Special thanks to Dr. Nyasha Grayman-Simpson
zaidel sanchez
Who Am I?
Am I just the color skin? Am I just a loud voice in the sea of nothing? Am I just the representation of who people think I am? Ghetto? Uneducated? Violent? Not deserving of the opportunities that others get? Or am I the reflection I see in the mirror? An independent woman? A strong woman? A Black woman? A beautiful woman? Someone who is loved? Cared about? Going through life is hard When people do things behind your back You don’t have enough for you to survive But you can always make it If you have your values And your friends And the people you connect most with And yourself If you know who you are No matter who you are -Marissa Grant
One Drop
Back in the day An innocent child, Became classified as a slave From the blood of rape, to the life in womb, To one drop, “Diluted” “Undignified” “Despised” One drop of a race thought of as “inferior” One drop of history rich in turmoil One person who’s father’s, father’s, father’s father kidnapped from Africa. Victims of assault and false imprisonment
Today, we would list out the charges in a courtroom and never let the enslaver walk one drop meaning having 1/32nd of African ancestry as enough to brand someone with a life of slavery one drop meaning one person 5 generations back being black and you are black and you are black and you are black. -Carlyn Maia
Some Reflections on Race and Mental Health Care I was aware of how my economic privilege and connections impacted my mental health care, paying for my hospitalization, paying for my medication, and finding me a good therapist. However, taking this course has made me realize there are also racial and cultural barriers to receiving good mental health services. One of the readings referenced distrust of mental health services and providers amongst African Americans, citing fears of misdiagnosis, mislabeling, criticism and misunderstanding of cultural practices, and that the system is just an extension of our racist society. As someone who has heard stories of the pain that can take place when a person’s family isn’t understanding of or won’t seek needed mental health care, learning about this cultural barrier was disheartening. But what is also disheartening is that this fear is not unfounded. One reading cited how therapists have reacted with bias, prejudice, and ignorance towards African American clients. In addition to the reading, the interviews, and low statistics of the number of black psychologists and social workers, several of my classmates have shared how they’ve had negative experiences with White psychologists. Many people know the pain of when their trust is violated by someone they’ve opened up to through betrayals from friends or significant others. I imagine there is a similar, perhaps even worse feeling, when the professional you’ve opened up to in an attempt to obtain help violates your trust or says something attacking (whether intentional or unintentional) when you’ve made yourself vulnerable. I’ve never been afraid to tell my therapist something or felt attacked or misunderstood. There shouldn’t be barriers to people getting help. -Olivia Bullivant
The words in this collage are adapted from a quote from the book “Willow Weep for Me: A Black Woman’s Journey Through Depression” by Meri Nana-Ama Danquah. The full quote reads: “You’ve heard descriptions of depression before: A black hole; an enveloping darkness; a dismal existence through which no light shines; the black dog; darkness, and more darkness. But what does darkness mean to me, a woman who has spent her life surrounded by it? The darkness of my skin; the darkness of my friends and family. I have never been afraid of the dark. It poses no harm to me. Depression offers layers, textures, noises. At times depression is as flimsy as a feather, barely penetrating the surface of my life, hovering like a slight halo of pessimism. Other times it comes on gradually like a common cold or a storm, each day presenting new signals and symptoms until finally I am drowning in it. Most times, in its most superficial and seductive sense, it is rich and enticing. A field of velvet waiting to embrace me. It is loud and dizzying, inviting the tenors and screeching sopranos of thoughts, unrelenting sadness, and the sense of impending doom. Depression is all of these things to me—but darkness it is not.” This quote stood out to me for several reasons. Firstly, I like Danquah’s use of diction and metaphor to express how depression manifests for her. Instead of using one big metaphor to try and encompass what depression feels like, Danquah lists several descriptions, varying from depression as something that is as “flimsy as a feather” to an “unrelenting sadness”. Her choice of language about how depression feels “rich and enticing” and like soft velvet is a departure from the stereotypical depression narrative that paints depression as one endless black hole. This is important because not only is it harmful to normalize just one depression narrative, but also because the experiences of Black women with depression in particular are largely ignored. In her writing, Danquah is vulnerable and candid, and sharing her own personal experience with depression helps give voice to others who are struggling and whose struggle is not taken seriously. In addition, I think that this passage is a good reminder how important language is, which is something that I have been reminded of in many different ways and in different contexts throughout this class. It is so easy to think of things in binary terms: depression is darkness, Black women are strong and resilient, depression means being sad all the time and is a sign of weakness. In this collage, I tried to mimic and visualize the way that Danquah sheds light onto a less mainstream narrative that is still completely valid and real. I used lots of color to emphasize that depression isn’t just darkness because “darkness” is not necessarily a bad thing. Depression is also not just one set of symptoms that affects one group of people—it can affect anyone, including Black women, which is why a Black woman is front and center in the collage, as are her thoughts and feelings reflections on her experience. -Ellie Struewing
IS SPEECH REALLY A FREEDOM PROVIDED TO EVERYONE? Speech: a way of communicating that prompts comprehension and/or understanding
Why must I diminish the flavor of my speech to make others feel comfortable?
Am I the Only One? (Muted) AM I the only one who is tired?
Am I the Only One? (Free) AM I the only one who is muhfukin tiyad of the bullshit
of the nonsense
of the judging
of the judgement
of the side eyes and uncomfortable glares
of the stares
of the, “OMG, you talk so proper. You grew up where?”
of the glares
of looks saying, “how did you get here?”
of the “you grew up where?”
of duck lips, lace fronts, stiletto nails, and big asses being dope
of the “you went to what school?” of the, oh, now having big lips and a big butt are cool? of cornrows being called boxer braids on a Kardashian of people thinking I only listen to rap when my ears are eclectic Everything was once original, but people took it and wrecked it
made popular by the same ones that lynched ancestry by rope we’ve been made into cultural porn, families forever torn of all the suburbs knowing the lyrics to Cardi B’s trap music if you’re white and can rap it’s a vibe, just use it of the, “you got all that bootie and can’t twerk a bit?” of the closest hood markets not selling organic some of us diabetes and high cholesterol away our pain
of everyone thinking that I know how to twerk
living in lead lined walls that poison our blood and our brain
of everyone thinking that I like fried chicken when I’d rather eat some spicy curry or jerk
of people tearing down our hoods with legislation they posed
of gentrification
said they were rebuilding, but more recs got closed our lives never mattered when Freddie, Trayvon, and Michael got put down
I mean it’s the same location but for some reason investing money couldn’t make it work with the original population Am I the only one who notices these things? Or is it just the wisdom that my ancestry brings?
but they can have fancy ceremonies for breaking ground I’m just sayin’ Am I the only one seeing this or do ya’ll see it too? Maybe it’s the memory in my DNA breaking through.
By: Josie McKinley
Kalie Ganem
Tales From a Black Soul Golden girl, my brown child, you have been graced with the kiss of the sun Washed with light of the moon You were born into a lineage of warriors, that glow with different hues of bronze gifted with the strength of the earth and cherished with pure hearts And yet sometimes Even the strongest warriors fall weak You were a prisoner stolen Held captive by darkness Darkness it was then it befriended you and foolishly you fell for it Innocent to its lies But you were freed freed from the chains of your past that hugged your wrists And suffocated your soul So if you are free why do you continue to run from yourself Why do you hide from your truth You are a bird, yes, caged by fear of the unknown yet graced with wings that have sailed you to and from lands untold You are the sun, the brightest light that you will encounter, your light shines giving vigor to all that surround you
You are the moon, gentle, yet strong, shifting the tides of the deep blue Illuminating in the darkest times You are helianthus nourished by the richest soil hydrated by the tears of your ancestors Strengthened with roots that uplift you And yet you fear yourself forgotten pasts felt as fresh wounds And yet you deceive yourself Not capable of love Not able to love You are so much more than what darkness had shown you So much more than when darkness enslaved you Do not forget the past Yet do not live in it Look forward to the future yet do not overthink it Be present -Makeyla Hayes
By: Rachal Murray
brown boy as my ahmay says it, an american-born burmese burmese -/ american, bamar luumyo you cannot be both, the king once told me you were born here and you (and your passport) are of this land, a realization of the picket fence dreams but my blood is not of this place, and my beating heart leaps across oceans across history, imagined borders, and min nandar's crocodile to a place they call the golden land shwe, the british took the land and wove it into their queen’s cape and so my people rose, and so my people have fallen, and so my people will rise again my history is someplace else my story is out in the air what am i doing in this place? right here, right now? i stand on erased piscataway trails, under a flag that does not fly for me taking space in these spaces, not quite here nor there not quite fitting into ideas and expectations - what does an asian person look like to you? why did no one in crazy rich asians look like me? or my sister? my parents? i am the son of mala u khin and min zaw myint the grandson of aung khin and sunda khin kingsley and wesley kingsley and kyaw myint and khin san chit the great-grandson of chan htoon and khin khin thein and hla maung and khin than htun i am the child of my people, the spirit of those who came before me an elephant without tusks sun of the wednesday moon, a son of the diaspora i do not belong to one point on the map nor do i belong to anyone. -wynn aung myint • • • • •
ahmay: mother bamar luumyo: lit. “burmese people”; politically the idea of all burmese people (all 135+ ethnic groups) forming a cohesive nation min nandar: a prince in burmese mythology who crossed a river every night on a crocodile to visit his forbidden lover shwe: gold *burmese mythology is based on the day of the week you were born and assigns you an animal to that day: i’m a tuskless elephant because i was born on a wednesday evening
I’m Sorry, I’m Not a Poet
I’ve been thinking for a while About the fact that speculativefiction never talks about Things like this in direct terms At least not the stuff I read I’ve been thinking for a while About the future of Race-relations that never seem To get better, at least not For as long as we all want I’ve been thinking for a while About the lack of Understanding that doesn’t seem To want to go away for people But maybe that’s just some people I’ve been thinking for a while About the hate that’s Spewed on this very campus, which We were all told was safe Maybe that was naive, I guess I’ve been thinking for a while About the hope of A better future for everyone And a brighter tomorrow Maybe we can get there, together I don’t know what to say About this whole thing Other than I’m thankful for the People that are understanding And maybe sometimes that’s enough
Ian Greenleaf
(Photo by: Faith Snipes)
To me black is not about the way we look, the way we speak, the way we act, or the way we address issues. Being black is deeper. Black is about our history that we gain from our ancestors. It is not just about the obvious brown skin that exist on the outside. It is about the different shades of identities that exist on the inside. Throughout this course there has been several readings discussing what it is to be black. We have expressed our different identities and ways of coming up. And even though we had a mixed class with students who were not of black decent, the ones that were often had different upbringing stories. This showed me that black is not defined by societies stereotypes. There is not one way to be black. And that is what makes it unique. Because despite our differences we understand that we are black but we also acknowledge the fact that we are unique individuals who you cannot stick in a box and label. Too often black people get told that there is a end point for them. That they cannot surpass a certain point because that may not be their calling. But this class allowed me to see brighter than ever that being black has not beginning and end, it infinity. That being human is not defined by a skin color, even though I think mines is pretty great! “I would not be here without all of the black women around me. Put us together and we can do anything” –Misty Copeland -De’asia Ellis
You are beautiful Hey black girl You are beautiful You shine like a pearl Your beauty is rare You’re unique You’re confident You’re smart Do not let them define your beauty Dark or light skin, you are pretty either way This poem is inspired by my own experience with colorism. Growing up, I hated my skin color and wanted to be light. In the country I grew up, someone has to have light skin, thin nose, thin lips and long hair. If someone has a light complexion, they are automatically pretty. I did not meet that beauty standard at all, I have brown skin, wide nose, and my hair was not that long, so that made me hate myself.I would try to avoid the sun as much as I can. However, as I grew up I began to understand that I am beautiful and I don't need to have a light skin to be pretty. Every skin shade is beautiful! - By Eyerusalem Source of the photo: http://www.thestoop.org/home/2018/3/20/paper-bag-test
By: Rachel Millray
Poem: “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou
Realizing Who I am, Understanding Who I Was. While growing up as a light skin girl, I was often criticized because I was lighter than my friends and often people would say I could pass as white. Elementary school was when I first encountered people telling me I’m a teacher’s pet, and that the teachers only like me because I’m light skin and look like them. My elementary school had majority White teacher’s and two Black teachers and three Black teacher’s assistants. As a girl I would often code switch which is why I believe that once I got to high school my elementary school principle decided to make a documentary of my little sister and I. Looking back on that film being made I felt ashamed because it was only played in front of a big screen in the Baltimore Convention Center in front of hundreds of White people ready to donate money to my elementary school. I was used to make my old school get funded and for the people who watch it not really care about what my life consists of outside of my learning environment. Realizing who I am now sitting in a pwi (predominantly white institution) I feel that me being light skin does not matter because I identify as Black and my identity is taken seriously. I felt like I had to fight a battle during a very stressful time in my life which pushed me not only to work harder but to think harder. I had to think about who I am and what my identity means to me and those I encounter daily. I felt the pain, anger, and sadness because I felt that since I had accepted who I was, other people should do the same because I will never change who I am. I have changed who I was in terms of figuring out my own identity and what it means to me, and I will not change who I am moving forward.
“I come from things that have shaped me into the person I am today. I come from future possibilities.” Bethany, Barnwood Park Arts College Your poetry on identity. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.amnesty.org.uk/your-poetry-identity - Sharnice Jones
I’m trapped inside my mind trying to figure out who am I It’s you versus me And me versus my mind Am I black enough Am I too white Does my music taste offend you Does it sound too white Are my lips too full Does my hair shine too bright I’m weird because I don’t fit in with the black kids I’m different because I’m too dark for the whites How can a simple color cause so much strife As if we all don’t have a vision in mind You want to be liked I want to be me You want all the praise I just want the peace So I ask you Who are you And why do you judge me Why do you want to kill me, when deep down you want to be me You praise my culture but critique it You wanna paint a perfect picture of yourself to the world I can’t, I’m just me You could never understand You haven’t been through my struggle, my pain, nor my trauma You can only perceive me through the lens of what you’ve achieved But I’ll remain silent in the abyss of my mind Isolate and seclude myself from your world -Vallon Rochester
Greta Coss
By: Daevon Gurley
Pride When I first saw you, I found you intimidating. Then, when I met you, You proved me wrong. At that LGBT meeting, We made a connection. Your first words to me were: “Hi, my name is DeAndre and I am black, pansexual, bipolar, and proud.” I was still figuring myself out at the time, You helped me realize who I am. You told your family about your boyfriend, But your parents disapproved. Your father didn’t understand you, And your mother didn’t believe in depression, And your little brother couldn’t grow up a “sissy”, So you left home at eighteen. You risked everything for the boy you loved, And his family took you in. Your family’s views never affected your own, Your pride shown through in the darkness. This poem is a tribute to you, To thank you for all you’ve done. Because of you, I am proud of who I am. Sydney Campbell
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