JULY 4, 1983
Dear History,
You asked me how it was to be a
black woman in America.
I answered challenging
and you wanted me to elaborate but I
didn’t because the list is longer than
America’s list of debts.
But here is my summed-up elaboration to your question.
Being black in America is having your
whole history placed on a pull-down projector screen for everyone to see
But on the screen it only contains struggle, injustice and persecution and being
told that this pain is
equivalent to your existence and only that.
But the funny thing is
You can’t talk about it because it is an uncomfortable topic.
Being a woman in America
means not being able to
talk about certain subjects like
sexual assault and periods
in school, the workplace
and even your own home
because this also makes people uncomfortable.
Being a black woman in America
is knowing that your opinions aren’t valuable to everybody because you are in a body where your gender and race is supposed to be silent.
Being black is having your
own people swallow the slavery mentality poison that says if you have any
Eurocentric features then you are automatically beautiful.
Being a woman
is having your
own gender hate you because we live in a hegemonic patriarchal society
in which we think
we are each other’s competition.
Being a black woman
is knowing that you will have derogatory terms from both ends fly at you like a plague and somehow magically
survive it.
Being black in America
is having laws
pinned against you
such as being excluded from living in certain areas.
Being a woman in America
is having laws be created by men who most likely won’t ever get pregnant nor get periods.
Being a black woman in America
is knowing that because you are
both black and a woman
your body isn’t yours and is only meant to be hypersexualized and fetishized.
Being black in America
is knowing that you can be prosecuted or lynched even though you’re innocent.
Being a woman in America
is knowing that if you
say no to a date you can be murdered.
Being a black woman in America
is knowing that both of these things can happen to you but there will be no Amber Alerts because to them you make up the bones in the cemetery.
Being black in America
means trying to figure out
how to make sure your children aren’t
afraid of the system
even though it’s against them.
In this country being black means you will push your child into adulthood before the rest of the world can.
Being a woman in America
is teaching your son and daughter
different things as they
grow older because it was how you were also taught. It means that you are to be
emotionally abusive to your daughter so she can “mature.”
Being a black woman in America
is knowing that someday you may have
children and will have to choose between ripping out their hearts before they are three to protect them or have this country destroy them like they did to you.
Being black in America is having somebody shoot the starting pistol indicating it’s everybody’s time to run. And when you start running you know the bullet will hit you at some point even though the pistol doesn’t contain bullets.
Being black in America is having an invisible bullet on you before you’re even born and you just hope that like many others the bullet doesn’t become real.
Being a woman in America is knowing that history kept hidden the women that helped advance the feminist movement.
Being a black woman is screaming
Ain’t I a woman
when it comes to movements in the black community and the feminist movement that you decide to create the womanist movement
So your voices can be heard.
Being both a woman and black is knowing that it is 100 percent illegal to be both but never silencing your voice when it is needed the most.
There are so many unheard black women voices when it comes to struggle and injustice but also accomplishments that they never got to share with the world because of your history.
Sincerely, Ria
P.S. Being a black woman is to be in rage all the time because you are disrespected, unprotected, and neglected but despite this I wouldn’t trade my resilience I’d encountered for the world.
***Invalid address
Fire
AMY FLYNTZ
Overwhelmed by the constant attacks on our democracy and the egregious assaults on the environment and our civil liberties, I have sometimes struggled to find my place in the resistance. This piece was inspired by the theme Generation F: fire, fearlessness, and finding my voice.
My acupuncturist, Paul, sits across from me in a folding white chair and leans forward to examine the red rash on my throat.
“And my lips are so dry,” I explain, “they’re peeling.”
I’ve been around enough “alternative” healing modalities to guess where he’ll go with this. It’s why I’ve chosen to see him for a second appointment instead of heading to another dermatologist. I want him to give it to me straight, but with a spiritual chaser. His eyes meet mine and he starts to grin. He knows that I know what he’s about to say.
“Throat chakra!” we squawk in unison, and I laugh, my hand reaching up to stroke the scaly skin in the hollow of my collarbone. It’s good to laugh with him. The last time I was here, I spent an hour fighting back tears. My body has been covered for months in red, itchy patches of various shapes and sizes from my neck to my ankles, and I refuse to accept that the only response is a shrug and a squash-sized tube of steroid cream from a doctor who can’t, or won’t, try to find the cause.
“So,” Paul says quietly. “Your throat chakra is trying to tell you something. What do you have to say that’s not being said, Amy?”
I scratch at my throat and swallow the hot lump that has begun to form in the back of my mouth. Fire is one of the five powers that Five Elements acupuncture is based on, and Paul has told me that right now, my fire is excessive. It’s no wonder my skin is dry and itchy. I need more joy in my life. My Qi needs balancing. Who isn’t in need of joy these days?
“Amy?”
I think of everything I want to say—have to say—that I’m not saying. I think of the kids in Florida who were just gunned down in front of their classmates. I think of DACA and fracking and pervasive sexual violence against women. I think of the systematic incarceration of black men and their deaths at the hands of police. I think of my uterus, and the choices I’ve had access to that might soon be outlawed. Fire? Yes. I’ve got plenty of fire.
“Everything,” I answer. “I have everything to say.”
Paul nods. “Good,” he says. “Let’s get started.”
REBECCA PARTAP
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Queens High School for the Sciences at York College
BORN: San Fernando, Trinidad
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: three Silver Keys
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Over the past few months, my mentor and I have contended with the college applications process and wrestled deadlines left and right. It was exhausting, but ultimately incredibly rewarding. Countless drafts of my personal essay lef
t me with a better understanding of my identity. Girls Write Now has really fostered my love of writing and newfound self-understanding into artistic endeavors with direction and purpose. I now have a portfolio full of works in a plethora of genres, all pieces I am truly proud of.
NOELLE DE LA PAZ
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Assistant Acquisitions Editor, Teachers College Press
BORN: San Francisco, CA
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: VONA/Voices fellow; Ano Ba Zine; Newtown Literary
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: At the beginning of the year, Rebecca and I set out to tackle the college application season with organization and purpose (check! and check!). Now, as we sit back and watch the acceptance letters roll in, I am in deep admiration of all her hard work, and truly inspired by the ways her creative voice continues to open up and shine through as we explore different genres and dig deep into memory, family history, language, and the rich landscape of what it means to be daughters of diaspora.
Harbinger
REBECCA PARTAP
This piece is an excerpt from a short story inspired by duality and contradiction. Fantasy has always been my favorite genre to both write and read, so this piece was a joy to create!
Asha tugged at Anjali’s silk skirts pleadingly. “Please don’t leave again, Ani! You’re always disappearing in the night!”
“I’m sorry, Ash, but you know I have special responsibilities. We’ll do something fun tomorrow.” Anjali smoothed back her little sister’s hair before handing her off to the nursemaid.
Anjali made her way to the dining hall to attend to her subjects. The common folk that flocked to see her fell to their knees and stretched their hands toward her, all hoping to be blessed by their resident saint. The long banquet tables were lined with diyas, and flowers of every hue were strewn across the tabletops and floors. The heady perfume of petals and spices wafted through the air. Anjali padded through the aisle of worshippers every night, touching the foreheads of those whose souls called out to her. Something in her could feel pain and sickness in others, and her own magic rose to heal them. A simple touch was enough to bless illness away.
Satisfied that her little sister and worshippers were taken care of, Anjali turned her mind toward the events to come. She made her nightly pilgrimage to the Holy Grove in her private gardens. The haven was forbidden to all, even her dear sister Asha. Anjali came to an enclosure of trees surrounding an altar and a perfectly round, reflective pond. She placed a flower she’d crafted upon the stone altar and knelt before the water. She whispered in an ancient language, the ground humming with the energy of her words. Once her spell was set, she rose to her feet. She turned away from the pond and looked up at the moonless, star-speckled sky above her. Then she took a breath and allowed herself to fall backward.
She fell into the clear water without disturbing its mirrorlike surface. As she sank further into the darkness, she felt herself change. Her sage-green dress deepened to black, and her baby’s-breath crown turned to one of foxglove. More disturbing than her sartorial changes were the shifts she felt within her. The rot and poison she kept locked within herself bubbled to the surface. Her powers itched at her fingers.
Anjali emerged from the pond, bone-dry and hungry. She looked upward and saw a pitch-black sky illuminated by a single blue-white moon. She made her way through her gardens to her obsidian palace. The heavy doors swung open as if by their own accord.
Anjali drifted to her study, where a leather-bound ledger sat upon her desk. Its pages were covered in names, all written in black and accompanied by red-ink checks beside them. There were seven new, checkless entries since the night before. She mentally recorded the names and set off toward the first name on her list.
Elenore Hutchinson. Using the name as a tether, she passed rows of small, quiet homes before coming upon the one she knew undoubtedly held Elenore. Anjali gave the door three swift knocks, the trademark call of the Harbinger of Death, a signal that allowed families notice to compose themselves for her entrance. The door opened to reveal a small, pallid woman. She wordlessly stepped aside to let Anjali within. The dimly lit abode was host to several children, who arranged themselves in a line, breaths bated.
Anjali saw no sense in making the affair any longer than it need be. “Elenore.” She stated the name with no explanation, for they all knew what was coming.
The girl could not be more than thirteen, her eyes deep blue and full of life. A dreadful mix of excitement and disgust ran through Anjali. She put the feelings aside and beckoned the girl forward.
“Elenore Hutchinson, you have been marked for death. You may say your farewells.” Anjali had delivered those words countless times, learning to swallow her emotions from shaking her voice.
Elenore eventually disentangled herself from her family’s embrace and sat before Anjali. Her power singed at the prospect of exercising itself on this girl. She gently cupped Elenore’s face in her hands. Elenore’s lip quivered, but she did not cry as Anjali often saw grown men do when faced with death. She almost regretted having to take this girl’s life. Almost.
Anjali closed her eyes. She was washed in coldness as she spilled her magic into Elenore. She envisioned the heart ceasing to beat, blood stagnating in the girl’s veins. Only when Anjali felt Elenore’s body go slack in her hands did she open her eyes, gently slumping the lifeless body back against the chair. An acolyte would arrive soon to collect the body and see to the burial. Anjali nodded briefly to Elenore’s sobbing mother before leaving. She put a mental check next to Elenore’s name before setting off for the next person on her list.
When the first rays of light began to illuminate the sky, Anjali was exhausted. She returned to the pond, placing a lock of hair from one of her victims upon the altar. Taking one last look at the slowly lightening sky, she fell backward into the water.
A Ravenous Upturning
NOELLE DE LA PAZ
Rebecca and I are inspired by the Fantastical and Futuristic possibilities of Generation F. My piece was sparked by the photography series “Home” by Gohar Dashti, which explores abandoned homes reclaimed by nature.
A quiet but ravenous upturning is under way. The walls of this old house are awash in the vibrant cicada green of emerging moss. The iron gate is rusted orange, its filigree woven with vines. The windows blink, the house heaves wearily (or in relief?), having shucked off its responsibilities to people and their soft, tender bodies.
Unencumbered by a roof, the hardwood floors enjoy a view of the night sky. The stars are visible, for what used to be a bustling city full of electricity and lightbulbs is now aligned once more with the comings and goings of the sun.
The people, soft and tender, have gone, their softness and tenderness hardening along the way. Gone, too, are their buttons and their gadgets, their stubborn wrangling of the thing they called time. All the minutes have been set free from the no-longer-ticking clock in the dining room. Westerly winds chip away at the house’s last paint job—a sort of lemon chiffon—exposing the bubblegum pink underneath, and the many colors that came before.
Once, I lived here—a different life, ages ago, when I was as flesh and bone as any other daughter. I scan the damp terrain of what used to be the living room, and a sudden memory wells up in me. The old river. I wonder, will it come back? But, alas, it has since gone home to the sea. I remember laughter, like the sound of bells—was it ours? The neighborhood buzzing with children, the slap of jump rope, the bounce of leather ball. But before the memory can make sense of itself, it disintegrates.
I watch a wildcat creep along the blackberry bush down in the clearing below. A dead branch falls onto the decaying piano in the corner and clunks out a few low notes, like a wet cough. The creature startles and darts away into the grove of growing cypress trees. This house is sturdy underneath me. The bones of its steel foundation endure, the brick and concrete remain. The rest is reclaimed, transformed. Fallen trees are arms, bathtu
b and sinks are ponds where frogs lay their eggs, and the backyard becomes the front, the center, the expanding heart overrun with manzanita shrubs, the unruly heartbeat of this new age.
There must be a reason I’ve been called back here.
Imperceptibly, my armor begins to soften.
SABRINA PERSAUD
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Richard R. Green
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “Salt on Old Wounds,” Chime for Change
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I came back for my second year at Girls Write Now because of the bond I have with Stacie. We find out every day that we are more alike than we think—whether it be our tendency to procrastinate through our writing or the struggles we both faced with self-identity. Stacie challenges me to explore new writing techniques and she helps me develop a writing style that I am proud of. This year has been full of laughs, writing, coffee and chocolate, and meaningful conversations that go on for hours. She helps me develop into the writer I strive to be.
STACIE EVANS
YEARS AS MENTOR: 5
OCCUPATION: Policy Analyst, NYC Mayor’s Office of Workforce Development
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: The Rumpus, Bitch Magazine
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I’m having such a wonderful time working with Sabrina. This has been a year of learning for me—finding new ways to get us both thinking about writing . . . and actually writing! (I still have a lot of work to do in this area.) I am still so amazed by how much Sabrina and I are alike, even as we are so very different. It all makes for a lot of laughter when we get together. I am looking forward to another fab year working with her!
Fighting for My Full Self
SABRINA PERSAUD
This isn’t about my parents. This isn’t about their failed relationship or a broken family. It’s about their daughter, who takes after both her mother and her father.
Generation F Page 24
