
time in my life, I was being denied an opportunity for my legal status; and for a moment, I thought about
giving up.
That night, I reflected on the reasons why my parents brought me to America. I had been given the opportunity
to get a better education than my cousins in Ecuador and even a better lifestyle. I slowly retracted my
thoughts from earlier that day and used this experience as motivation to push myself even further. I told my
best friend who was going on the trip, “Have some fun for me!”
Seven months later, as I was eating dinner, President Obama announced that he was implementing the
deferred action polic y that grants illegal students a work permit, Social Security number, and protection
against de portation. I immediately dropped my spoon and ran to the TV. As soon as the form was released, I
applied and before the school year began, I received the notice that I qualified. Within days, I got my Social
Security number and my hopes and confidence of having a chance in America regained momentum.
Ever y morning I remind myself of all my achievements throughout high school and in my personal life.
These achievements are evidence of where my passion and determination can take me. I have promised
myself not to allow any circumstances to hold me back. This is my chance to be a confirmation to other
illegal students that the American Dream does exist. While the Dream Act has not yet been passed, the dream
IS tangible. I do not know what lies ahead, but I am sure it will be success! Even though I cannot yet travel
the world, I am happy to start with going to college in America. I just kee p telling myself, “One door at
a time!”
29
THE CHRISTIAN ATHEIST
By: Adaobi Njoku-Obi
They are crumbling, you know. The monuments and pillars, that is. The ones that my mother erected and
meticulated over are slowly decaying. The monuments of Jesus and the pillars of Christianity, they are
falling away to blesséd common sense.
I can feel it.
My heavenly foundation is collapsing on itself, caving in like some poorly crafted house of cards. The music
ceases to inspire. The preacher on his pristine podium no longer holds a place in my heart. His words are
drowned out by 80’s rock bands and new school rappers. I wish I felt worse; I wish that the stories that were
jammed into my head took hold. But they didn’t. They fell through the holes of my unconcerned head. I
knew it was coming, this feeling. I felt it loom over my head like an incessant gray cloud, raining down on
my capricious heart, puddles of doubt, uncertainty, and blatant indifference.
But it was nice while it lasted: believing that someone loved me unconditionally.
But how can someone love me?
Me.
Me who is a liar, me who is a chronic hypocrite, me who is ugly inside and out. Who will love me? Care for
me? Hold me like they truly need me? Who will kiss these cascading tears away? Who will hold me close?
Who will be with me? Who will wipe away this sadness in my heart? In my eyes? In my condemned soul?
Who is going to love me?
Who?
Maybe if I believe just hard enough someone will hear me—anyone. Someone who can wipe this sadness
away. Anyone. I’ll believe again. I’ll reconstruct the monuments and pillars of Jesus and Christianity if I
can just get a taste of the love I’m missing out on. I will faithfully believe in unicorns and dragons, talking
bushes and seas parting if I can just get a glimpse of the love that so desperately eludes me. I will, without
a doubt in my impressionable mind, go to my church, sing praises aloud to my king if I can just hear the
love that is sadly deaf to my pleading ears. I will blindly follow any preacher, pastor, or priest, if I can just
smell the love I am missing out on.
I will.
I swear on my hell-condemned soul I will.
Amen.
CALVIN DIED ON THE SHOWER FLOOR
By: Shatavia Knight
Yesterday, my ver y first fish Calvin died. I just saw him lying at the bottom of the tank and his eyes glossed
over. And the only thing I could think to say was, “We have to hide this from Jahmani.” Jahmani is my sixyear-old ne phew, and he absolutely adored Calvin. He always asked me to feed him and change his water.
Calvin was more so his fish than mine. And in the morning the first thing people told him after he had taken
his shower was, Calvin’s dead. He just stared at them, tr ying to comprehend what they had said. Or, tr ying
to understand what dead really meant. And as they guided him to the bowl in which the lifeless fish lay, I
stopped them and said, “Calvin is alive and well” and called for no objections. But they pushed me aside and
showed him the tank anyway. Is it wrong for me to tr y to preserve the notion that things live forever? I don’t
want to be the one to teach him that dragons, beautiful creatures that forever lie in his dreams, do in fact
die. I don’t want to be the one to steal the light from his eyes. And I don’t understand why they would. The
they that wouldn’t give back something that you lost because they say it doesn’t work like that. The they that
pushed you down and kicked you in the stomach as you tried to get back up, making you shed your first real
tear. The they that told you where babies really come from. The they that work like clockwork infiltrating the
lives of children ever ywhere and nowhere. And those who magically avoid it in the first round, are easily
caught in the second. The they that means, growing up, and no more tooth fairies, and that Santa was your
mother all along. But today he has picture day. And before he went off to school I asked him to show me how
he would smile. And he smiled showing his two missing teeth in the front of his mouth. And I couldn’t help
but notice how those two teeth started to come in and made his smile a little less incandescent. Because that
cute six-year-old smile died a little as soon as he got out that shower. And with that smile Calvin truly died,
right there on that shower floor.
TAINTED AMERICAN DREAM
By: Sandra Osei-Frimpong
It was supposed to be in the sky—pristine, pure, perfect—America up in the sky among the gods and angels,
but it wasn’t. I remember the confusion of seeing that sidewalk, watching that plastic bag float up in the
air. The realizations that I had been lied to, deceived, made to believe something that wasn’t real. It was
supposed to be up in the sky, the place where money grew on trees and ever ything was soft and white. What
happened to the America in the TV, the one that they told me about? Like the African-Americans of the
great migration and the Latinos of the world, I had been deceived. We were enticed with the possibility of
something great. But, when we got here, the blinds were taken down and we were faced with a reality that
we were not ready to face. “I have a dream…” don’t we all, King? Has your dream been achieved, King? Can
your brothers and sisters living below the poverty line with their brother as a president consider themselves
equal now because the laws say they are? He told us the “yes we can” but has he achieved his American
Dream? Has he helped his brothers and sisters achieve their American Dream? Why because they have the
chance to achieve more. The same thing that they promised us all-a chance at the American Dream. Let me
tell you a little something that you don’t know. You don’t have a dream. Your dream is the American Dream
and honey that isn’t yours. It is the white man’s dream fed to you through the media so that, as Rick Ross
said, “You don’t even know it.” Your mind had been indoctrinated and tainted, and you don’t even know it.
You work hard like a horse in hopes of making it big, all the while you’re simply making the man at the top
bigger. They’ve sold you a dream meant to make you richer while stealing you blind. The American Dream
you bought is nothing but a contract with the new slave owner.
30
31
THE KIDNAPPING
By: Jessica Debrah
I kidnapped her. I took her to my house, promised her she could stay with me—no one would ever find out.
A decade later, this is one of the only childhood stories I can remember genuinely.
Standing in a straight line under the hot sun with my uncomfortably fixed posture, one of my classmates
leaned on my shoulder to whisper something to me as I noticed her bruises. In my native Twi tongue, a
Ghanaian language, I asked her about the bruise on her face, and she revealed her domestic abuse to me, her
mother’s constant beating on her. I devised a plan that my juvenile mind thought was genius: take her to my
house, lie to my family by telling them she is just coming to play with me, then have her slee p under my bed
at night.
The plan was unfolding accordingly until the darkness approached. Questions began roaming around about
why this girl was still in my house and in a couple of hours, the girl’s mother showed up and took her back
home.
I recall this memor y in the midst of my lost childhood in Ghana. I remember the essence of it though not
the specific details: not the way she looked, her complexion, her voice, or her body movements. Even now, I
find myself pondering which details are fact and which are imaginar y. I just remember the fabric and not
its specific threads.
A crazy stor y indeed, yet a decade later, I would still do it again, of course with better construction and
execution, because the desire to help and save humanity is still a great part of my being.
I care.
As some of my friends and peers have said to me several times, “[I’m] too sensitive” and “I care too much.”
It is this same attribute that some may mistake as a flaw that I believe makes me an amazing human being.
I care about human and world issues.
Two years ago, a peer of mine came up with the idea of creating an organization in school to combat the
food desert environment that we have in Newark – our community. I immediately joined this organization
and even as she left, my fellow peers and I continued the green movement at North Star. In addition, I am
ver y passionate about gender, sexual, and racial equality. Through my poetr y and prose, I use my words as a
tool to express my beliefs and share the horrors of inequality and the questions surrounding it.
My work with School Greens and my writing reflect my transition from the kidnapper to an effective leader.
However, while kidnapping was not the best solution, it was a solution. Under 10-years-old, immature and
ignorant, I saw a person in a horrible situation, and I could not stand idly.
I facilitate growth. I use my passion for writing and my love for the environment to move, shake, and change
the world.
THE DEPTHS OF FIRE
By: Himaayah Agwedicham
The perpetual DRIP DRIP of the leak in our roof created a rhythmic beat in my mind as my heart searched
for any song, any sign of life, to imitate. My callow sister, Brianna, a vulnerable, injured, animal awaiting
her fated oblivion, sat crouched huddled in my father’s secure lap. An invisible bond tethered my sister and
father and it was as if my sister was using the connection to drain and absorb my father’s energ y. By now,
our house had been completely submerged in murky water and all evidence of the life that once existed gently
drifted past our window. The drear y carpet was moist and the pungent odor of mildew cre pt up my nostrils
as it infested the atmosphere. My parents were fervently speaking in hushed, urgent tones, discussing the fate
of our entire family. For the first time ever, my father was completely bewildered and unpre pared for the
situation at hand. He had hoped that the water would stop eventually, but feared that looters would rob us
of our possessions if we left. If we stayed, our fates would be sealed; we could never escape our inevitable
demise. My hands were trembling as a hummingbird’s relentless wings. The miniscule leak became large
pours and the strength of the windows was slowly acquiescing to the pressure of the water. “Daddy, I’m
scared,” Brianna groused. He kissed her tenderly and whispered, “Me too,” as he caressed her damp cheek.
I clutched my diamond necklace, the item I cherished the most, as our carpet became sodden with cloudy
water. My heart began to beat in an erratic rhythm as if I were shocked with a frantic wave of electricity.
The most secure window made a daunting CREAK under pressure. A salty, warm liquid rolled down my
puffy cheeks and grazed my lips as the water pumped through a crevice in the door. The salty tear reminded
me that I was human and not a stationar y object, and that this was my new reality. I squeezed my clammy
hands together and my nerves sent an excruciating pain to my palms where I grasped the moist diamond.
The water crashed like miniature waves on the mahogany velvet couch that my mother laid on, paralyzed
with fear and the ever present possibility of death. The window ruptured and the frigid water eased up my
legs like thousands of ic y spiders with fatally poisonous fangs.
“Come, come sit next to me,” my father wearily beckoned. The water level had now risen to my abdomen, and
the ic y intruder was closer than ever to capturing my heart and imprisoning it into a box of ice. I floated
haphazardly to his frigid side. He was no longer with us. It was too late for my father. He was gone. The
current in my house was enough to make me feel powerless and feeble. Imagine what the waves out there can
do to my dead body… I grasped my necklace harder until I saw a crimson liquid flowing from my pale hands
and away in the dark abyss. Soon, standing stationar y was a battle that I was slowly, but surely, losing.
Tears were see ping from my jaded eyes. That was when we heard it. A foreboding CREAK came for the door.
Instantaneously, we all sprang up, erect like prairie dogs. My mind self-destructed and my heart surrendered
to the inevitable doom that was in our near futures. The rhythm of our hearts found each other and sang a
melodious song, one last time. We all remained still and the world was silent. Suddenly, our door, the barrier
that had protected us for all of our lives, let out a cr y of defeat against the ic y assailant.
I frantically scanned the room and all I could see was pure, unadulterated terror bleeding from my family’s
eyes. Brianna’s arms were glued to my father’s body with cement and she resembled a tiny, petrified koala
bear. My mother squeezed my stiff arm until she almost dislocated my shoulder, and I gritted my teeth
until a debilitating pain shot throughout my gums. Before impact, we all stopped breathing; we might as
well have been dead. The immense power of the water demolished our sad excuse of a door and our entire
house released a groan of pain. I gasped for air like a fish out of water as I heard Brianna’s frantic shrieks
bounce against the bending, cracking, and crushing sound of the destruction of our home. My lungs were
two huge chambers of iron and my eyes no longer showed signs of indifference, they screamed pure horror.
Our bodies bounced in the opaque water and our heads each pounded the ceiling at once. A cumbersome
object collided with my skull and my ears rang like never ending whistles. A maroon, viscous liquid blurred
my enervated vision red. As my vision gradually began to fade, small, brown spectral fingers were drifting
weightlessly in the filthy water above my head. A dwarfish body was bobbing in the water face down and
the surrounding water was tainted red. The last thing I saw was my necklace slowly fading into the hazy
water. And then darkness.
32
33
PLEASE DON’T TAKE HER
By: Chane Kaba
“Dylan, come on or we’re going to be late.” A man in his late forties shouted at a young boy who looked to
be around the age of six-years-old.
“Ok, Daddy, but you said there’s a present for me. Where is it?” Dylan questioned, his green eyes shown
confusion at the lack of presents in his father’s hands.
“Yeah, I know, but the present is in the car,” his dad said as he started to walk towards the mini-van. His
son walking behind, his eyes gleamed.
“Really, I can go and get it?” Dylan asked and seeing his dad nod, he began to run towards the car and
opened the car. Green eyes that seem to gleam few moments ago now seem to darken in anger. “Who is this?
You said I would like the present, but this is a…girl!”
“Come on Dylan, she asked me if she could come and I said yes.” His father explained, his own green eyes
shown understanding at his son’s anger, but also revealing mild annoyance.
“Can’t anyone else come with? Let’s take Alex or Tony, anybody but…her. Please don’t take that girl.”
“You don’t always get what you want, Dylan”
A new voice enters the conversation, but this time a female voice. “My name is Alison, butthead.” Dylan’s
eyes widen in surprise of her back talk, then narrow in retaliation. He goes in the car and sits in the seat,
a spark popped in his eyes. “This is a boy’s only trip…..” The car started and his father looks in the back
and sees the children still arguing. ‘You’ll thank me for this, Dy, when you’re older.’
15 Years Later
A couple walks out of the movie theaters, holding hands. The air screamed love.
“Alison you know, I love you,” the young man said, a smile playing against his lips.
“Actually, Dylan, I don’t think you do. Prove it.” Alison said with a grin on her face.
“Happily,” he whispered as he grabbed her face and kissed her. He has kissed her before, but this time it was
different. It was gentle and full of passion which could’ve gone forever but was stopped by deadly invader.
A stranger with a gun came and pulled Alison away from Dylan’s arms. His eyes crazed and dazed. He
pointed towards Alison’s head and said, “Give all your money or I will shoot her.”
“Ok man,” Dylan said, tr ying to calm down the enemy as he looked into Alison’s terrified eyes.
“Just listen to me and there won’t be a problem,” the robber said, his gun shaking against Alison’s head.
“You can take anything, but the girl. Please don’t take the girl,” Dylan plead as he reached into his pockets
34
and took out about 50 dollars and a golden watch that was given to him by his grandfather and threw it on
the ground next to the robber.
The robber pushed Alison towards Dylan and grabbed the items on the ground and ran away. The couple
embraced each other tightly in fear that if they let go of each other, they might disappear from their lives
forever.
“This will be some stor y to tell our kids. Won’t it?” Alison said, tears streaming down her face, but a smile
is graced upon her face.
Dylan look down on her and chuckled quietly, “Of course, you will think now.” He said and kisses her again.
‘God, I love you so much.’
5 Years Later
“Dylan!” Alison yelled. Dylan jump out of bed to meet his wife in the living room.
“Alison, you are supposed to be resting with your condition.” He lectured, his blonde hair sticking out of
place. In state of worr y, he failed to notice the puddle of water
“Dylan, my water broke.” Was all she said before Dylan dragged to the car and drove towards the hospital.
Dylan waited in the hallway, worried about the state that his wife and unborn were in. His mind still in
shock at what the doctor said.
“There are complications with the birth; your wife is bleeding out fast,” the doctor said.
“What? What about the about the baby, is the baby fine?” He rushed with his questions. His eyes
were shaken with terror and sadness.
“You have a beautiful girl,” the doctor said with smile of sadness and walked out of the room.
“Please, save her, you could have anything you want, but please don’t take the girl.” Dylan
looked pleadingly.
A nurse came out of the room and went to Dylan with a tired and pained look on her face. At the sound of
the footste ps, Dylan looked at the nurse and the first words that came out his mouth were,
“Is she ok?” His eyes frantic and scared, the nurse looks towards and graces him a smile that said,
“Ever ything is ok, now” He jumped out of his seat and ran toward the room, where the love of his life was.
‘I can’t believe this all started from a trip with my father.’ He thought to himself and opens the door.
35
DIRTY LAUNDRY
By: Grace Agbadou
Unlike the other kings in their region, King Koffi had promised his darling wife he would not marr y a second
wife for the sole purpose of having kids. He ke pt his word and continued to not only remain faithful to his
wife but he also never lost the hope of having a boy who would take over the kingship one day.
His perseverance paid off. On their twentieth wedding anniversar y, King Koffi and his wife Rose welcomed
a bounc y baby boy, they named John. He quickly became the apple of their eyes. He was their first and only
child. They showered him with all types of toys and clothes. He was destined to greatness.
On the other side of their small town, lived another king, King Yao and his wife Anne. They have been
married for about 12 years and had ten children, with Marie being the last one. Marie and John were born
exactly 2 years apart, John being older.
They attended the only school in their village and after brilliantly passing their baccalaureate exam, they
moved together to the capital city of Abidjan to pursue their education at the only university.
But before leaving their parents, John and Marie decided to make it officially known to their respective
families that they had chosen each other as partners for life, that they loved each other and as such, would like
to follow the traditional ste ps to make their relationship official.
So, John’s parents paid the dowr y to Marie’s family: $10.000, 2 cows and a whole host of other gifts. John’s
parents didn’t have any objection to the value of the dowr y. They were eager to see their son get married and
were hoping he would quickly give them some grand babies.
After their wedding, John and Marie moved to the United States.
John went to enroll in a master program at Rutger’s’ School of Business and his wife chose the medical field
and enrolled at The University of Medicine and Dentistr y.
They rented a cute apartment in Montclair, a town not far from their respective schools. They didn’t have to
work because they were financially supported by their families who generously sent them about $10000 ever y
month for their expenses, in addition to paying for their tuition.
Within two years, John completed his masters in economy and 3 months later, was offered an account manager
position at Citibank. He started with a six-figure salar y. As for Marie, she was in her second year in medical
school. So she continued to study for long hours, while her husband took care of the house work and the bills.
He had told his parents to stop sending them money because he made enough money to take care of things in
the States.
After a year with Citibank, John was promoted to the position of Executive Assistant to the Vice President
of Foreign accounts. This new position required a lot of traveling, which ke pt him away from home for days
at times.
Six months after his promotion, John realized he couldn’t take care of the house any longer. He called his
parents and asked them to send him a helper. This is a cheaper way to get help because a maid from the States
would be too costly.
Also, his parents have been pressuring him about having kids and he thought that with a helper, his wife would
be able to handle motherhood, although she was still in school.
However, he had not discussed starting a family with his wife. Years ago, they had agreed that they would
both finish school and get a job before starting a family. But his parents had aged and were worried that they
36
wouldn’t see their grandchildren before they were taken out of the land of the livings.
John also knew that his wife was adamant about starting a family only and only after finishing medical school.
So, he didn’t know how to discuss this issue with her. But he figured, with a maid, she might compromise.
During her first year of internship, Marie welcomed Nina to their home. Her husband never informed her. He
thought it would be a great surprise to his wife to know that she no longer needed to worr y about cooking and
cleaning the house. Indeed, Marie was pleasantly surprised and she quickly got accustomed to Nina.
She actually knew her from the village. She was about 5 years older than John and her. She got married ver y
young but the marriage only lasted two years. She was caught cheating on her husband so he divorced her.
She never remarried, nor did she have any kids. Although Nina was illiterate, she spoke flawless French, the
national language of their countr y, because she lived in the city.
She was also ver y smart. As soon as she arrived in the States, Marie enrolled her in some English classes and
within a year, she was able to speak conversational English, which helped her interact with people outside the
home. Marie trusted her. She even thought her how to pay the monthly bills, how to make bank transactions
and Nina learned to do these tasks ver y quickly.
Marie trusted her so much so that she even left her in the house alone for days as she worked hard to finish her
last year of medical school.
But her husband’s request to start a family grew bigger ever yday as his parents intensified the pressure on him.
Yet, he could not convince his wife. So he gave up asking.
One morning, Nina started throwing up. She was violently sick, but refused to go to the hospital.
A week later, John told his wife that Nina wanted to go and visit her brother in Canada. So she left and once
there, told Marie that she would stay for a little over a year. Marie thought that Nina was just tired and
needed a long break. She tried her best to handle the housework.
Meanwhile, John was always gone, either working until the wee hours of the night or on a mission overseas
for days
Nina returned to Marie’s house about a year and half after she left with that mysterious sickness.
At this point, Marie had gotten pregnant and was expecting a baby boy. She was 5 months along.
Nina took good care of her, making sure she took good care of the house.
Four months later, John and Marie welcomed their first baby boy, Paul-John Kofi. Their parents couldn’t
be any happier. They made their parents proud. John was thrilled and the little family enjoyed life ever yday.
Marie was now a heart surgeon. So the couple was well to do and with their large salaries, purchased a
beautiful mansion in a nice and quiet neighborhood. They gave ever ything to their son who grew into a
brilliant boy like his father.
When he turned 18, his parents sent him to Canada to spend a year at the University of Toronto as a study
abroad student in Economy like his father.
It was there that he met a beautiful young girl name Angelica. They quickly became friends and soon were
inse parable.
After he completed the year long study, Paul-John (PJ) returned to the States. While there, he had talked
37
about Angelica to his parents so much that they couldn’t wait to meet her. So, when she came on vacation the
following summer, John and Marie were happy to open their home to her.
But that was not the case for Nina, their house lady. As soon as she saw Angelica, she became apparently
troubled. She started asking her all kinds of questions, about her parents. She informed her that she was
adopted by a ver y nice family. She never knew her parents. But she adored her adoptive parents.
Nina’s curiosity grew. She wanted to know if Angelica had had the opportunity to find her mother, she would.
But the young lady told her that it didn’t make a difference to her. She never thought about her because she
never knew her.
Nina started paying attention to Angelica’s ever y move. As the days went on, she became sadder and more
worried. Then one day, she asked Angelica to go to the beach with her, all alone, without John-Paul, which
they did.
For the first time, Nina saw Angelica’s body and couldn’t believe her eyes. There was a scar on her upper left
thigh. She held the young lady in her arms, looked at her straight in the eyes and said: “I knew it. A Mother’s
instincts...”
All confused, Angelica didn’t know what to say, nor could she understand what was being said to her.
Nina proceeded: “19 years ago, when I became violently sick, Mr. Koffi sent me to Canada to take a break
from work and spend time with my brother. However, the true reason was that I was pregnant by him and he
had to find a way to hide that from his wife. Once in Canada, he only sent me money ever y week. He never
asked about the baby because a few months later, his wife got pregnant too. So he told me that I could do what
I wanted with my baby. So after giving birth, I had no choice but to give the baby up for adoption. I knew it
was a close adoption and that I might never see my baby again so I purposely left a mark on her left upper
tight. I cut her with a razor. The hospital thought I was crazy and dangerous to my baby. They took her and
I never saw her again...”
At this time, Angelica’s tears were rolling on her cheeks. She just realized that the young man she loved and
had thought she would be with for the rest of her life, was in fact her brother.
BROAD & C ENT RAL
­— presents —
WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS...
Poetic Selctions from our Middle School Family of Artists
DOWNTOWN • CLI N TO N H I L L • V A I L S BURG • W E S T S I D E PA RK
39
A LETTER TO MY TELEVISION
By: Tia Suggs
Brainwashed by the light-skinned
Young eyes perceive it’s the only beauty
Young women, black women
Expressing themselves through nudity.
Tight clothes, showing breasts
Being sexy is always best
You told me it’s how you get the boys
I learned that my body is a man’s toy.
Brainwashed by the minstrel coon
Young eyes perceive that surely soon
They’ll be pants sagging, gun slinging in the streets
Causing their own character to be gunned down,
Without anything to kee p.
My young brother admires Lebron James
His eyes perceive being on the court
Can be his only fame.
As he wears a headband
And shoots paper into the trashcan,
He no longer focuses on his education
But he focuses on having future fans.
You!
Look at what you exposed our young eyes to!
You had young females wearing makeup as their disguise
And young males, changing their character to live
Their life as a lie.
Our generation is enslaved to you,
And I’m sure you will strive to allow
The slaver y to continue…
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DEAR DOUGLASS
By: Kiah Ster n
Dear Douglass,
My eyes are open now.
I can see the blood in the pond where Demby was shot
Tasteful to the sinner, a halo of red
I can see the knots on Mar y’s head
The lashes upon lashes bedded down on backs
The teeth the dogs bared, on their track
I can see the sorrow-filled eyes of the over-worked,
Cotton-picking and cotton planting where the pain always lurked.
The torn and battered hands of the tired
Towing and planting until they expire
Dear Douglass,
My ears are clean now
The cracks of the cow-skin and the flickering of the whip
Makes my toes curl and my stomach flip.
I can hear the screams of the torn
As another mulatto is born
But, do you see what I see?
A man, skin as if indigo, clear as midnight
He could have been a runaway
But today,
Today, he’s a graduate of Brown University
With a diploma to his name.
So, dear Douglass, your dream is coming true.
No more whippings, no more picking:
Your Star has led us to freedom.
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DEHUMANIZATION
By: Cheaka Wilson
I am not human
And it’s because of him
He had skin as black as coal
Ink, black hair that curled ominously into horns
White, sharp teeth that twisted into a shark tooth grin
Height that made him tower over those that trembled beneath him.
Yank! Snatch
He captured me by my hair
Sharp nails digging into my scalp
And threw me against an unforeseen concrete wall
Where I trembled and shook with terror.
“You’re NOTHING!!”
He spat the words harshly
That burned like acid upon my skin
“I am nothing,”
I re peat.
He hurts me
Badly
Kick
My ribs crack
Punch
My vision blackened
Blood accumulates into a puddle
My crimson red puddle.
“You’re NOTHING!!”
He spat the words harshly
That burned like acid upon my skin
“I am nothing,” I re peat.
“I am nothing,”
Less than human
Because
“I AM NOT HUMAN!”
42
MOMMA’S B LACK LEATHER STRAP
By: Izhane Parrish
Roscoe was his name
He had no shame to his game
He hung upon the coat rack with much pride
As I was so scared to look of his eyes.
When I was a baddie
And momma got Maddie
Roscoe came right around
Roscoe came swinging
Roscoe came poppin’
Roscoe came stoppin’
On my legs creating red
Booty all heated
With tears much more hot
Oh how Roscoe made me cr y a lot!“Roscoe please don’t beat me.”
“Master please don’t beat me.”
But pop went the whip
That soon took a trip
Down memor y lane.
Where there was passed down ways of abuse—
In times when the average black often went to misuse.
But I deserved it right?
Because I was disobedient?
Momma open your eyes to the open cuts and meat again.
Momma can’t you see your Brown skin turnwhite?
As your whip punctures wounds in my soultonight.
Creating a monster that’s still full of fright.
Momma please put Roscoe down—
I don’t want to be a slave again.
Roscoe just go.
You’ve done enough.
I can’t take my smooth back once again.
Becoming scruff.
43
THE POWER OF ART
By: Jordan Horton
44
SALT OF LIFE
By: Amir Ballard
45
NORMA JEANE
By: Rosemarie Archer
46
FAITH
By: Nigel Harvey
47
STILL
By: Mikaela Sam-Hinton
48
MELODIOUS
By: Jordan Horton
49
NIR VANA
By: Mishak Sam-Hinton
50
B ROA D& CE NT RA L
By: Mr. McCluskey
I con words —
Turn inside and outside
and upside around —
I con verse —
I’ll defy a nation
through conversation
to create a converse nation,
a reversal of the status quotation —
A disciple of change,
I’ll rage on this stage
Take the words off the page and I’ll spit ‘em
Hard.
I’ll spit ‘em
quick —
I’ll spit ‘em until they really stick —
I’ll take it state by state
To Cali and Prop 8
I’ll stand on a soapbox
outside of PA Avenue have you heard
what I’m tellin’ you?
The word, the rhyme, the inner-mind
Are all wrapped up in this
Little aside.
A sidewalk philosopher
Conversing Broadly but
hittin’ the heart of the matter,
Centrality of heart,
Centrality of mind,
just spittin’ my rhymes
on
Broad and Central.
Write & Be Embraced
Draw & Be Celebrated
Create & Be Remembered
Vo l. 4 I ssue 2 , C om i ng Soon
By: Timeese Townes
E X P R E S S YO UR S E L F
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