At its leisure the dam unleashes a flood of wild white water
that engulfs the colorful garden
massacre of the lilies we once knew
waterfall into a dew of broken promises
that as they learn are no longer shielded from the realization of the world.
To dismantle the truth of a child's imagination
is just as violent as the rushing downpour of environmental ruin
The expedition back to the childlike state is a harrowing one
a journey that I uncover for you today.
Glossy red ribbons decorate freshly plaited hair
like a steady stream of blood against worn pavement
A pink frilly dress, scuffed black shoes with starched white socks:
Pre-school, which is funny because we are in school, age 3.
Three hands reach for the same doll
Sophie wins.
She sneers with a face I’ve never seen before, “You get the ugly one”
I didn’t know what ugly meant, so I asked the older girl who hands out snacks
Her recent manicure shone under the fluorescent lights
One thinly painted finger pointed to the doll
Whose eyes were deep
Whose nose was wide
And whose skin looked like mine.
I felt very still.
All the joy drained out through my eyes
It hurt all the way to my toes
But it didn’t yet have a name
So I took the hem of my pink frilly dress and forced the stream back into my eyes and continued to play with the ugliest doll in the box.
There was lots of crying in the bathroom that night
I had taken momma’s bleach and tried to draw a bath.
I hate recess
It is such a waste of time
where you find a stale blade of grass, tie it into a ring
and socially sanction your puppy love before all your friends
Just schoolyard games
But I’m never picked.
World History
Wooden desks embroidered with graffiti of private parts and sharpened #2 pencils
Cute girls with honey-flavored lip gloss
Cute boys who carry a stench so rotten that I gag
They try to mask it with cheap cologne
and somehow mixed the scent is intoxicating
I raise my hand to write the answer on the SmartBoard
The Black boys snicker and grin
I can feel their eyes work over my frame
My blush paints my palms plum with sticky regret
Mr. S says nothing really, just a careless
“All right, that’s enough. Eyes to the board”
But I can feel his eyes on me too
I felt very still
It hurt all the way to my toes
But it didn’t yet have a name.
That night I shakingly wrapped
a thin sheet around my body
acting as if it were arms that loved me.
Professors who profess half-truths
thousands in debt for more white lies
Rushed kisses and empty holds offer a moment of the divine
Fast, hard fucking which makes me feel grown-grown
Cadaverous hands that grope my Blackness,
Impale my womanhood,
And practice until they find their pale princess to love
The colonial concept of looking into his eyes
The white male gaze which only meets halfway
When I pretend he sees me,
I can mistake the numbness for joy.
It hurt all the way to my toes
But I begin to hear whispers of a name.
We attempt to reclaim our stolen histories
We attempt to learn what has been forced down our throats
But it is false
And we refuse to admit it because the acknowledgment addresses the pain
So we continue on in vain
Giggling gallantly as if stolen people can ever belong on stolen land
But that is false
And we know this.
The Earth truly belongs to no one
It doesn't even belong to a race of Kings and Queens forgotten
It belongs to the Sun,
just as the Sun belongs to the moon
and the tide belongs to the sea
which belongs to the countless tears I shed for the memories
of self-hate that many of my own encouraged.
They call it 400 years
I feel like it’s been so much longer
I have lived through “preferences” that stomped on my name
Until it was swallowed whole by an unfamiliar sorrow I was forced to toll
I have lived through my self-actualization and trial of my worthiness
Which is compiled of so much more than appearance
I know if we look at our elders, we understand that
Youth fades, beauty shifts,
and we are left with an altered perception of self.
There are days when I can't articulate where the pain lives
My body grows still under the rush of wild white water
All I can hear is white hissing silence
I have no name for it still
But that’s okay, for it’s a long journey home.
•
Edited by: Cecilia Innis and Ava Emilione
Cover Photo Displays: Subiya Mboya
so good omg.