Colour Issue No. 14

FROM THE EDITOR

letter from the editor

It has long been a dream of mine to write one of these, one of these letters from the editor or whatever you call them. Simply, I am an acknowledgments type of girl; they are my favorite part of every book. I enjoy seeing how people thank the ones they love. I find comfort in those words, and I hope you can sincerely feel it in the pages of our magazine. This Fall Edition of Colour Magazine has been a delight to write, to produce, to collaborate, to create, and each work carries a deep meaning. Hold on to the stories you resonate with; find inspiration in the brushstrokes you admire; savor the connection you feel with the creativity.

I am grateful to have called this magazine home since my very first day here: nervous and far less stylish. The love that vibrates through this Fall Edition is a testament to the incredible people of Colour Magazine, who I am fortunate enough to lean on, and whom I thank dearly.

This holiday season, I hope you let these pages wrap you like a warm blanket. I hope you open yourself to the spirit of creative freedom, expression, and individuality that sits here; the door to Colour Magazine is always open. And, finally, I hope you enjoy reading this magazine as much as we did creating it.

And in my first letter from the editor, this is my thank you: for now, for forever, for always.

With hugs and love, Audrey Church Editor in Chief

LETTER

Eric

Gladys Manzira

infierno

i breathe smoke from fires started by our shared tourists te doy vergüenza? ¿qué pasó con el “icondicional”? but you don’t need to stick around i like the way i am i’m not asking for permission even if your own lit match burns i’ll put this blaze out somehow or i’ll make it beautiful, worthwhile because one thing’s for sure: i no longer believe in saviors.

Fuck it, We Ball!

BALLROO M CULTURE OF ST. LOUIS

By Eric Lei Design by Natalie Dinh

“ W alking Face, category Nonbinary! Anyone walking Nonbinary Face, come down in 10, 9, 8…” I see my friend Dom strut over, on six-inch, diamond-studded platforms, to the center of the room where a makeshift runway was carved out from the crowd of people. Everyone was huddled around, watching intently. Sashaying in a fitted mesh shirt embroidered with black snakes, flaunting their fur stole and golden snake jewelry, and pulling behind them a train of tulle encrusted with crystals, Dom was donned head to toe in black and gold, House of Bodega’s distinctive house colors.

Was it the gold sparkles of their makeup? Or was it

sweat from being in a hot, muggy room with over a hundred people? Nevertheless, they were glistening.

Dom’s all-black entourage held two feathered fans up to their face.

“Drop the beat!”

The fans blossomed out, theatrically revealing Dom’s glammed up face.

This was Dom’s first time walking in a category. And for me, The Big One Ball this past September at the

“OTA Face: This is your day ‘this your moment ‘this is your time to shine. Make this moment unforgettable DO YO BIG ONE. Bring it” – The Big One Ball

Dom serves a fit and face in the Virgin Nonbinary Face category. They are wearing a pink fur stole over a mesh shirt and a bejeweled cape. Towering over everyone else in their bedazzled platform heels, they pose elegantly, showing off their chiseled side profile.

Originating in New York, the Ballroom scene has been a space of safety and self-expression for queer people of color since the late 20th century. It was formed as an underground subculture separate from the more mainstream, white, gay drag scenes where Black and Brown folk were often excluded from participation. However, in recent years, the Ballroom scene has emerged more into public consciousness, with movies and TV shows like ParisisBurning (1990) and Pose (2018) and among social media apps like TikTok.

Nowadays, the Ballroom scene continues to provide queer people of color a world apart from a largely cis, white, and heteronormative reality. In Ballroom, members of different “Houses” (like House of Bodega) participate in the competition. But these Houses are not just a term for a team or a group; Houses in Ballroom serve as a “found family” for their members, and often provide a literal, safe home. Led by a House mother and/or House father who provide care and offer guidance, Houses act as a needed social support system for queer youth who often face estrangement, homelessness, and abuse.

Another important part of Ballroom is the various categories in which participants compete, which allow queer people of color to fully express their identities

Kre8 Place was my first encounter with Ballroom.

and talents. Gender categories are not restricted to the binary of man and woman, but include more representation of gender diversity, including butch queens (cis, gay men), femme queens (feminine-presenting trans women), women (cis women), butches (masculine presenting women), transmen, and drag queens (gay men in drag). In categories of Male Figure, any masc-presenting butch queen, transmen, and butches compete. The same goes for Female Figure, which includes any femme-presenting femme queens, women, and drag queens. With an expanded structure to incorporate different gender identities and expressions, Ballroom becomes a safe space for trans and other gender nonconforming individuals to present how they want to present, and often challenge normative gender stereotypes.

While modern Ballroom history and traditions have solely been depicted through New York (both Paris is Burning and Pose is situated in New York City), NYC isn’t the only city to have a history of drag ball. In fact in 1956, St. Louis had its first drag ball, Ms. Fannie’s Ball, on Halloween. Organized by the Jolly Jesters Social Group, it was a charity celebration and beauty contest that provided a space for Black gay and transgender men to perform in drag publicly, and be awarded for it. For over 60 years, Ms. Fannie’s Ball has engraved itself into St. Louis’s LGBTQ+ scene, allowing for queer expressions of the self, and setting the stage for Ballroom to thrive and flourish within St. Louis now.

Sweeping to the judges table, she parted the fringe of her black tophat, an additional requirement for competing in Virgin Runway, revealing her supermodel pose.

In each of these categories, participants performed beauty. In Face, contestants presented their best looks. Runway allowed walkers to present their best supermodel walk, serving through their looks, their fit, and their charisma. In Sex Siren, individuals won over the judges through sex appeal. In an act of self-expression and self-affirmation, these categories gave a space for participants to be their most authentic self.

While at face value these categories seemed to reinforce normative beauty standards, each category is nuanced, often calling out normative standards, challenging them and tearing them apart. Rather than just showing beauty, voguers perform beauty, recognizing the ways the beauty norms are socially constructed. And in the Male Figure and Female Figure Realness categories, individuals presented a stereotypical “male” and “female” look. While participants fit into categories of what we believe to be “beautiful” or “masculine” and “feminine,” I felt an element of camp in each of their performances, as if everybody was twisting those standards.

Self-expression was definitely pumping throughout the night. Walking in Glitz and Glam, someone wore a fully sequined red suit, with matching shoes and a hat to go with. Walking in Sex Appeal, there were butch queens walking in assless chaps and female figures in lingerie, showcasing their sculpted silhouettes to the judges, and for all to see.

In the Virgin Runway category, my newly-acquainted friend Sarah walked solo. With her flowery lace tights and a matching black corset top, she walked carefully to the beat of U- N- I- Q- U- E- of “Alien Superstar.”

Challenging gender standards have been a constant throughout Ballroom history. In 1971, a photo of the crowned winner of Ms. Fannie’s Ball, the drag queen “Miss Sherrel,” was printed on the St. Louis American newspaper with a caption stating:

FUCK IT WE BALL! BALLROOM CULTURE OF ST. LOUIS 11

Realness did not so much reinforce standards as it drew attention to the performativity of such gender and beauty, allowing for the imitation of stereotypes and even the deconstruction of such standards.

jerk the cats’ glued eyes off the ‘babes.’” (St. Louis American, 1971)

It was clear why Miss Sherrel made such a statement; their perfectly up-doed hair, voluptuous outfit, and a shining tiara on their head served female figure realness. Yet, this differentiation between “babes,” or drag queens, and “real” women offers a view into the twentieth century world of strict gender categories of being a “true” female. But the situation described in the article shows the radical nature of drag balls. Even though the drag queens were not perceived to be “real” women, nevertheless, they gained the attention of the “cats,” the men attending. The feminine “realness” portrayed by drag queens complicated what was considered beautiful and challenged the rigid gender binaries of identity and expression.

space. Watching the Ball, I found myself envious of the voguers’ comfort and confidence in their skills, in their bodies, and in their sexualities. But I realized that that was exactly what Ballroom was for, to be an environment where I can grow resilience, to be a space of community and social support, to be a reality of love for those that are not loved outside of Ballroom. I hope to go again, and maybe I’ll find the courage to walk that runway.

“Category

Bazaar, prepare your costumes!”

Moments later, a figure, stuck in the doorway, clomped into the runway space. In a pair of foot high stilts, an inflatable black suit of spikes, and a helmet attached with a digital screen replacing the person’s face, flashing images of different faces, some beautiful, some distorted, others extremely close-up. Later, I was informed that the category requirements were an all-black costume with a creative bizarre head piece. What struck me was the artistry. This wasn’t a mere fashion or dance show, this was a space of art and revolution, questioning, deconstructing, and recreating notions of beauty and identity.

While the hosts of Ms. Fannie’s ball disbanded in 1981, their legacy set the stage for what is now St. Louis’s thriving drag and Ballroom scene. What started off as a safe space for queer, Black folk and people of color to celebrate their various sexualities, gender expressions, and themselves continues to be such a

– The Big One Ball

A large silhouette on stilts lumbers down the runway, supported by two other individuals. Layers and layers of black cloth drape over their body, adding to the size of this looming figure. A digital headpiece crowned with LEDs completely covers the individual’s face, instead displaying a glitchy face of its own. Beautiful yet distorted. Large yet unstable. What does this bizarre identity represent?

Citations:

Friedman, Andrea, and Miranda Rectenwald. “Miss Fannie’s Ball.” ArcGIS Story Maps, Esri, 2 June 2021, https://storymaps.arcgis.com/ stories/79e7cc8385f4a6e9e6d6caed39cc8e0. Accessed Oct. 6, 2022.

“Bazaar: The wonderful world of bazaar. In all black with a creative bizarre head piece and make up!”

The Creaks and Croaks of Madison Avenue

by Audrey Church

design by Sofia Gutierrez

Have you heard the story of the slithering snake who runs underground all day and night? Who shakes the city so loud that he gives the children a fright? Have you heard of the ants in a swarm that once the clock strikes four crawl and climb to enter the closing doors?

Have you heard of the smelly beasts on four legs with tails between their feet, who roam the tracks in your sleep, to wake you and ask, “$1 for a slice of cheese, please!”

Have you heard of the music played on the harp of bones that moves and mingles and vibrates through the walls of your home?

Have you heard of the worker bees who interrogate you with clicking keys, and ask, “tickets, please!”

Have you heard of this slithering snake

Who moves so fast and so loud that when he screeches his breaks, He opens your world to unlimited gates?

The New York City Subway is the strand that weaves the web of human experiences.

36 lines. 5 boroughs. One hell of a ride.

To the New York City Subway, who opened me to all points of the compass; who removed the veil on hidden worlds; who taught me that fearlessness and kindness are symbiotic forces, here is my $2.75 ticket of infinite thank you’s.

harbors

by gladys manzira

swaying in the sea quiet twilight replaces summertime sunset the waters blacken rust stains callused fingertips hands clasp tangled rope

drunk on salty air a seagull soars overhead jellyfish beneath

by Kavya Patel

Warm, gentle, cracked, brown hands lay me on a bed of dry dirt. You’ll never grow, you’ll never go anywhere. The ground beneath me unearthed. The dirt concaved over me, and I felt myself still. Shhh, don’t listen to them. You’ve already done so much. You’ve created life. I felt the cold settling of water sinking into the surrounding dirt, into me. I shivered and felt sated. I could feel my roots and leaves budding, taking in this meager landscape and making it my home.

The warm, gentle, cracked, brown hands came every day. They sat next to me, whispered about a home far, far away, one they could never return to. They sang me songs of a life unfulfilled, full of regret. They sang songs of hope, for all that their children would one day do, but especially for their daughters. Because it was the daughters for whom the hands were most scared. The daughters

at whom the hands were most mad. The daughters for whom the hands dreamt the most. They sang and sang because that was all they could do.

The warm, gentle, cracked brown hands were born in a small village about 100 miles south of here. But they say that their life really started 15 years ago when they married a charming young man. He promised the hands the world: a life of stability, children, a family. But the hands had lived enough life to know that the good could never come without the bad. So they endured the nasty mother-inlaw, creeping father-in-law, and a not so stable stability. The children came fast, three daughters, until the mother-in-law said enough is enough. The daughters kept coming but they were never given the permission of life. Until the one fetus, the final fetus, the only fetus that really, truly ever mattered was finally, finally conceived. His cry was the hands’ first moment of relief.

The little ones spent their days running around, kicking up dirt through the

courtyard. Slow down, the warm, gentle, cracked brown hands would say. If anything, the little ones sped up. They made the hands so, so proud. They sped through the home, coming in, going out, footsteps growing heavier and heavier as time passed. Until one day, they stopped coming back. Go out and plant your own trees. It went back to just the warm, gentle, cracked brown hands and I.

And then, the warm, gentle, cracked, brown hands stopped coming. Everything felt so dry. I was left parched for days, hearing the soft murmurings of a crowd mourning the warm, gentle, cracked, brown hands, just as I did. And then: cool, cautious, hardened, brown hands. Mumma, I miss you.

The cool, cautious, hardened, brown hands came every other day, busy with the children and husband they said. It was hard, remembering to water me amongst the cooking, and laundry, and cleaning, and schooling, and praying, and I just- I’m so tired, the cool, cautious, hardened, brown hands said. Mumma raised me to run, but I feel like I’ve been crawling.

What is this? Curious, little, brown hands came with the cool, cautious, hardened brown hands and without. The days without were a little rough on me, but I endured, for the sweet tinkling of their laugh, for the funny recitations of the happenings of a kindergarten classroom, for the long-winded statements. I will be an astronaut president who writes books and draws and saves animals. Okay, little one, I believe you. Because we want to.

KAVYA PATEL

“This piece encapsulates the pressures people, mainly parents and adult peers, place on young Asians to meet their high expectations, such as perfect scores on the SAT/ACT, high-reach colleges, musical excellence, and difficult professions. To depict this, I crafted the eye using a collage of SAT, ACT, and music sheets and made it look like it was looking down on the figure. I made it into the shape of an eye because the words surrounding it are what “perfect” looks like to them.”

- Sophie Lee

Artwork by Sophie Lee

Nothings that are Somethings

Warm blood seeps through the capillaries that lie within the interior of my face. The liquid sits on my cheeks, flushing my bronze skin tone into a mild shade of deep rose. My heart beats quickly, creating a symphony of internal screams that compel my brain to form a quick rebuttal: “Have you ever even been there?”

“I don’t have to go there to know that there’s nothing.”

The smooth dismissal breaks my pathetic attempt at defense. It is one that makes my stomach coil, the feeling heightened by the way my obvious vexation only seems to amuse her. The quick snicker that leaves her teasing lips lets me know that the “debate” is over. I have lost. Her words were a painful assault that will forever be imprinted in my memory. The pain only worsens as she begins relishing in her own country’s “superiority” to mine. Despite my strong reaction, the conversation is quickly forgotten by her. She changes the subject, pretending as though her comment didn’t release a slew of degradation. I don’t want to talk anymore. I can only roll my eyes and walk away with a huffy “whatever”.

As the afternoon sun rays vibrate across my forehead, I gaze through the rectangular bus window spotted with dead flies and dirt left by the children who sat there before me. I place my head onto its metal borders, only for it to be banged harshly against the vehicle’s weak scaffolding as the driver flies over a speed bump. I replay the argument over and over again, frustrated with her words and frustrated with myself for not saying something better. I rant to my best friend, who told me not to engage in that type of conversation any longer. She says it isn’t worth it. I should “protect my peace” instead. Her words somewhat snap me out of my hyperfocus, but I can’t help but question if my relentless anger was due to the jealousy I had of her country’s constant adoration, or if it was my heart’s calling to deliver a sense of justice to the name of the country

by Doris Lamour

design by Nissi Yorke

my parents call home. The answer was that it was both, and even more so, the fact that I could not sway her obstinate ignorance.

I have been to Ayiti, or Haiti. I was much younger at the time, but if I were to pluck out a piece of my life that I can remember the most, it would be those weeks I spent in Lakay at my uncle’s and grandmother’s homes. It was a very new experience for little me. It was “new” in that we had to commute 3 hours by car to get to the nearest grocery store and that we had our older cousin bathe us using buckets of ice-cold water from the well in Grandma’s backyard. Most things were home-grown: the meat and plantains we had for dinner, the sugar cane and papayas for dessert, and the milk used in the labouille for supper. I didn’t know Creole or French, so when I sat on the wooden steps of my other cousins’ house playing Nintendo with my brother and sister, our appreciation for each other was mostly shown by the ceremonial tradeoff between our Pokémon cards and their Pokémon Pearl.

There is one particular memory, however, that I remember the most from that trip. I’m not sure if it was because it was absolutely terrifying at the time, or that it led to the onslaught of events that constituted the best part of our visit. But regardless of the reason, the story is still the same:

My sister and I lay on a floor mattress beneath a small fan. Although I already adapted to the Florida heat back home, there was no escaping the humidity that haunted the room due to a lack of air conditioning and ventilation. A weak breeze blows through the square holes that serve as glassless windows, allowing the rooster to wake us up with his ear-curdling scream as the sun peaks up from behind the hills. The hens, chickens, and goats are thrilled by this and join his solo performance. I was never thrilled; it wasn’t in my plans to wake up at 6:00 AM to a chorus of restless chickens. My sister rustles next to me in frustration, getting rid of my drowsiness, and therefore any possibility of me falling back asleep. I breathe in the aromas of morning breakfast made up of bacon and pancake fumes traveling from the kitchen. My father walks into our room, urging us to get up and ready for the day. I sit up sluggishly, ready to burst into tears from my tiredness. We walk haggardly into the dining area as our breakfast is plopped onto our plates.

“It’s just a pile of rubble.”

The rest of the day is just like this: mundane and relatively uneventful. We visit someone’s house later that morning, and as we drive back to my uncle’s house, there is word of a large thunderstorm arriving in the area. The skies once filled with harsh rays of the yellow sun have been turned into a dull gray. Everything is tranquil, yet there is a dense eeriness that lingers over the fields. We know it won’t be too quiet for long, but our feverish anticipation comes from the fact that we just won’t know when.

The wind picks up after a few hours, making the house creak and sway at a slow pace. The lights flicker periodically, causing everyone to look up in anticipation. Whenever lightning strikes, the thunder violently shakes the ground. There are no closed windows, so every sound is the same as if you are standing outside. Instead of sleeping in our usual quarters, we set up a camp on the first floor, combining our blow-up mattresses into a formation that would allow us to be far enough from the windows and doors. My little sister starts crying as the thunder grows louder, covering her ears with her pillow and hiding under the blanket. My brother and I are not in the same distressed state as her, but for me to say I wasn’t scared would be a lie. She is consumed in her fear of thunder, while I am more concerned with the water pouring into the house. The men are quick to put buckets and towels to contain the water as much as possible. My father chuckles at my hysteric sister as he tries to comfort her from the deafening thunder around us, being sure to let her know that everything is going to be alright. He tells us that this is “the real Haiti” in the sense that we were a part of nature, not just living in it. It was closer to us than it ever could have been in Florida. Florida has its own fair share of frightening storms, but it never has the same essence as those in Haiti. We attempt to sleep through the unbearable noise, and by the time we do fall asleep, the storm passes.

Dampness covers every inch of the outside and inside, everyone worn from their battle against Mother Nature. My parents decide we are going to visit my aunt despite the last night’s torturous events. The drive to the city was difficult: a monstrous sinkhole lay in the middle of the road, leading us to call the people nearby for help to get around it. Our new driver, after my dad switches off, tuggs at the stick shift with great agility, slowly getting us around the sinkhole and through the mud that followed. Eventually, we made it to the city house. We walk to the back and see a small pool the size of a tub. Flowers from the trees around it float on

DORIS LAMOUR

top of the water, probably knocked off their stems by last night’s storm. These particular flowers remind me of eggs: they have dainty white petals but a slimy yellow center. The flowers stick onto our skin as my sister and I sink into the chilly turquoise water. The tree branches provide us shade and more flower petals blow around us with the wind. We stay in this tranquil area until we hearcommotioncomingfromthecitystreets.Wetravel up to the balcony and look over to see a crowd standing on the sidewalks, cheering and throwing things into the air in front of a church. A bride and her groom come around the corner in a convertible, her white veil and train filling up the back seats of the vehicle. The groom is in a classic black suit, waving at his friends and family. They move slowly down the street as we continue to watch, the sun finally beaming down again onto our little smiling faces.

I remember these stories not just because some of the events frightened little me. I remember it because it made me feel so different than I have ever felt before. My culture is present within my home but there was nothing like being completely immersed in it: The beaches covered in crabs and seaweed, the late night dinners outside next to the goats, the rooster that always sung its morning song, the waterfalls where fish danced, the cattle that stood on top of hills in their herd, the dogs that sat by us as we got our hair braided in the backyard, the occasional music blasting on the streets, the lakes where we bathed, and the small boats rowing to islands make up my beautiful country.

Why is it that Haiti is a country defined by its catastrophes rather than its language, people, and culture?

It is a land that is the exemplification of revolution for all, yet a land often forgotten by even its brothers, sisters, and cousins. Its issues are sensationalized and placed onto the abilities of the people, rather than the lasting effects of imperialism and oppression perpetuated by today’s “developed” nations.

Ayiti, La Perle des Antilles.

I will always remember the scent of the air, and the sound of their sea, because those “nothings” were something to me.

Romina Diaz-Rivero (romina@wustl.edu)

i. blissfully

I look in the mirror in the darkness. I cannot see myself.

iii. that which cannot be removed

I am proud of my heritage. I wear it like a mask. He tells me I am beautiful but I wish I could remove the mask so I could be sure.

ii. first love

I am certainly not unloved. I have never been. So why does it feel so strange to be adored for what has felt like the first time? I look at the one I am in love with, who loves me too, and I should feel only happiness. But I instead feel a pit drop in my stomach when my mind begins to wander. I feel a creeping suspicion that we may be too different–not because we don’t agree on music or the future but we cannot agree on what makes me beautiful. It is unnatural that I now believe that my features (which I have felt my entire life are not to be desired) are desired. How is it I may be adored not just for my character, humor, and kindness? That I may be more? Or does it make me less? Perhaps it is the way my dark long straight hair falls like tears onto my shoulders. Or how the olive skin that surrounds my delicate wrists will forever hold the sunlight even in coldest winter. My eyes, almost black, certainly thin, yet artificially perfect, seem as if they have all the wisdom in the world, and he wants to look in them forever, and I should be grateful. I am beautiful. It is upsetting that it took me this long to realize it.

I hate everything you like about me–reflections and questions about the fetishization and rejection of self Grace Tyau

iv. wishing for whiteness to be all of me

If I am so proud, why is it that I feel upset at how I look in photos? Why a ping of shame when I talk about the origin of my last name? Why so uncomfortable when people simply acknowledge my non-whiteness? I am not hiding that part of myself, I never have, I wouldn’t be able to. It feels so wrong to be this confused.

v. living in the legacy of supremacy

vi. perhaps we should know each other deeper

At some point I became aware that I am remembered first for my skin tone and eye shape rather than my name. How can we be sure we are more than a stereotype? There is still much to figure out, so much left unsaid. It is difficult to exist as not only a teenager, but a teenage girl. And more than that, a teenage girl of color.

We are systemically fetishized in the media. I suppose it is not that I have been told my features are unlovable, but more that I have never felt they are mine to love. When I reject myself, I am not rejecting myself, but the complex history of my heritage. Those who came before me, women with features like mine who owned them, who weren’t ashamed. And the history of those who forced them to feel what I do now.

design by Rita Wang

by Tyra Frazier

design by Nissi Yorke

As a child i never felt the need to explain myself or the intricacies that formulate my essence. Though as my age progressed, it resulted in the inevitable molding and hardening of my heart, forcing me to realize that it was the carelessness of my adolescence that i took most for granted. Most of the time i am able to distract myself from this fact by remaining in a constant state of mental occupation and as long as my mind never has time to wander i am fine. But, when that one dreadful moment occurs where i have free time to myself, i find myself unable to avoid this fact and am struck by the sheer intensity of it. This realization most often occurs in the minutes right after i turn my lights off to go to sleep and in the reflection of my window i can see myself clearly. It should be a beautiful moment, the city lights streaming into my room in a perfect stream of illumination, but instead is it dreadful. In the window, my face seems to contort. My deep set eyes and broad nose seems to droop and my night gown, several sizes too big for me seems to swallow me. It is in this moment of solitude that i realize how utterly and undeniably alone, a fact i am unable to avoid. For me, loneliness is not an emotion, but a person.

A woman who i don’t think of as often as i used to, but when i do, i am still consumed with the same amount of indescribable loathing that causes me to get up and begin walking no matter where I am, like a machine being prompted by a remote. It is as if this memory, this idea, is so revolting that a sort of primitive instinct takes a hold of me that forces me to run away from it. When i picture Gran Gran, the first thing I see is her hands; her fingers so wrinkled that they become almost indistinguishable. It is these hands that i loved the most. Much of my adolescence was shaped by those hands. How they periodically moved to her face to adjust her reading glasses as she sat, her face scrunched up as if the glasses would only work if her face was stuck into a permanent scowl. i remember how she would sew for hours on end, her back hunched, the hard line of her spine showing through her night gown. It is this very position that years later, led to her back problems, ones that even as she walked crooked, would deny she had. It was those same hands that used to run their fingers through my thick head of curls, intricately braiding along the entirety of my hairline, the distinct feeling of the comb along my scalp as she

parted it. As a child, i idolized those hands. i would sit for hours in her lap, the news playing from the television, gently tracing the lines of her wrinkles along her dark-brown hands, hoping that they’d tell me something. i would move my fingers along the train track pattern of her wrinkles, like a seer waving their hand over a glass ball. i believed that just by feeling them i would be able to feel all the stories and experiences stored in them and maybe they would explain why i felt the way i did. That why at the age of eight i already had this shadow of sadness following me everywhere i went. i was convinced that maybe her hands would tell me how to get rid of it and where it came from. But, i quickly realize that this was foolish. How could i learn this from a woman who was never able to get rid of it herself? It was during these formative years that the idea of a familial curse began taking root in my head. It was the only explanation that made sense then and the only one that makes sense now.

TYRA

because what else would explain why all the women in my family lived lives or sorrow?

Yearning

To be young is to yearn. It is to wish, and wonder, and dream about all your life has to offer.

28 songs, 1 hr 39 mins

Every Time the Sun ... By Sharon Van Etten

I Awaken ... By Soulfish Lost In Yesterday ... By Tame Impala The Days ... By Jasmine Thompson They Make It Look So Easy ... By The Paddy Cakes Leaving ... By Binary One Letting Go ... By Ron Adelaar Meanwhile ... By The Moody Blues

I Am ... By Train Left Behind ... By Orla Gartland Stuck Between ... By Dutch Criminal Record Past and Present ... By Javi Lobe Sitting, Waiting, Wishing ... By Jack Johnson Wasting My Young Years ... By London Grammar Thinking About ... By Lauren Aquilina You ... By Louyah Whoever You Are ... By Liv Rylan Wherever You Are ... By Angus & Julia Stone

I Hope You Dance ... By Lee Ann Womack

I Hope You’re Happy ... By Games We Play And I Hope ... By Larry Gold

I hope that u think of me ... By Pity Party (Girls Club)

As You Close Your Eyes ... By Elias Braun Tonight ... By Kidswaste Wait For Me ... By Dawn Well okay? ... By The Royal Foundry I’ll Be Waiting ... By Lenny Kravitz For You Too ... By Yo La Tengo

Growing

To grow up is to realize what it means to be human, and to truly feel the nuanced emotions you couldn’t identify in your youth.

33 songs, 2 hr 7 mins

3am at a Party ... By Soccer Mommy In Between ... By Linkin Park Misheard Lyrics By Car Seat Headrest I Cry ... By Millie Jackson Over ... By Lukcy Daye Nothing And Everything By Red Crying ... By Pom Pom Squad It’s Not A Sad Thing ... By Faye Webster Unless ... By Hawktail You By A Great Big World Make It So ... By Same Just ... By Radiohead Like By BTS Loneliness By Birdie sometimes ... By eli. Ends Up ... By EVIRGO Holding Your Hand By Emil & Sofia When ... By Shania Twain No One ... By Alicia Keys Else ... By Built To Spill Will By Evangeline Audre Lorde ... By Uriah Says ... By Nils Frahm I Feel By Mennel Therefore ... By Zimmer90 I Can Be Free ... By Brad Rudolph Do You ... By Spoon really By mimi bay Want ... By The Cure To Stay ... By Great Dane In A Cage By Penelope Isles Your Whole Life ... By Tyler Ramsey ? ... By MF DOOM

To age is to mourn; it is to mourn the places you called home, the people you loved, and the person you were. Remembering is a type of mourning in itself, isn’t it?

Remembering

45 songs, 2 hr 40 mins

Yearning, Growing, Remembering

The thing about life is the one thing we can be certain about is that nothing is certain. That’s the thing about music, it is simultaneously static and dynamic, simultaneously certain and completely unpredictable. It is ever changing and yet, our favorite songs stay still like an untold secret. As we wade through the phases of our lives, music will continue to exist, constantly morphing and yet, never leaving our sides.

My poems made of Spotify song titles serve as a kind of ode to music, and a declaration of the pure poetry it will always bring to my world

By Nirali Somia

Design by Natalie Dinh

You ... By Marvin Gaye Often By The Weeknd Tell Me ... By Sabrina Claudio Don’t Carry It All ... By the Decemberists but By deem spencer Where ... By Oddysseys Do I ... By WLuke Bryan Put It Down ... By Jazmine Sullivan The Heaviness By Eureka The Butcher of ... By Stueve The Past and Pending ... By The Shins The Idea of Growing Old By The Features Do You Realize?? By The Flaming Lips The Sound of Settling By the Death Cab for Cutie It Sounds Like Goodbye ... By Daddy Bill Time By Hans Zimmer Is As ... By Goldmund Restless ... By New Order As It Is ... By Matilda Mann Heartless By Kanye West Time ... By Pink Floyd Will ... By the Evangeline Ask - 2011 Remaster By The Smiths Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken? By Lloyd Cole and the Commotion and ... By the EDEN Proceed By The Roots Without ... By Hojean An Answer ... By The Mail Your Young Voice By King Creosote Is Now By Syntillas A ... By Barenecked Ladies Phantom Limb ... By The Shins And By demahjiae You... By A Great Big World Are ... By Start Aliens Mourning ... By Michael Brook someone By Emawk Who ... By MUNA Felt Like Home ... By TEEN BLUSH Here’s Where The Story Ends By The Sundays Looking for Someone By Sarah Slean In The Mirror ... By The Interrupters Wishing and Hoping ... By Scribble They Are By Mascot Year Someone You Know ... By Further Seems Forever

STAINED

by Audeep Cariens

Exonerate rapture. The immigrant’s American dream imprisoned, We listen to the tirade, White House gospel, To them fantastical indoctrination. We watch Looney Tunes Painted brown, graffitied white.

Complacency leads to violence, With guns pointed in all directions, Everyone is a killer, but to themselves, lie innocent. Sing with me the anthem backwards. “In triumph shall wave...war’s desolation... Gloom of the grave... The bombs bursting...gallantly streaming.”

Millenium blood flows Through umbilical chords, Music of the world’s new origin. Our screens now arrest the country’s story From global West to United Center, it can rewind and play again; The bars of a cell, the paper stamped With GW’s face, paper used for Wall Street Instead of passports.

Who represents the prisoner, the pilot, the passenger, The people in the street? It only takes one for them to decide. For them to take the shot to our head, Loop the noose of our tongue. Take the feet that drag, The hands too good at this or that, And let the blood leak out of the brain That they want.

Now it colors their flag.

by Allie Hoy

Design by Rita Wang

From the outside, my house looks like part of a set in a coming-of-age film about a teenager stuck in suburbia. It’s the second house from the end of a long row of identically designed townhomes, each one the exact same height and width, forming an artificial horizon. My house is a dusty brown color, one that you wouldn’t think would be an appealing color for the exterior of a house, but yet still feels inviting in its subtle warmth. It has a small yard, barely big enough for a garden, which lay empty until last year when my mom grew envious of the elaborate garden cultivated by the sweet Colombian lady three doors over and went to the Home Depot and bought three Hostas. Next to the garden, there’s just enough space for the bare mound where the tree that could hold the weight of me and both of my sisters used to be before we had to chop it down because it was leaning too close to the house.

If you gave a child a box of crayons and told them to draw a house, the structure they outline probably won’t be too different from the front of my house. It’s square-shaped, with a triangle roof on top. Arranged in a grid-like pattern are three windows and a door, evenly spaced out, creating a sturdy facade. The only thing that might be different from the child’s drawing is the color. My house is painted a soft brown that you wouldn’t expect to be an appealing color for a house, but still feels inviting in its subtle warmth.

The front door to my house is heavy and large. The sound it makes when it opens differs based on the time of day. On Saturday mornings when my dad goes out for his morning cigarette, it’s just loud and pitchy enough to wake me up, but on weekday afternoons, the consistent and comforting swing marked the beginning of a long decompressing process after 10-hour school days.

Without taking two steps in, you can already get a small glimpse of my family just by looking at the walls. The walls of the entryway are adorned with decor that is so essentially us. We have the Japanese art my sister was taught to make by a White art teacher at a predominantly White elementary school. We have the hand-embroidered sign by my Aunt Pam, reading “Mi Casa es Su Casa” to welcome my mother, the first person of color to marry into my dad’s family. And finally, we have my favorite piece of decor, my mother’s handmade “Families are Forever” sign, which is wonderfully complemented by the hole in the wall just below it, a symbol of unchecked male aggression.

On the inside of our front door we have, like most families would have on their fridge, a collage of random papers, magnets, and photos. Each of the pieces hung on the door has its own story and I couldn’t possibly try to tell them all, but some highlights from the door include a God Bless America magnet my grandma insisted we put up, a takeout menu from our favorite Peruvian-owned Chinese restaurant, and multiple copies of the same honor roll certificate, the exact same design, the only difference being the dates and which sister’s name it displays.

To the right of the front door is the coat closet, which has more tablecloths than coats, a hoard of Fabuloso and other cleaning supplies, and a fire extinguisher that my dad insists on keeping even though we’ve never used it in the 19 years I’ve been alive.

To the left is a little shelf that my mom got for $6 at a yard sale, which holds my older sister’s basil project, the 20-pound bag of rice from Costco that gets replaced every three months, and a stash of single-use water bottles that we bought when the pandemic first started that we keep in case of emergencies.

You pass through the kitchen, my mom’s territory, which usually has the lingering smell of caramelizing onions. The stove is the only appliance in the kitchen that’s the same as it always was, the only one that has never broken down and caused a stressful discussion for a replacement. Beneath the four sturdy burners is the oven, full of pans, trays, and other kitchenware that my sisters once forgot to remove before preheating the oven to bake a tres leches. There’s a sink that’s usually home to either a slab of frozen meat defrosting or a mountain of dirty dishes, depending on the time of day. And the pantry, stocked with anything from Goya lentejas to matcha powder to dried oats.

As you walk further into the house, you enter the dining room, which is also the living room, which is also the study room, which is also the guest room. At the center of everything is the table. It would be wrong to call it the dining table, because we do so much more than dining there. It’s also the Scrabble at 3am table, the weekly pop-up nail salon table, and the rejection of generational mental health stigma when you witness your middle daughter having the messiest panic attack of her life.

The last night I slept in my house before moving halfway across the country, I felt empty, just like my bedroom. Instead of feeling like a teenager escaping suburbia in that coming-of-age movie, I felt like a plant being ripped out of its ecosystem. For all the things I went through in my house, and all the times I felt like I had outgrown the townhouse that wasn’t meant to accommodate five people, it still felt like the place I belonged. Every small little detail felt like another piece in the puzzle, and I was being ripped away, shipped out to Missouri never to be reunited with the imperfect image it made. I got out of bed the next morning, brought the rest of the boxes to the car, and as we drove away, I don’t remember looking back.

No One

Knows When

By Priya Joshi Designed by Natalie Dinh

Born of two cultures

Crash at the juncture

Where the mother vulture asks When will you rise Where will you venture

The crossroad you face The looming adventure Where you will shape Your own sculpture So when the next comes They will glimpse The future

Solitude in the Streets

by Jalen Walker

design by Sofia Gutierrez

Papayas

2018

“Mami 1

“Which story mija 2 ?”

“Any story.”

1995

I never wanted to leave the papaya trees of Veracruz. The sweet soft fruit and the pungent smell was distinguishable from the rest of the ranchos 3. While I would take care of the cosecha 4 my mother would cut the papaya and add limon y chile 5. My mother, my brother Andrés, and I would swing on our hamaca 6 eating the fruit while birds would harmonize around us.

Though these were beautiful moments, my family and I were undoubtedly struggling. My mother washaving trouble caring for me and my brother Andrés without my father’s assistance. Our crops were losing life. I stopped going to school to babysit Andrés while my mother went to work in town. We would pray before every meal for a more fruitful life, and when papaya season began, our prayers were answered.

by Ximena Herrera

design by Sofia Gutierrez

My father, living in Texas, had gotten his green card and paid a coyote 7 to take only me to the states where I would be guaranteed the “American dream”. A life he claimed would flourish me with a higher education and more life opportunities. When I heard the news, I was angry. I had imagined my father would come live with us, and not the other way around. I was born here, and I did not want to leave my mother and brother. I did not want to leave my home.

I cried every day leading up to my departure. Andrés would find me under my blankets and would hug me tight. He would wipe my tears with his little hands and would give me warm milk to drink before bed. Andrés, a 7-year-old, was about to lose his big sister, and I was not ready to say goodbye.

On my last day in Veracruz, Andrés and I were under a papaya tree. He promised to invent a set of wings and fly to the United States to visit me. We started laughing and suddenly a papaya fell by our feet. Its skin was unbruised and healthy. I took the papaya in my hands and we ate the whole thing.

, can you tell me a story?”

Saying goodbye was the painful thing I had to do, but I knew I had to leave for my family. Ene, a trusted older friend of my mother, came along with me. We traveled in a bus, a taxi, and a plane all just to get to Sonora, Mexico where the coyote was waiting. Our coyote had a dark complexion and was around 5’6. He had dark eyes that reminded me of the soil back in el rancho. I might have not known this man, but there was something in me that trusted him. He guided us to a van where we would be able to cross the desert and inside were other pairs of eyes held on to their story. I learned about a Guatemalan father who was escaping the harsh climate in his hometown. A couple who was expecting a baby girl. And the person who stood out to me the most was a 16-year-old boy, just a year younger than me, who was on his way to being reunited with his older sister. He was traveling alone, but he was never really alone. He had someone out there who cared for him. And so, did I.

The next couple of hours were long, but necessary. We had managed to avoid border patrol and though many of us were hungry and thirsty we all found synchronism in our heartbeats. When we had finally arrived at the United States, unnoticed and tranquil, we all left our separate ways. Ene bought a phone and called her relatives in Houston. I called my father, and the next chapters of my life began.

2018

1995

When my father sent the letter stating that the coyote would take me and Andrésito to the United States, Andrésito was exhilarated. He could not wait to try “hamburguesas con papas 8” and watch shows on cable. His energy was contagious, but I was still anxious. We would be traveling with a family friend, Ene, while my mami sorts out business in el rancho. On our last day we were all together, Andrésito told mami he would build wings and fly to pick her up. She began to cry, and so did I. A papaya fell by our feet startling us. It had split in half and mami ended up feeding it to the birds.

“What happened next?”

“I fell in love with the United States. I went to college, graduated, and then had you.”

I kissed my daughter goodnight and put her to bed. I could not sleep that night. All I could think about was the freezing weather of the desert and how much of the real story I left out.

We have been in the van with the rest of the people for a few hours now. Andrésito, Ene, and I had dried mango before we left Sonora airport. We were munching on the last piece when the van came to a halt.

“Callensen 9 ” our coyote told us. No one spoke a word. No one made a sound. The van made a loud thud.Andrésito began to shiver, the 16-year-old boy began to cry, and I started praying. The coyote told us to get off. He said that we would be walking the rest of the way.

The next hours were excruciatingly painful. We walked the whole night shivering. Andrésito would not stop shivering and was developing a cough. I gave him my sweater, but he could not get warm. Ene and I would take turns carrying him on our backs. He threw up before daylight and people started talking.

“Si no mejora, lo vamos a dejar 10 ” Hours passed and Andrésito got worse.

“It’s going to be okay” I whispered in his ear. I was trying to convince him and myself at the same time. I could not lose Andrésito, but my warm tears were not enough.

By the third day walking at night, Andrésito rested along a small bush. He was trying to cry, but nothing came out. I tried feeding him the last slice of bread, but he would not take it. Ene backed away from us. She was waiting for me to say goodbye.

I cleared my throat and held my shaking hands behind my back.

Sitting beside Andrésito I said, “You know why I like papayas so much?”

He did not move.

I continued, “Mami decided to harvest papayas when she was pregnant with you. She said you loved the taste so much that she needed a forest of papaya trees.” Andrésito gave me a tight smile and looked at me for the last time before he closed his eyes. 2018

Over the years, I was able to hide behind this fake facade of an experience I wish was true. I wish I had not lost Andrésito that night. I wish he were with me when I arrived in Texas and hugged my father. I wish he learned English with me and attended school. I wish he had watched Disney shows with me on our living room TV and ate greasy hamburguesas con papas at our local diner. But all of these “I wish” would never come true.

This is not just any story. It is a real-life experience about immigration and how it divides families. It is about sacrifices and grief. About growth and opportunity. But most importantly, it is about people like Andrésito who did not make it to the other side. How they now lie under papaya trees. Warmed by the sun. Resting.

Glossary

Mami Mija Ranchos Cosecha

Limon y Chile Hamaca Coyote

Mother Daughter Ranch Harvest

Lemon and powdered chile powder Hammock

A paid person who transports immigrants across the border.

Hamburguesas con papas Callensen

Si no mejora, lo vamos a dejar

Hamburgers with fries Shut up

If he doesn’t get better, we will leave him