Colour Issue No.13 by Colour Magazine

ISSUE 13 SPRING 2022

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

letter from the editor It is difficult, in these semesterly notes, to manage to seem like I am saying something slightly profound while also saying something that is slightly nothing at all. I could wax on about how beautiful and important I find our magazine, how much labor and love goes into its making, and the appreciation I have for your reading it. Yes, I say these things over and over again, but I say them because these are all the things that make me hold Colour Mag so dearly. I am grateful to love and to have been loved by this magazine and its people. But since I’ve said so much (and so little) already, in this last letter from the editor, I hope to say maybe the least of all: thank you for everything, (grace, kindness, support, interest) good luck, i adore you, enjoy! XOXO :-) love and solidarity forever, Colleen Avila Editor in Chief

CONTENTS

table of contents

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE TEAM

GROUNDED

MY COUNTRY? MY COUNTRY.

SUN-DRUNK FEELING

DEAR BIG CHOP

AN AMERICAN IN PARIS

ADRIENNE AND GRANDMA LUPE

KHI, PK

INTENTIONAL REFLECTION

BUILDING NOSTALGIA

the team

Audrey Church Treasurer

Yordanos Mussie Content Creator

Jebron Perkins Internal Events Director

Sofia Gutierrez Staff Designer

Omaer Naeem Content Creator

not pictured Arte Romero y Carver Webmaster Montel Gbewonyo Senior Designer Melissa Villegas External Events Director Eliana Jenkins Copy Editor

Kaila Holland Secretary

Nirali Somia Content Creator

Maleah Downton Copy Editor Emma Stout Social Media Director

Colleen Avila Editor in Chief

Gladys Manzira Junior Photographer

Kavya Patel Content Creator

Ahmed Motiwala Senior Photographer

Rachel Paulk Senior Photographer

Tiangelique Dunigan Content Creator

ELEGY FOR A GIRL

Elegy for a girl Nirali Somia

I I’d always loved how my stomach looked underwater; the waves pushing in, a valley to my touch

III

This morning I put on my swimsuit

the sides of my hips

and looked in the mirror A certain sadness accompanies the person you were and the person you’ve become standing within each other

Sometimes If I pinch And roll in the top of my belly Just so I can see her That perfect doll If I could just erase

II I used to sit on the floor of the laundry room and unpack those Russian nesting dolls Hurriedly trying to get to the smallest The perfectly tiny baby with cheeks all blushed and red I’d hold her in my arms And whisper things Good things Kind things

the white lines on the inside of my thigh and put on that pink top the tight one with the little white flowers she would appear I know she would And she would whisper things Good things Kind things

CYCLE OF ABUSE AND FORGIVENESS

Grounded Gladys Manzira

GLADYS MANZIRA

GROUNDED

MY COUNTRY? MY COUNTRY.

My Country? My Country. Kavya Patel design by Sofia Gutierrez

The first South Asian immigrants to the United States arrived in the late 1700s. Most were brought over by East India Company ships as British captains’ household servants. Very few merchants, seamen, travelers, and missionaries arrived during this time period, totaling the South Asian population at less than 1,000 by 1900. The earliest South Asian settlers were from Punjab and Bengal. Fleeing an economy under severe stress due to British colonialism, Punjabi, primarily Sikh, men found their way to the West Coast while Bengali Muslims remainedon the East Coast, making their way as far inland as New Orleans. My parents are both Indian immigrants; they left their families and the familiar to build a life in their second language just for the chance at giving their child opportunities that they never had. I grew up watching Native English speakers treat my parents as if they were of lesser intelligence, taking the bravery and intelligence I should have seen their broken, accented English for and making it a source of embarrassment and shame. I became a translator of emotions and cultural norms–their culture and mine separated by an ocean and some thousand miles, more often clashing than not. It took a while for me to realize that the two cultures are not inherently contradictory. In fact, together they amalgamate to form beautiful multicultural identities capable of relating with a much more diverse world. Their oil and water tendencies arederived from intolerance and a discomfort with

differences and change. Historically, Anti-Asian hostility manifested in legal discrimination and physical violence. The Pacific Coast hosted a slew of race riots in 1907 San Francisco, California, Bellingham, Washington, and Vancouver, Canada.

The media proved an influential platform for organizations like the Asiatic Exclusion League and the American Federation of Labor to lobby for legislation excluding Asian immigrants from housing, education, and labor. September 1907 brought a mob of over 600 white people who attacked

KAVYA PATEL

and destroyed a Bellingham, Washington South Asian settlement. Over 400 South Asians were then forced into “protective custody” by local authorities. The Asiatic Exclusion League, dedicated to “the preservation of the Caucasian race upon American soil,” responded by blaming residents of the destroyed community, saying, “the filthy and immodest habits” of Indians justified the attack. Two months later, Everett, Washington saw another white mob drive out Indian settlers. In 1910, the US Immigration Commission on the Pacific Coast stated South Asians as “the most undesirable of all Asiatics.” My parents’ first home in the States was Huntsville, Alabama. In a pre-9/11 world, they faced subtler, less aggressive forms of ignorance, “What are you?” and “So you speak Indian?” Yet, surprisingly, it was upon their move to California, a state hailed for its liberal tendencies, that they felt least welcome. Saturday early morning hikes, they get nasty looks and are told

to “Go back home.” In the workplace, their names are never pronounced correctly, nor is an effort ever made to, by almost exclusively white superiors. One job went so far as to call my father (Mayur) “Muh-joor”, translating (in its most simple form) to “worker” in his native language, a derogatory term for his position. As more and more people of color moved into my parents’ neighborhood, more and more white families left. The neighborhood was no longer clean. The early 1900s saw a series of legislative actions promoting South Asian exclusion: 1907 barred all Indians from gaining permanent residency in Oregon. 1913 California approved the Alien Land Law that prevented Japanese immigrants from owning property in the state, a law that the state’s attorney general applied to Indians as well. 1914 congressional hearings redefined the race as “thick-headed and obtuse,” “a menace,” and “[people who] worked too hard for too little.” 1917 introduced the Asiatic Barred Zone Act, disallowing immigration from parts of the Middle East,

MY COUNTRY? MY COUNTRY.

Central Asia, the Indian Subcontinent, and Southeast Asia. Following the passing of this law, around 1,700 South Asians were deported and 1,400 left voluntarily. 1923 ruled Indians as “Caucasian by contemporary racial anthropology” but not “white,” through United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind, and, therefore, ineligible for naturalization. Indian Americans already naturalized had their citizenship revoked, including those who had served in the US Military. Anti-miscegenation laws and a severe gender gap in the South Asian population in the US led to Punjabi Sikhs in California marrying Christian women of Mexican heritage. South Asians were subject to segregation laws and therefore not allowed in whiteonly facilities. The law went so far as to take away citizenship from white women who married Indian men. 1924 presented the Immigration Act of 1924, creating national origin quotas for the Eastern hemisphere and preventing the immigration of “aliens ineligible for citizenship.” The population of South Asians in America dwindled to less than 5,000 during this period. Growing up, the successes I achieved, the moments I got to have as an empowered, independent woman with limitless potential as a future were bittersweet. While they fostered gratitude and pride, it was always an unsaid truth that I only got to enjoy these moments because my parents didn’t.

As children of immigrants, our parents’ hopes and dreams are both gifts and pressures. The easiest path to fruition would have us keep our heads down and labor through the microaggressions, racial slurs, and bigotted attitudes. Nothing in life comes free, our parents would say. All these opportunities at the cost of a little disrespect? Just ignore it, work hard. That’s how you prove them wrong. In conjunction with the Civil Rights movement, immigrants achieved the beginnings of equality: 1946 saw the Luce-Celler Act, allowing Filipino and Indian immigrants to gain citizenship with a 100 person quota from each country. 1952 brought the McCarran-Walter Act, repealing the 1790 Naturalization Act only allowing for free

KAVYA PATEL

white people to naturalize. However, the quota system remained in place, minimizing the immigrant population. 1965 ushered in the Immigration and Nationality Act, terminating national origin based immigration quotas, instead creating three major categories: family reunification, professionals, and refugees. Mid- and post-Cold War, the United States encouraged immigration of highly skilled professionals, skewing South Asian American demographics. They became one of the most successful immigrant populations by fulfilling the demand in information technology and various other STEM fields. These immigrants were allowed to naturalize because of their higher education, an opportunity relegated to the higher castes in India, further paring the US immigration pool. The incredible diversity in South Asia, with India alone hosting 22 major languages, has led to a heterogenous existence in America. Following the arrival of highly skilled professionals came a population with lesser technical and English speaking skills, creating economic stratification within the South Asian American population. Today’s South Asian Americans contribute to every industry in the United States, notably driving growth and innovation in the

Silicon Valley. My parents’ success is more than financial stability, it is a brazen defiance of the expectations that this country had for them. I understand their reservation when it comes to speaking up, speaking out against racial bias. They get told to go home, back to India. If you hate it so much here, why did you come? While making the most of the opportunities that this country has to offer me requires gratitude, my love and appreciation would be superficial if I did not also take it as a chance to make this country a better place for everyone in it.

I was born in the United States of America. I have a claim to this land and I fully intend to make use of it.

sun drunk feeling Rachel Paulk

feel the sun’s warmth through this series of sensory memory vignettes.

RACHEL PAULK

DEAR BIG CHOP

Dear Big Chop Anonymous

I was hoping you’d grow on me by now.

pondered the hypothetical repercussions. I wanted to prove those voices wrong.

I remember holding the scissors to my hair, post breakdown, eyes empty. A once intense Kaytranada beat

But maybe they were right about you.

diminished into a muffle as my senses started to blur; the mirror was the only thing in focus. With a flash, 4

As I picked up the bunches of hair from the sink, I

inches were gone. Then 3 more. My anticipation grew

turned back to the mirror. Kaytranada was now audibly

higher with each vanishing centimeter. What was this

blasting as my tunnel vision slowly dissipated. How long

moment going to feel like? What was I going to look

had it just been? Did really just cut my hair? Who was

like? I didn’t like how I looked then, but what if every-

that in the mirror? I can’t be looking at me... that can’t

thing clicked into place? On my journey of self-discov-

be me. I don’t feel different, but I thought this was

ery, I thought that maybe cutting off all my hair was

supposed to be a groundbreaking moment. I was des-

a necessary right of passage. Maybe you, Big Chop,

perate for that release, but this didn’t feel like that. Am

would fix what was broken.

I allowed to not like it? I can’t just not like it, I literally did this to myself. During this moment of derealization,

You failed.

the chopped hair in my fist somehow found its way to the bathroom floor.

That was three months ago. I had to ask for my parents’ permission for you to come to fruition. You see,

There lay the hair I’ve hated from a young age. I hated

my hair was never just my hair. It was my mom and

how tangled it got, I hated how high maintenance it

dad’s hair, my cousins’ hair, my aunts’ hair... every per-

was, and I hated hearing people’s opinions about it. I

son owned an opinion and a piece of me. Because it

dreaded wash day, wasting years dreaming about what

wasn’t only mine, I’d always felt hesitant to do anything

it would be like to have straight hair. I didn’t even want

with it, and I knew that I’d never hear the end of it. My

straight hair, but manageable hair. My mom braided

parents tried convincing me that you were an awful

my hair as a child, and as I used to wince while she

idea. “You know that you’ll be ugly right? Why would

hacked away at my knots, silent tears would fall. I was

you want to take away from your own beauty?” I was

tender-headed, too sensitive for a hairbrush and any

used to hearing this; those words throbbed in my head

ounce of judgment. Once I reached middle school and

for years like a never-leaving migraine, seeping into my

I could do my hair myself, that physical pain was trans-

subconscious. Clutching the scissors to my head, I

ported elsewhere. Every wash day my arms would get

2 shouldn’t let this get to me; this was supposed to be about self-growth. Why do other people’s perceptions of me linger so intensely in my brain? Now I walk around campus with a hood or scarf on, eyes low, just trying to make it to my destination without running into anyone I know. I don’t feel beautiful, no matter how much makeup I lather on or how much thought I put into my outfit. I try so hard to like you, Big Chop, but I don’t

stronger, but my mind be-

feel like me anymore. I get anxious think-

came weaker; I was getting tired. Angry. I think I’ve always been obsessed with the idea of control. I wanted the Big Chop to announce to the world and myself that I was independent. I also thought that a BIG CHOP would bring about a BIG change in my self esteem. I wanted to finally feel strong, finally let go of other people’s opinions of me. I wanted to relieve myself of the weight of my parents’ criticism, and finally let go of at least one layer of beauty standards. I just wanted to feel better. But I don’t. And now, Big Chop, I think I hate you. I hate how people I’ve had conversations with last semester don’t recognize me anymore now that I have short hair. I hate how my hair was the first thing people complimented me for on Tinder, and now I feel like I’m disappointing them when I say it’s not there anymore. “Are you sure you got to WashU? Cuz I ain’t never seen you around campus.” (I had three different conversations with this man before I cut my hair.) I know I

ing about the weekends, because my best friends will have their weekly excursions around St. Louis nightlife and I know I’ll have to join.“You have to go, everyone’s gonna be there!” Except, I don’t think anyone really sees me. My weekends are no longer an escape, but another dreadful reminder that I feel ugly. No matter how excited I am to go out, no matter how much preparation I put into getting ready, I’ll look at myself in the mirror and that elation deflates. As I crawl back into bed, letting my sheets absorb me and all of my intrusive thoughts, I question why I ever acted on that impulse three months ago. Some people say that a haircut can be a metaphor for life itself. But Big Chop, I’ve never felt smaller. I feel invisible, so insignificant that I don’t even care how the rest of me looks because I know I won’t be perceived. Big Chop, did you know that people only looked at me before because they thought I was pretty? And If I’m not pretty anymore, I’m simply not seen. I thought that was the biggest thing that I hated about you, but that’s not true. Ultimately, I just hate that I don’t love you, because you are me. And if I don’t love me in all forms, could I ever really say I truly loved myself?

design by Colleen Avila

AN AMERICAN IN PARIS

An American in Paris Audrey Church design by Sofia Gutierrez

A An n A Am me erriic n IIn P ca n Par an ariis F s Flly ym e me to T to Th he em mo o A o n n on,, And d lle ett m me p e plla y a A y Am mo on ng g tth he s e t sta r s a . r II w s. wa alk l o g tthe lk a he Se alon ng S s i ein e siin n ng i e gin ng g ttu o un off S ne es Siin s a n t r a A a tra & Arrm & s msttro ron M y ng M g.. ttrac y ffiin g n e race t g r ers e th s V he s e Va t e s an G p t n e s o ps of o off tthe Gog gh, of he Mo h, M o M e Mouli on nett, ulin , nR o R u & o g u o & ge e off N No ttre o M r D My e yn s Da am me o t tthe no e.. he cig strriills i s n c h b a i igarret nha bllo alle ow e wn n ffrrom ettte es m om th smo k o e ke the o em off h o m u hiis o t uth stto hs orry s y..

AUDREY CHURCH

,, nonsoese ll y y m e ell eeete,t, m bututsw sw w w s s b o e lp s o wwththe t thehelp entnt s AAscsce s cacnannono nchchknkono ar rs re en s. . aota,te, ea . TT heheFFr ncecsetsotrors o r r h t th ge e. r a an e byby ehreirtaitag ofofthtehieir h h rorlivlive ede itith o d ww n u n t u d i .. agangnit nototlelaead lsity mm afalsity . odo n f d f f y o . y o hehe TT pilpelses thehyeyaraere i c c n i prprin hoho t odno'nt.'t. erirciacnan ereww d r a u a u mme yoyo AA hehyey TT ititoror re,e, e e k i l lik rorheher o o u t u o i t o i s YY d o a avivis it.itI. I d w w o o n totok kn e enonror an n l am a I am I Iam m gnugaugag nororfefeeel a n I a . l a . s l s n ariris jojkoekes or r ininPPa susruere e e h t h t nonf fo io am I Iam t i t c d c e d n f e a an afaff thehe epaekak t p s s ileileinin lal ll a nontot m m s d s n d gg s. I. I rsrtsatan PaPrairis tepepalaolnon unudnede s t ee acahch s . . m asm E a s E e m ththe .s. hryhtyhthm s r e t e t t w blbislisss w raeret e a e h g t h i g n i in c ci h t ehreirsish p,p, aluaguhgh h l m c I m u c I I j u , I j etet, e. . ;II YY . sksikpip; rataetrenrintite idied.e. I W I ; blbuleue. W . ; f r p . s f d p , o i s s d , n o i r t e h s a an I h lit te rs st PaPar it,e, alakl;k; I te,ee, geagali hihte enebubur I Iww n w i w , i e t r , d S e be er y yrered thtehe S ofofli lib ife.e. mm yy s h s t h u i t f u r l i rormm w ohor re.r. fof li w o l h e f o l l c f l v , a c t v , a e s . ri is d t n e thehe ow. stsatnand hererthtahan n nininPaPar ititglgolw flfinin t l o e o e o s a t h o h s yy ig g I t atactch ereircica to ww mm irdied,e, I y flifelisesh hi n AA ipnigngmm r p o p t o , p l o , h n y l t a y c ch a it ty ti it enevneve FrFernen of fidiednent of fbebienigng agigciaclacl ci e e h t h a o o mm e g n t y yflaflag theheprpirdide eeeethtihsis ihnigngi in MM h s i s l s i t l s ize e e etoto InInrere reraelaliz owwmm I I n l o alall ca an ehreer,e, c s strturluyly h y l e n nly OO ripipe dndststr n a a s stsatrars

ADRIENNE AND GRANDMA LUPE

Adrienne and Grandma Lupe Arte Romero y Carver

Adrienne

ARTE ROMERO Y CARVER

Grandma Lupe

KHI, PK

khi, pk Ahmed Motiwala

A collection of film photographs taken in Karachi, Pakistan where my family is from. Now part of a digital archive of familial film photographs spanning 50 years. Shot on Portra 400 and Ektar 100.

CYCLE OF ABUSE AND FORGIVENESS

INTENTIONAL REFLECTION

intentional reflection

Omaer Naeem photos by Rachel Paulk

OMAER NAEEM

A Quarter Done I’ve always been afraid of loss Even in the season of rebirth It’s more akin to the season of goodbyes And the season of change I guess what’s more appropriate is to say I’ve always been afraid of change Because that’s what loss is Loss is change, All dynamics are shifted (not destroyed) Accept it, and change alongside with it When I first stepped foot here, I was so naïve and youthful The red-bricked demon sapped my soul My energy, my life, my passion Little soldiers, that’s what we’re reduced to I’m almost on the other end of it, now We’ve made it this far Want to picnic?

I remember our warmth heat simmering the air We cannot be contained pressure building We shatter the cage warmth meets cold meets Us i freeze, You melt— only Us. weeks passed, the dew had come, no need for artificial warmth i had You in my arms You melted again what was i supposed to do with what was left? months flew, frozen again i didn’t remember you and i kept it that way frost meeting the air now, i guess it was only fate we met the only issue being i don’t know you.

INTENTIONAL REFLECTION

To feel this way is to feel as one has lived, And loved, and lost, and felt, and Feeling. Feeling ____. (there’s space for you) Your interpretation, or, just you. To capture this moment Would require much more than a simple photograph or video. To truly remember this, what should I do With the beams of you shining down, The wind carrying seeds of new beginnings and soon farewells, Its furor is making me pause. Is this another moment That I can’t hold onto?

Unwilling After Marie Howe Is she to touch Her own body, or Care for it. Refined by her wounds, She sits with poise Her posture wicked Her mind, wizened with time And experiences, Abuses, Me.

Instinctually, I feel regret, Mom’s calls missed, dad’s calls don’t deliver. Unread texts, notifications swiped away, moments whose time haven’t arrived. Every moment will have its place in time. Blooming memories takes some care that I don’t have the time for They mature and then, just like all else, die. It’s not as though I want this to pass and pass away So we both are here yet again Reliving this same moment that hasn’t quite gone away But I’m not a fool, and nor are you.

Would she be better off? She certainly made me feel that way. Waking up late at night, Contemplating our Lord, I once asked her what happens when I die. Allah will put you where you need to be. I want to know I want to know I want to know Now I understand what she meant when she said: Oh, sweet, precious, innocent Child.

40 1

SOFIA GUTIERREZ SOFIA GUTIERREZ

Building Nostalgia

SOFIA GUTIERREZ SOFIA GUTIERREZ

41 2

@COLOUR.MAG COLOURMAG.WIXSITE.COM/READ 314-884-8537 COLOUR@SU.WUSTL.EDU

ISSUE 13