Barely April

a poetry chapbook

Aditya Kumar
Amani Hayes-Messinger
Anamaria Menenses
Brianna Cox
Chrys Tran
Gregory Stewart
Isabel Diawara

JoNella Queen Ellerbe

Justice Gaines
Kayla Thomas
Kristin Ramcharan
Lee Lee
Mae Verano
Mari Bugayong

Maya Finoh
Nia Campinha-Bacote
Paige Morris
Sam Lin-Sommer
Sierra Edd
Sheena Raza Faisal
Sonja John

+This is a part of Brown in a Box, and these our some of our experiences
with being Brown that have stayed with us.
+At Brown weve found a community of not only poets, but activists,
dreamers, and survivors.
+Our poetry is healing and resistance. It is art, discovery and magic. It is
our active enaction of the revolutionary act of living. Of practicing self
love and and often surviving unrequited love. These poems are dedicated
to our ancestors, ourselves, loved ones, past present, and future Brown
students.
+Especially if theyre a shade of Brown.

Aditya Kumar
Look Ive been here when Im gone
Im never here when Im on and when you hearin this song
Just know, thats still me from the bay
Just know, that I try to mean what I say
Just know, that I got some bills and a school and some rhymes and its cool but
right now I really wanna go, just go
Me and you are talkin now
Bout the weather, its still something to talk about
I hope that we can move on from where we ended
I admitted my decisions, I regretted how I left it, okay
Im tryna live by the day, cause it making me numb
Tryna ignore what you say, cause its making me run
The worst part about it is knowing at some point Im gon run right back in the
mindstate that Im from, damn
God, Im one man tryna make new plans
But I cant, doomed to do it, and do it,do it again
Go through it, usual shit, just to go pursue it again
Build myself and break it down just to build it all up again, then Im running

Amani Hayes-Messinger
I was named by a white woman and a black woman
Amani Ariella Calissia Hayes Messinger
There is no easy way to say, that when I was born, I was given five names
two moms
a Jewish home
and a death sentence
I am nineteen and I still havent figured out a way to introduce myself
without erasing pieces of my identity
layers of skin ripped off until I am raw
It isnt as if I can walk into a room and say this
Amani. Ariella Calissia Hayes-Messinger. Black. White. Biracial. Jewish. Two moms.
One sperm donor.
No.
Amani has come to be synonymous with sorry
I walk into rooms apologies already tumbling from my lips
Sorry that America has conditioned you to think that Black girls cant be Jewish
That mixed girls cant be fully, anything
Sorry, that my presence confuses you
But my moms, they didnt name me sorry, they named me this.
Amani
I am not from a country where they speak Swahili
and yet, they call me Amani
Swahili for peace
Because they liked it
Because it was pretty
Because they were gifting me qualities they hoped I would have
Because they wanted to represent my African ancestry
but I am not from a country in which they speak Swahili
and my name has forgotten what it means to be a nigerian
Ariella
Lioness of God

Since I was I born I have prayed in temples, gone to Hebrew school to learn the alphabet
that has christened me Ariella
Aleph Resh Aleph Lamed Hei Yud
I cannot understand a word they say in services
I have lost the tongues my ancestors spoke with and
the whispers from their graves are not enough for me to relearn histories
this is what I think of during the Yom Kippur fast
As I daven, white dress, white people
the whiteness that has made me apologize for being a biracial black jew
Calissia
Why in the world would you give a girl with two last names two middle names?
As if I didnt have enough, as if I needed
Yet another word to differentiate me from every other person in the room
At night, Id drop syllables, rearrange letters in an effort to make my name more normal
Something like Sara or Rachel or Anna
Contorting, until my name, my identity, was unrecognizable
Calissia is a plant, whose common name is wandering jew
I am wandering Jew a wondering Jew
But that is not why they gave me this name, I dont know why they gave me this name
Hayes
This name comes from a man who I have never met
I suppose you could call him my grandfather, but Im not even sure if my mother calls him
her father, because hes never mentioned
Its interesting how names can come to mean something different
How Hayes with the hyphen that binds it to Messinger
Has come to mean LGBTQ friendly
LGBTQ ally
The daughter of a Black lesbian woman who married a white Jewish woman
who gave birth to their daughter

A young girl to whom Hayes has come to mean

I do not need to have given you blood to be giving you life
Messinger
My grandmother pronounces it Messinger
My mom says Messinger
I never know if I should correct people when they say it wrong, or if its wrong
Brass Worker
The Messingers must have been brass workers
Living somewhere among the boarders of what was then the soviet union
Germany, Poland, Russia, Ukraine
I do not know precisely where this name is from
Only that it has come here, to this country, by way of Ellis Island
Where, chop, chop, chop
Pieces of it were thrown into the atlantic never again to be known
These were the Messingers who made it, but I cant help but wonder if some were
Shot in Bergen-Belsen, gassed in Auschwitz
Stamped with numbers and killed, never again to be known
Sometimes its hard to remember
that these are descendants of the hands that pluck, pluck, pluck
picked the cotton
are reminders of the feet that calloused through forty years of Egyptian desserts
that this is the spine that holds both of those together
stronger than the spines of books whose pages have dissected my histories apart
taught me that this is black and this is jewish
there are no jewish black girls
And if I dont introduce myself as Amani Ariella Calissia Hayes-Messinger does this mean
that I am discounting where I come from, that I am failing now to break the chains of my
ancestors, two sets of them slaves?
I do not know. I may never know. Because I am still learning how to be the biracial jewish girl
with two moms and five names.

hi. Put it in a Poem: A Letter to a Lost Friend

Ananaria Menenses
I Put this in a Poem because I know you don't want to hear it.
Full tuition, full room and board
If my stomach was still growling, I would make it full of doubts.
Doubts about what it meant to be on that scholarship.
A scholarship that meant a completely different experience than that of my peers.
Their aid from the bosom and mine from a once long-fight with the Brown Financial Board.
Yes I am blessed. Yes I am thankful. But, let me talk about this for a second.
When I first got to college I did not know what I was thinking. I thought, there should be
Some
People like me. People who see their father work 13 hours a day in as a delivery man. People
who actually don't see their father that much come to think of it. People who have to explain
to friends that they live in a basement.
What I got was: nice people. Kind smart loving all that good shit. But there was something
missing.
There was trips to the bookstore to buy new versions of textbooks that I didn't go to.
There was dinners to restaurants. Parents taking the weekend off. Camps that were bonded
over.
It was unfamiliar territory.
And to you? My professors deans highly educated professionals? What was I to all of you?
What am I seen as, exactly? Diversity? A new voice they can discuss intellectually, but without
heart?
What really I am is An example the Dean of the College can
Give at a dinner party when she is asked, hey hows work?
Its being able to point at a student and say we brought her here
But the conversation stops there. After sensationalizing years of budgeting and working to
capital G-e-t Ahead
They want to know no more because then the issue of my familys income becomes a real
thing.
What their emotions see is Guilt or Indignant. Question never makes it through their lips.
WHY are you so uncomfortable when I talk about payless? Come back from work? Reference
the dollar store?
Why does that scare you so much?
To Whom It Should Concern:
I never meant to scare you away, friend. I only wanted to be able to talk about your home life
friend. I wanted you to accept me and talk about my dad's job without flinching.
Speak to you civilly soon, Anamaria.

Summertime, Bloody Cotton

Brianna Cox
*summertime and the livin is easy*
this past summer
late august
I frolicked through providence streets in long floral dresses
and sat on greens sipping tea, happy to be happy, happy to be me in college, and alive.
But Mike Brown was dead.
three months later, late november, America tells me for the hundredth that black lives dont
matter
and Mike Browns killer was not guilty of hateful, murderous things.
the day the verdict trickled down from courts and into the veins of the city, and I watched
from my car window in horror as at least 45 police cars zoomed up manhattan to go put
down the peaceful protesters in Times Square like the animals they were told they were
//
Some say the darker the berry the sweeter the juice/
I say the darker the flesh then the deeper the roots/
So stick the metal bullet right in and pull it through
/ until its dripping wet succulent flesh gushing like juice
/from a grapefruit
/or blood from a body.
Walk down the street
/and if you happen to be near a man in blue, fear
For this country
Is the one that plays Russian Roulette, random capital punishment style: death by bigot with
gun.
Hands up or hands down, you choose
No matter what, hell still shoot.
One shot, six shots, maybe two
No matter what, to society youve paid your dues
just another black body disposed by guys in blue
Left out in the streets

The strangest fruit you ever did see

Skin dark like the skin of my brothers and me
Rotting flesh and blood sending off odors into the air
that the lifeless body can no longer breathe
I seethe
I seethe for centuries of souls tortured
braced for the violence to be perpetrated against them inevitably
Black mothers cry when their children die and some are heard by
others, lawmakers, Obama
but not even their tears or voices can fill the voids they cry out into looking for their sons
Their sons will never breathe again
Their sons will never feel again
Their sons will never think again
Their sons will never live again
Their sons will never fall in love or taste new icecream flavors or feel the sun that radiates and photosynthesizes the daisies pushed up by the grass covering the dirt covering
their grave and chestnut maple caskets six feet under the ground that their murderers
are free to walk upon.
Their sons will never fall in love or taste new icecream flavors or feel the sun that radiates and photosynthesizes the daisies pushed up by the grass covering the dirt covering
their grave and chestnut maple caskets six feet under the ground that their murderers
are free to walk upon.

America, the land of the free. The free is white and black bodies are the land owned,
to be colonized, and rigged of life and opportunity
America, do you know how many times you have failed my brothers and me?
America, please hear me when I say that I am tired of hearing you and all your big
white houses of big white representatives deny racisms existence
America, your police forces are organized, brutalizing gangs.
America, our families are tired
America, I am tired
America, I have power
AMERICA
You ought to take one good look
At yourself and lawbooks
And think about all the lives justifiably took
America,
I am crying.
A people is crying.
Dont silence my people, we are trying
Those of us you havent killed, that is
My hope is undying
This is a battle for life, a people is crying.
//
it is warm outside again. I wonder how many more black kids wont make it to college
this fall.
*summertime and the living is easy, fish are jumping and the cotton is high.
oh your daddys rich, and your ma is good looking. so hush little baby dont you cry.*

Junkyard
Chrys Tran
Before I left home
I planted my old memories in red soil
Hid parts of me all over town
Maybe with time
Something good could flower here
My first time back
I discover my car became utility bills
My favorite pancake house a parking lot
But my ugliest memory had overgrown its burial
Blossoming into a junkyard
I wade through this wasteland
Hoping to find something beautiful
And there it is! a single firefly blooming
Then another and another
Until this junkyard torches into a riot of fireflies
How could something putrid illuminate so pretty
But underneath this
Theres nothing but dirt
I was a child when a man first reached in
His wrinkled hands like earthworms
He left my memory an untamed wild
My throat a hollow botany
Unable to cultivate the word no
For years, I buried this shame in my own body
Prayed for the loss of memory
Prayed memory would one day ask
Howd all this ugly get here anyway
This man took root in me
Left a landfill spilling out of my mouth
Weeds wrapped around my wiring
Every nightmare drags me back through the mud
But my first winter back home
I still find the lonely planted here

When a new man plows this red soil

Uprooting everything
My mouth unfolds the word no and no and no
But he refuses to listen
His hands like vines coiled around my mouth
Unearthing the junkyard in me
Ever since the first man, I have carried these mounds of filth
Where curious hands have always rusted
Scavenged through until they found what they wanted
Have I ever been more than a no mans land
Always sprouting in mens teeth
Always made to swallow my no
Violence is all I have to bury
People want to hear stories of triumph and survival
Healed wounds and glorious recovery
Now that Im away from home
I still search for fireflies
To cover all this wreckage
Most days
I pull up glowing metaphors to explain this hurt
My heart an anxious riot
My voice an untamable wild
My body its own landfill
But no matter how many metaphors I have
To make this hurt beautiful
I am a repeat victim of sexual violence
I know survival is an everyday process
Its hard to leave my bed most days
And every time I try to admit this to myself
I hope fireflies dont drip out of my mouth
This truth is nothing but an overgrowth of ugly

Before I left home

I planted my old memories in red soil
Hid parts of me all over town

Maybe with time

Something good could flower here
My first time back
I discover my car became utility bills
My favorite pancake house a parking lot
But my ugliest memory had overgrown its burial
Blossoming into a junkyard
I wade through this wasteland
Hoping to find something beautiful
And there it is! a single firefly blooming
Then another and another
Until this junkyard torches into a riot of fireflies
How could something putrid illuminate so pretty
But underneath this
Theres nothing but dirt
I was a child when a man first reached in
His wrinkled hands like earthworms
He left my memory an untamed wild
My throat a hollow botany
Unable to cultivate the word no
For years, I buried this shame in my own body
Prayed for the loss of memory
Prayed memory would one day ask
Howd all this ugly get here anyway
This man took root in me
Left a landfill spilling out of my mouth
Weeds wrapped around my wiring
Every nightmare drags me back through the mud
But my first winter back home
I still find the lonely planted here

When a new man plows this red soil

Uprooting everything
My mouth unfolds the word no and no and no.
But he refuses to listen
His hands like vines coiled around my mouth
Unearthing the junkyard in me
Ever since the first man, I have carried these mounds of filth
Where curious hands have always rusted
Scavenged through until they found what they wanted
Have I ever been more than a no mans land
Always sprouting in mens teeth
Always made to swallow my no
Violence is all I have to bury
People want to hear stories of triumph and survival
Healed wounds and glorious recovery
Now that Im away from home
I still search for fireflies
To cover all this wreckage
Most days
I pull up glowing metaphors to explain this hurt
My heart an anxious riot
My voice an untamable wild
My body its own landfill
But no matter how many metaphors I have
To make this hurt beautiful:
I am a repeat victim of sexual violence
I know survival is an everyday process
Its hard to leave my bed most days
And every time I try to admit this to myself
I hope fireflies dont drip out of my mouth
This truth is nothing but an overgrowth of ugly

Mirror
Gregory Stewart
Into myself I am subsumed
My mind is consumed
By the things which I presume to be
Conflated by desires
My dreams, goals, needs;
Things, which should inspire
Betterance
A progression, a growth
But this is flawed in essence
The disconnect between
Who I am
Who I want to be
And who I actually will be
Are conflated by reality
More specifically
Complexities of things I have control over
Complexities of agency of control itself
I keep telling myself
Where I should be and whom I should be with
Forgetting the person
With a heart and soul
Ive been told
That my gait is very defined;
That I walk with purpose
I always seem to know where Im going
What Im doing
What my next move is
Sadly this isnt so
Somehow though
The self my mind has constructed
Has instructed my body
To appear as such
But still
A constant flux lies beneath
Purpose is entirely out of reach
But still somehow
Within my direction
The pretenses upon which I perform perfection
Are inherently flawed
So when my mind finally thaws and cracks
Reality sinks in
And out comes the truth the proof
That chaos not peace lies at the root

It used to be
That as I would look upon the glass
I could see
But not recognize
Dissonance between fantasy
And the real
The inconsistencies
Had attached meanings
Qualitatively foreign
Thus comforting in the knowledge
That above all
Someone, something existed beyond
But now as I look upon the glass
It shatters
The pieces scatter
To ends unknown
So that that when I try to pick up the pieces
The memory of the image is no longer shown
The pieces mean nothing
That something
Is blurred
My mind is deterred from the image
The reflection
The conception of self
The concept of a mirror
Is gone.
The reflection has been inflected
At an angle
Some new dimension
Upon which I have no conception
No understanding
But I keep standing
Trying to understand
Who is that man?
Or perhaps whom that man was
Because as I look into the mirror
It couldnt be clearer
That he now is not
And maybe he never even was
The ray of light intercepts
But instead of presenting colors manifest
Shows a lucid transparency of death.

Hunters on the Horizon

Isabel Diawara
It used to be
That as I would look upon the glass
I could see
But not recognize
Dissonance between fantasy
And the real
The inconsistencies
Had attached meanings
Qualitatively foreign
Thus comforting in the knowledge
That above all
Someone, something existed beyond
But now as I look upon the glass
It shatters
The pieces scatter
To ends unknown
So that that when I try to pick up the pieces
The memory of the image is no longer shown
The pieces mean nothing
That something
Is blurred
My mind is deterred from the image
The reflection
The conception of self
The concept of a mirror
Is gone.
The reflection has been inflected
At an angle
Some new dimension
Upon which I have no conception
No understanding
But I keep standing
Trying to understand
Who is that man?
Or perhaps whom that man was
Because as I look into the mirror
It couldnt be clearer
That he now is not
And maybe he never even was
The ray of light intercepts
But instead of presenting colors manifest
Shows a lucid transparency of death.

So I looked for Our space

But it rested in something between memory and dream
Color had distanced us
With time and place
You stood near tall prisons
And empty rooms;
They had your name on them
I lived tangentially to find that I was in danger
Of blinded bias, artificial inclusion
In danger of loaded titles
And assimilation
I reached to surface empathy
And instead found potent greed
Bellowed like a ribbon
Converting mass to ash
With latent fires
Of manipulated pity
Still I entered
Foreign rooms
With hidden minds
And looked into open space
To find what was mine
Again and Again and Again
And Again and Again
And Again
And

Amazing Grace
JoNella Queen
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
The Transatlantic slave trade, lasted for approximately
Four centuries from 1502-1820
This globalization was the active stripping of the humanity of over 10 million African
women men and children of God
In 1492 Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue in search of God, Gold, and
Glory
There he invaded land inhabited by Lucayans, Tanos and Arawaks
Indigenous people
My ancestors
Spreading knowledge of Christ while facilitating a genocide of
Gods creation
The Bible says:
thou shall not murder Native people
thou shall not steal Native land
thou shall not commit adultery to Native women
thou shall not covet the land of Native people
Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
Columbus once said: No one should fear to undertake any task in the name of our
Saviour, if it is just and if the intention is purely for His holy service.
But his very existence is
a disservice to my God and my people.
Native slavery was soon replaced by African slavery once the trade began

And Columbus son is said to have been the first African slaveholder in the new
world
Providence Rhode Island was founded for religious freedom and tolerance
It was also the center of the transatlantic slave trade
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
The Bible says: Honor your father and your mother.
Thou shall not take the name of the LORD your God in vain.
The actions of colonists and conquistadors have violated both of these commandments
And grace my fears relieved
Middle Passage
Sometimes I wonder why I have such a spiritual affinity for the beach, the ocean
Perhaps its because the waters holds ghosts of my ancestors
I wonder why I feel so close to God at sea
Is he reminding me of the waters majesty and His Mercy
Or is it a reminder of where I came from
An escape to him and the warm embraces of my estranged family
My mother doesnt like that
I can hold my breath underwater for so long because she doesnt want to
Let go
Let God take her baby away
Half of the enslaved Africans died on their way to the New World.
If disease didnt kill them many sought premature endings to their lives
Suicide
Drowning
Mothers often threw their children overboard so that they wouldnt have to be
slaves in the New WorldColumbus once said: No one should fear to undertake any
task in the name of our Saviour, if it is just and if the intention is purely for His
holy service.
But his very existence is
a disservice to my God and my people.
Native slavery was soon replaced by African slavery once the trade began

I wonder if a body tumbles into the water in the Atlantic Ocean during a storm does it
make a sound?
Does anyone flinch as they see the light go out of a daughters eyes?
Or is it absolutely silent when Gods hands or the waves surround and encompass her
like the way alcohol catches fire when you light a match?
Is anything different after the fact?
My chains are gone
Ive been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy reigns
Unending love, amazing grace
New World
Brown University was founded in 1764
Twenty years before slavery was abolished in
Rhode Island
It would be 110 years before slavery was abolished in Puerto Rico
This year, Brown University celebrates 250(+)
The Transatlantic Slave trade lasted for twice as long as Browns history
It took 250 years to erect a slave memorial here
The slave memorial is located on the Quiet Green in the patch of grass in front of the
Chapel
I like to think this is the perfect location
Because by the grace of God and
the struggle of my ancestors
prayers
and hard work
I am at Brown
And even though this place was not made for people like me but
by people like me I know
The Lord has promised good to me
His word my hope secures
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures

Brown University
Justice Gaines
semester i
feel alone
transition to a world you thought was made for you
worry that you dont belong here
be afraid of never finding your place
try everything you did in high school to find a place
feel disconnected
wait a while
find a home in a lounge
find voices to talk to you
find bodies to hug you
learn how to be Black in this white place
feel renewed
feel better
less alone
say you love it here
love it here
semester ii
quit everything you did from high school here
allow friendships to grow
continue to try things you didnt do before here
dance
drink more
kiss people
like it all
find something to fight for
start looking for a voice
question everything
question the reasons you are here
still like it here
still love it here
semester iii
find an identity
embrace your identity quickly
proclaim it
join a community you desperately needed
lose a community you desperately needed
protest
yell
organize
speak
confirm people are listening
become infamous

grieve for a lost job

grieve for a missed experience
fight to have the experience
fail
cry

discover you are weaker than you thought

discover you are more compassionate than you thought
rediscover you are Black
question this place
dislike it here
hate here
semester ivsemester vi
return here
be here
hate here
love here
find yourself
found yourself
shout yourself
become of here
know who you are now
know who you are here
know who you are
edit later
use your new voice
use your old voice
use the indoor voice they thought you didnt have
use the outdoor voice when you feel like it
commune with lost friends
make them unlost
commune with new friends
keep secrets with one them
begin to challenge your identity
begin to write
begin to come out insidiously
feel more comfortable
feel more stable
learn how ignorant you are
learn how much pain other people are in
stand with them as best you can
love it here
hate it here
be so ambivalent about being here

semester v
realize you are whole
tell others new words for yourself
be happy you can be you now
learn how to be you now
grieve for the you that never was
be a good student
do your work
sleep only when the work is done
sleep only after your body has broken down
pull all-nighters
pull many all-nighters in a row
ask for extensions
ask for forgiveness
be a scholar instead of a fighter
still have a voice just quieter
hate this place for new reasons
contemplate suing it for your burnout
make it out alive
feel exhausted here
exhaust yourself here
semester vi
return here
be here
hate here
love here
find yourself
found yourself
shout yourself
become of here
know who you are now
know who you are here
know who you are
edit later

Poetry shit
Kayla Thomas
I am a summer born August baby
conceived by a Jamaican and Trini tropical storm
my brown skin glistens in the sun
curly arm hairs stand on end
My face, warmed by the summer heat, confined by a frizzy mane
reaches towards the sky like a blossoming flower
Ironically, winter is my favorite season
I was born a flower in a frigid storm. A blanket of snow embraced me
since the first time i emerged from the slit in my mothers abdomen
Heat has never been my forte,
warmth was always something made
something found
amongst friends. family
some remnants of Jamaican heat caught in the folds of
collars
in suitcase pockets
pieces to put together
When I went home for the first time last october
I noticed that the red paint coating my house was chipped
I felt the front gate squeak and scrape against the cracked urban sidewalk
The urban sidewalk
This was urban
It is hard to notice poverty when it has engulfed your life
but a taste of wealth and there is no going back
I cannot fill my stomach with prosperity just to go home to an empty fridge
substance does not wait for me there
I have learned for so long to live on water and hope
but the water is now drowning me
Ive forgotten how to swim
Dark depths beacon me
they whisper We have muffins
And food
and magical meal swipes
at your disposal
Come eat with us
gorge on filtered water
on soup that will round your belly
and lectures that feed the mind
the ego

we do not talk about class here

about your private tutors
and maids
your nannies or cooks
sports I have never heard of
what the fuck is equestrian even
or crew
I am not condemning you
Just fascinated by this other life you live
I wonder
how many times your mother has pawned jewelry
to pay bills
rented out rooms and basements for groceries
traded in weekends for overtime
how many times she has had to tell you
that if somebody points a gun to your head
you do as they say
that if the police calls you over you respond yes sir and no maam
and try to mention that you go to Brown
as many times as you can
memorize the badge number
My mother polices my body because she knows
that If my upper thighs are showing
the men in my neighborhood talk to me more
follow me in vans
what she doesnt know is that it happens nonetheless
that men have tried to coerce me into their cars
joked about damaging my body
tearing skin and parting thighs
as my black hoodie and shabby jeans cradled me
clinging closer to my frame
with every undressing glare
Being poor and black and woman is
a flower trying to blossom in the midst of a winter storm
icy petals wither and fall to the ground
The world wants me
it wants me not
it wants me
it wants me not
Being poor and black and woman is
forever waiting for summer to come

Still Learning
Kristin Ramcharan
I found trophies in a photo box once, of my father
of a hero that rolled around on vanity and family pride
I found journals in a drawer with my own stories and my own truthsonce
Because I had meanings to go over in my head and boys to compete with,
I used to dance my stress away.

Now I cry more than I thought possible

two feet without shifting my sorrows from one side to the next .
speak harshly to failure, not allowing it to pass.
but thats how I gained my balance, thats how I learned to stand on
I love you dad. Thank you for teaching me how to stand in reality and

Freshman
Lee Lee
Suprisingly, work hasnt been my biggest struggle at Brown
And although we are encouraged to take space and make space, all this tugging
and pulling still suffocates me
There is no place to go to be alone
To cry
To hide
No privacy
My roommate is always there at the wrong times
Im sure she feels the same
I have been homesick every night for a month
On breaks, I return to the hood of Jersey, Trenton
Before I leave, my grandma reminds me not to forget where I come from
As if that is even possible
I wish it was possible but the contrasts between the Hill of Providence and the
slums of Jersey are too distinct
I feel guilty living on this privileged hill
With a meal plan
Browns healthcare
And all of these macbooks
I dont want to blend
Dont want to be privileged
I want to stay connected to my community
Yet, I too have a mac

I feel guilty
My sister cant even go to the hospital because she fears the bill
She doesnt have insurance
She doesnt have a meal plan
She works fulltime and deals with this college shit, alone
While Im here amongst so much support
How can I forget where Ive come from when I havent moved?
Going home for winter and spring break wont let me forget
My classmates will forever remind me where I come from
Midterms come and go as the days
Always running
Never stopping to enjoy the little things
And the joy they bring
Indie Irie
I miss grandma
Boma
Priscilla
Ro
Tyquell
Joshy
In that order
Dont tell Joshy, that its in order
I have to keep reminding myself that this is only my first year here
Calm my horses
Stop comparing myself to others
Love will come
Friends will come
The time will come
Wait on it

PROTOCOL PERFECTED
Mae Verano
the year: two thousand six
I am in the 5th grade when the phone rings
and my teachers pale face speaks for itself
this drill is a game I know all too well
we fall into our ranks
assume the position
close the blinds, turn off the lights
we raise backpack barricades in silence
we are protocol perfected
children who live and breathe our own survival
home is
East Side San Jose
now known as a crime-riddled ethnoburb
your modern day ghetto
Latino, Filipino and Vietnamese children caught in the middle of the code
red
fingers already knowing how to cradle last breaths
ready to let go at any moment
time -- slows -- to the beat --- of his footsteps
his gun -- still swinging just outside the door
there we sat
waiting for the help that never came
others call this terror
but to me, this is just another tuesday

two thousand twelve

the Sandy Hook tragedy has ignited school shooting trainings
all over the nation
My predominantly white high school runs its very first drill
and I realize I am the only one who knows the rules to this game
it is no coincidence that when my room
is chosen as the fake target
my classmates fall into paralysis
erupts into panic
i stand there silent amidst the chaos
assume the position
I have been trained to be
protocol perfected
im used to brown body blood hitting hopscotch pavement
war zone playgrounds and riot ready curriculum
I know what it is like
for your body to be a bullseye
this skin both a blessing and a death sentence
it is no coincidence that people of color are used to standing
in the face of violence
in two thousand fourteen
an article is released declaring
inner-city youth are now experiencing
Hood Disease
a mental illness caused by growing up in a ghetto
a term unrecognized by psychologists everywhere
this fake diagnosis lets me know
real PTSD is only found in foreign countries and headlining news
real PTSD only happens to killers, not the ones being killed

my country wont let me name MY suffering and MY pain

with a white mans words

it is now two thousand fifteen

we have grown into our own generation of trauma
still playing this game only known as survival
we pledge allegiance to a country that does not protect us
and raise new children to be soldiers in our homes
this world gives us violence for a voice
then changes this story as soon as we speak
it paints its victim as the threat
we are punished for fighting our fear with fire
we are left defenseless in our own homes
but we are still here
assuming the position
because at this point
it is all that we can do

*To Whom It May Concern:

Mari Bugayong
I miss you.
I recall being a little girl
My small hand fitting neatly into yours
Swinging on a red bench with you
As the breeze brought up dust
And carried away our songs and laughter
I still remember your kwentos,
Your little orchid garden,
How, after cleaning,
Your old fingers would curl
Even after the mop was gone
Long after the deed is done,
The body and heart need not forget
I recall the contrast
How visits became comparisons
Dry heat to tropical winds
Quiet suburb to bustling city
Stagnance to vivacity
America to the Philippines...And back
I still remember our phone conversations years later.
Me, standing there awkwardly
Thinking of my piles of homework -- a patient menace
You, trying to fill the call with as many phrases
that could possibly fit within a phone card
We both realized how little time we had.
You tried to cherish our present
While I was too busy worrying about my future

You used to say,

Alam mo...You know, I am always praying for you.
I pray for your health,
Your well-being.
I pray that God will always protect you and guide you.
I pray that you will do well in school.
I pray
I pray
I pray that I could see you just one more time.
I pray that the past could become present
So that I could hold your hand just one more time
Swinging on a red bench
As the breeze brought up the dust of faded memories
And carried away my tears
Timezones and distances made me unaware...
That your time wouldnt last,
And the distance between us would grow
Nowadays
No matter how many time zones I cross
No matter how many oceans I fly over
I will never reach you
At least, not in this life
Among the things I wish I could have said:
Mahal na mahal parin kita, kahit alam ko na hindi na kita makikita.
I love you so much, even though I know that we will never see each other again.

* This poem is dedicated to my maternal grandmother, who

passed away 2 years ago.

i was born a black woman: i ii.

will die this beautiful way,
i saw the last
i.
five generations of
my people
coiled
i was born into this
into my hair;
broken world
with skin like
the black jesus
obsidian.
showed
many poor souls
herself
see that as
in
a curse
my walk.
or misfortune,
but i
believe it to be
an extraordinary
gift.
my femininity
is a
sacred black magic
charm
i was bestowed upon
by
my ancestors:
its
divine power.

iii.
it
seems youve been
caught
in the web
of
my shining darkness,
my soul
resonates
within
you
like the
blackest night youve ever
seen:
terrifying
and mysterious.
peacefully quiet
and wicked.
i am
all these things,
and
more.
i was born a black woman: i will die this beautiful
way, maya finoh

Calle Fuerte
Nia Campinha-Bacote
Love hurts.
Someone once asked me if that was an oxymoron. If its love, it shouldnt hurt. Right?
But have you ever loved someone so much it hurts?
Have you ever loved someone so much your chest locks up tight every time someone mentions their
name?
Have you ever loved someone so much your entire body smiles when you think about them?
Have you ever loved someone so much, but they dont know how to receive your
love? Or even worse, dont WANT to receive your love?
Have you ever loved someone so much, yet they seem incapable of ever
understanding how much they mean to you?
Love hurts.
But what if I told you theres someone who loves YOU in this same exact way, dare I say, even MORE.
What if I told you theres someone who loves you so much it hurts.
What if I told you that every time they think about you, their chest locks up tight, their entire body smiles.
This love exists. I KNOW this love exists.
But sometimes we dont know how to receive it. Or even worse, sometimes we dont WANT to receive it.
Sometimes I ignore this love. I look for it in a text message, in a Facebook like, in a smile turned into a hug turned
into a kiss, turned into a.
My Heart still hurts. Its heavy, slowing being hardened as layer upon layer of bitterness and anger builds. Whats
wrong with me?
You say I am fearfully and wonderfully made in your image, yet the only image I see is one full of flaws struggling
to follow all of your laws.
Im sorry that I covet. Im sorry that I dont always love my neighbor becausebecause.I still get jealous.
I desperately desire to be desired. I want to be wanted. I want to be held by his arms, your arms, his arms, you.
STOP. JUST STOP.
WHEN WILL THIS STOP?
I know the song. I have all the words memorized by heartHe is jealous for me, loves like a hurricane I am a
tree.

Well God, If I am a tree I am a sycamore tree because I am SICK of bending over backwards to be
noticed. I am sick of having one too many branches bent out of place. I am sick of breaking.
So if I begin to bend again, may I bend towards you, oh God. Because you are jealous for me, just
as I am jealous for him. And it breaks your heart. It breaks your heart just as your sons body was
broken for me.
Because LOVE HURTS.
Because love hurt when Nails went through the wrists and ankles of your Son.
Because love Hurt when they forced a crown of thorns onto His head .
Because love hurt for me. For you.
And this aint no fictitious fairytale love made up pixie dust and wishful thinking. This love is real.
This love is true. And it can be studied and validated just as much as the information inside of my
microbiology text book.
This love is REAL.
So yeah, love does hurt. Because if it didnt, would it really be love?

REFLECTIONS ON BEING THE ONLY BLACK PERSON IN A WRITING WORKSHOP

Paige Morris
i.
and once again
i make my body
of work a tangible fruit
for freckled and aspiring Hemingways
to devour, spit out the rinds
and seeds, the parts that are too
tough to swallow
ii.
white men write nothing but white men
mourning ghost girls over whiskey
someone always references a war
in which a lot of other white men died
and the protagonist polishes his rifle
recalling TV dinners and better times
iii.
white americans are the main characters in all of our stories
their names fill every prime-time TV line-up
stretch across the covers of every novel on our shelves
pushing faces like mine
out to the spines
iv.
when i write a character
so explicitly brown
give her my own dark eyes
my gristle tongue
these white men
write critiques that all say
they cannot see her,
cannot imagine this kind of dark
in their classroom
were so surprised
when i wrote her fighting back
a man who had skimmed her
made careless comments in her margins
how nave of me to think a white man
literate enough to see my Black
to imagine my skin as anything
but fictive

but fictive
v.
in 2014
more than 3200 childrens books were published in the united states
of these, only 67 were written by and about Black americans
when a white woman in my writing workshop says
she cant imagine my character being Black
because my character doesnt speak like a Black person
says she must have missed the part where i named my characters skin brown
i am upset
but unsurprised
my people are only ever written in invisible ink
i vanish every time i reach for space on the page
vi.
the only feedback this one white boy
leaves on my story is that it
needs more commas
that i should study what a sentence is
he tells me to re-learn english
write my characters american
or dont write them at all
i learned to read and write before the age of two
have swallowed and spat out every syllable of this ugly mother tongue
over and over in order to write myself into it
how dare you erase me
for only knowing how to write my stories
in fragments
vii.
i have an idea for how to make
your dialogue more believable
he says
speaks too proper
thats why i might not have known
he wasnt white
some scattered
heads nod in agreement and he
eyes me expectantly, smiling
as though i should thank him
for telling me how to use my own tongue

proceeds to tell me my narrator

does not use enough slang
speaks too proper
thats why i might not have known
he wasnt white
some scattered
heads nod in agreement and he
eyes me expectantly, smiling
as though i should thank him
for telling me how to use my own tonguea
viii.
the first Black writer to publish
a collection of work in the united states
was a slave girl
the same age as me
her poetryso skilled, it sparked a witch trial
white america
did not believe the Negro race capable
of such culture, capable of producing anything
but cash crops
they brought phyllis wheatley to court,
made her testify that she could hold a pen,
could pen a verse
i read over the comments on my own work and wonder
why white men marvel at my every attempt to make meaning
as though i should hold a pen like it is anything but my birthright
ix.
i write stories about the magic running
just beneath brown skin
in my stories
i see the ghosts of Black girls resurrected
summon up colored boys with chants
i have learned to save all my best metaphors
for the characters to whom they are never given
i write everyone dark eyes and gristle tongues
and i write: they are Black they are Black they are Black
until there is no way you can mistake them for anything but existing

until there is no way you can mistake them for anything but existing
x.
when i leave the workshop
every part of myself reduced
to suggestions for revision
lists of things to scrap
it is so easy to forget
that i am not bad writing
i am every story i have ever written
every fractured fragment
every unfinished sentence
i am every instance of magic
every Black girl mistaken for fiction
i am more than a white boys margin notes
i am more than an imperfect grammar
i am Black i am Black i am Black
and all ive ever learned from writing workshops
is why i need these words to write myself
every color but invisible

Morning Mist
Sam Lin-Sommer
Ive been wading through my freshman year like a morning mist
following what blurred bits of color
peek out behind textbooks and beer cans,
savoring the way the mist plays funny tricks
with the trees; the way it breathes in bright eyes
and exhales streaks of yellow
creatures in flight,
they might be canaries! I guess
Ill have to find out for myself.
Ill have to breath in deep without choking,
because the mist gets so thick that it swallows my lungs,
I sat in the library for three hours
and couldnt write a word,
and I tripped down the front steps on my way out
into the mist, into the flood of emails,
into the papers midterms finals
friends, hookups, girlfriends, teachers
Im sclasses, majors, careers
Im sssuffocating
into the are you going out tonight?
the I hear theres a party with the fraternity bros,
the I wanted to go to this comedy show
the fuck it, lets eat fried chicken at Joes.
and I bite into a fried chicken sandwich with cheese,
and as the grease hits my brain like heroine,
I wonder what role the mist played in this.
but like I said,
I like the way the mist plays funny tricks with the trees,
turning my corneas into kaleidoscopes,
turning the Main Green on its head,
until campus is a swirling Jackson Pollock painting,
with me in the center, a child spinning in circles on a tire swing.
I am surrounded by these heavensent drops of water,
peering through them I can make out
two kids making out,
with red lips that soak the mist like blood,
and a bluebird circling the clock tower,
moving so fast that the hands look like water,
always shifting but never moving forward,

and wherever I turn there are trees,

with leaves that in the mist become a great green canvas,
and trunks that are just wood, just connections to the ground,
before I graduate I will climb them.
I will be a painting in the sky.
In the spring, I awoke to see
that the gangly winter tree outside my window
was in full spring bloom,
to my surprise, it was a cherry blossom,
and in the morning mist, its flowers were the brightest pink I had ever seen
I stood beneath it with my friends,
and we held hands and stared like little children
gone to Disneyland for the first time,
and we wondered,
what could produce beauty like this,
what but college,
what but three lost youth holding hands,
finding maps in the lines of each others palms,
and that day I was happy.
I just wanted to write essays
with pens that cut straight through the mist,
that day, I was happy.
I ran through campus skipping,
I found out what yoga feels like,
and how a one A.M. rap cipher sounds,
and how nutella tastes on crunchy pretzels,
and I learned that Im not flexable enough for yoga,
and freestyling is way harder than it looks,
but nutella tastes good on everything.
Today, I am the winter cherry blossom.
I stand naked and leafless,
waiting for you to give me the chills.
And I lean in whatever direction the wind blows, so
Please, shine a light!
Shine a light right through the mist and I promise
I will follow it like a lighthouse in a storm.
For I, I am an open mic. Breathe into me, sing into me.
and I will bounce your voice off the trees.
Whisper your secrets into my ear,
youre away from home now,
tell me your name, your real name,
not the one your parents gave you,
shout all one two three or four words of it,
because when the mist clears,
I may not recognize you,
I may not recognize any of this,
but I will remember our songs,
and I will remember your voice.

Boarding school
Sierra Edd
My mouth tastes bland like tooth powder
Red stains are painted on my clothes
And every morning
The Wake-up bell rings loud,
Buzzing patriotic and proud
We dont have the privilege to play Indian when we are one
Were from Newcomb, New Mexico and forced go to Sherman Indian School
Weve lived our whole lives in fear
Of ketchup and mayonnaise
Of the post office
Of yard sticks,
Of kerosene baths,
Of chalk boards
Of collared shirts,
Of English,
Of church,
And of the school instructors who would come at night.
My friend
Died one month in
And others got beaten to the floor in fights.
During the day wed write the English alphabet
And mouth the pledge of allegiance
I was taught sexual violence. I was taught to hit and to shout at someone who doesnt understand.
We lost respect for the language and the land.
I was taught to be quiet.
I was taught silence.
We were called Mary or John.
Katherine Begay or Paul Redhouse
We became new people

The inspections and drills inspect and drill out our sanity.
Quieting the Indian profanity
We were sent here for assimilation into American society.
Making our grandparents abandon their sobriety
Some sit embroidering aprons while others pray in broken English
We wish
We could go home
But its been mandatory since 1893
Apache, Navajo, Lakota and Cree children moan under belts and steel utensils on teeth
And lie awake beneath the sheets
Thinking of family
Then came the psychological hypnosis
We ate and regurgitated Christianity unable to focus
Until we collapsed sick with fever and tuberculosis
We stand in the sun
Our blood runs out fast,
And our feet get used to the closed shoes
Our white crosses are arched overhead
Tall and alone
How can we look back with broken bones in our shoes?
Our clothing sewn together like patchwork
Trying to make it work when were by here ourselves
I cant remember my name
Shi e yinish
I cant remember my people
Shidine
Were in a line ready to march to the morning whistle
Until guns go off like missiles I remember

That Im from the earth. My shiche

My grandfather warms my heart.
At night I cry myself to sleep,
Cry and whisper a prayer
To one day return home
But instead
I died alone
For now I lay down beside the others
In a cemetery we write our song
All 100 crosses sing to the wind
The bathtubs are empty since there is no more dark skin
That needs to be cleaned
Were all in the ground now, graves filled to capacity
Unmarked and unvisited by our family
They take our shoes for the new children.
Then they prepare penicillin and wool blankets
Sharpen scissors to cut more hair
To cut the Indian out of us
To take our honor
Then after all that,
Theyll call you a scholar
If you survive the torment,
The hand slaps
And raw skin scrubbed with kerosene.
When youve really been a witness to violence
And a victim to harshly punished rules
They call this place a school.

there are some things we still do not say

Sheena Raza Faisal
i am five -- my mother and i wait at a train station
me, all big mouth all loud voice and knee scrapes
before we get on the train she tells meif anyone asks you your name, do not answer
my first lesson in silence
my first lesson in staying quiet, obedient -after all dont you know what they do
to little girls with Muslim names in a place like this?
my first lesson in self protection
i am twelve -- my mother and i wait at an airport
as we line up for security she tells me
to stay quiet, to nod, obedient
put up my arms for the security guard
after all dont you know what they do
to Muslims in airports?
my first lesson in fear
my first lesson in seeing
the bounty on my head
i am fourteen -- my history teacher
tells the class that Palestine does not exist
that Israel is the right and only name
the place where Palestine sat in my mouth
becomes quiet -- obedient, i stay silent
my first lesson in erasure
lineage boiling like blood in my veins
maps bleached from the back of my hand
i am eighteen -- trying to write a poem
about Guantanamo bay. the leaked CIA reports
outlined every detail of torture
explained exactly how they evaded
the claims of human rights violations

now -- you know what they do

to Muslims in darkened cells dont you?
the Wikileaks report did not flood the Internet
with blood -- did not stain our collective memory red
any more than a meme about a colour changing dress
i am nineteen -- in my sociology class
the professor explains that Asian immigrants
are called the model minority -best assimilated into white society
he says we are honorary whites
i do not tell him that the majority
of the worlds Muslim population
lives in south and south east Asia -Indonesia Pakistan India Bangladesh
me and my Asian
and my brown skin
and my suicide bomber name
have never felt
like a model for anything
except terrorist
two months ago -- three students
were murdered in a parking lot
Deah Shaddy Barakat
Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha
Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha
i say their full names because no one else will
i call this a hate crime because no one else will
their white murderer was described by
acquaintances as being argumentative
on facebook, he blasted religious people
posted if your religion kept its big mouth shut, so would i

silence becomes a lesson in self protection

there are some things we still do not say
we do not talk about Islamophobia
the way we address racism
we do not talk about Palestine at all -telling strangers my Muslim name
is like yelling bomb in an airport -silence has always meant safety
last year -- my mother begged me
not to perform a poem about Islamophobia in the U.S.
feared who in the audience would be offended by my words
and follow me to the parking lot for speaking too loud
feared that my sentences would tie a rosary bead
around my throat -- choking me to death
with my own conviction
mama -- i cannot stay silent any longer
it is time now. i must speak.

Fried Eggs and Spam

Sonja John
When an earthquake assault and a violent custody case Shook my bones to cinders,
Moving me from bedroom floor to hospital bed
From Virginia beaches
To New York skyscrapers, I thought of Spam
Arteryclogging porky comfort
Fried black, plated over rice, served with runny eggs This breakfast of salty, congealing goodness Stretched my grin across two hemispheres.
In 1944, American troops landed in the Philippines Ousting the Japanese
just in time to reoccupy ourkitchens with Theirleftovers:
Cigarettes, chewing gum, our beloved cans of Spam
We traded cash crops for tinned survival Coconuts for processed pork shoulder Suspended in potato starch
Preserved in sodium nitrite
Spam:a cheap invention made from Throwaway parts
Too worthless to keep frozen Just enough to sell to the starving
On cans of Spam
We outlived occupation
Long enough to become literate in disaster:
When the typhoon Yolanda struck Tacloban, I thought of my grandmother, islands
away
I measured distance in trembling hands,
In parents drowning,
Cities cleared by water, Ineffective American aid
In the charred fragments of my frying pan, I learned to cook love into survival
My letters crossed an oceans depths
Only to be
Drownedby wind and seawater
All I could do was stand at my stove In a New York kitchen
Frying pan in hand.

My pan takes cholesterol in a tin can Turns it into survival

Mypan takes mystery meat
Bloats my belly into persistence
It takes a colonizers leftovers and feeds Siblings
Daughters
Mothers
A transPacific genealogy
In my family, love is opportunity meted out by distance over time Multiplied by non
perishable goods,
Stacked tin cans,
And broken English
Til at last, there is born a daughter who can say
I love you
Without first crossing the Pacific in her voice.
In my family,
I am the daughter who has never crossed the Pacific out of necessity. My English is
the surface of an ocean untroubled by wind
But I know that the simmer of my frying pan is a deliberate act of returning, Fried
eggs and spam is the cure to all hurt and homesickness,
So if Food is
Growth
Multiplied by
Mothers,
Divided only by the hands and mouths they feed,
Then I am the bottom of my mothers favorite frying pan, Seasoned by survival
A can opener,
Rusting, but still holding...