Macaroni and Cheese, Potato Salad and Collard Greens By: Alexandria Carr

Macaroni & Cheese, Potato Salad and Collard Greens
It doesn’t matter what order you put it in. It all goes down the same! I could hear her voice as I stood on the food line waiting to be served. The massive amounts of dead animals, seasoned plants and fancy starch seemed to put a smile on everyone in that dining rooms face. There I stood, with a surly look on my face as everyone passed me by with smiles and gleams in their eyes. From all the joking and the laughter, one would confuse this for a wedding reception instead of a repast.
“What would you like to eat ma’am?’ The server said.
“Gimme some of them collards, some ‘tato salad and macaroni and cheese with my chicken please” blurted the woman in front of me to the server. She had black hair with nice white roots, and beautifully brown skin that aged like the earth, getting better with time. She looked familiar, like an aunt or cousin but my eyes and mind didn’t care to figure out who she was.
I watched as the server plated the food and soon became disgusted. She had no order what so ever! She slapped the spoonful of food onto the plate, messing up the essence of the food. Greens on top of rice, chicken on top of the yams, it was a mess! Her lack of knowledge with plated food made my eyes burn with fury, irritating them more than they already was. I wanted to reach over the table and choke her. Doesn’t she know that the greens go after the rice and yams but before the chicken? The nature of the food had been disrupted and so was my stomach. I stormed off the line furious with how careless one could be in the art of plating food.
I plopped into a seat in the back of the room and watched for countless minutes as the people continued to just throw the food on the plate. Have they no grace? Sitting there the people lined up for food. There was tons of food left in the trays, but only a few were low. I ironically it was her favorite foods that were low on supply. It was the macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and collard greens. At that moment, I could see her face. The smile she had every Sunday we both sat together and ate her favorite foods. The dimple in her cheeks seemed to fall in with every spoonful of the delicate dishes. Then the tears fell from my eyes and crawled down my cheek thus falling to the floor. The lump in my throat started to throb with the thought that she, my grandmother would never get to enjoy the sensation of her favorite foods again.
After a while, the food lines got shorter, and the people gradually left the dining hall, one by one. The only ones left were me, my sisters and my parents. Everyone was gone and it was time for clean-up. My stomach churned with hunger, it sounded like a riot inside there. I knew eventually I would have to give up my food strike and feed my poor stomach.
I stood up and walked over to the food table. The food was mostly gone but to my surprise there were still her favorite foods. Only enough serving for one mouth, and then I figured that though she couldn’t eat the foods anymore herself, I could eat it for her. I grabbed the plate and the spoon. First came the rice, always start off with a starch for good luck. Then I put the yams next to it because if they mix together the combination is really good. Then the collards go with the potato salad following behind. They complement each other well, the same thing with string beans and macaroni salad. They are classics like Romeo and Juliet. Lastly is the macaroni and cheese and then I top it all off with the meat. There it was my masterpiece was created. I smiled.
As I sat down to divulge my tasty food, I glared at my plate. I looked at how perfectly proportioned each dish was. I looked at how the colors flowed and the order they possessed. It was then I heard her voice again. It doesn’t matter what order you put it in. It all goes down the same! Then I realized she wouldn’t have eaten it that way. She had no order in her food, or even any care because to her they all went down the same. In that moment I felt her spirit in me. I took the fork to my plate and I mixed it all together! My hand couldn’t stop moving as I mixed every piece of food together. When I looked down at the heterogeneous mixture everything was combined to one. I picked up my fork and stuck it deep into the mixture picking up a hand full of the mix. And then I put the fork of food into my face, and then I smiled.

I Know Why My Mom Can't Cook--Laura Pilloni

Yeah hun, I’m not crazy about your mom’s cooking. I stared at him. I suppose I had basically given Justin permission to offer such a comment. I gave him the green light every time I called my mom a bitch, or enumerated her faults—my personal declaration of independence. Still I felt embarrassed about what he’d said. Not for my mom’s sake but for mine.

Of course he would know what respectable cuisine was like being fed Marie’s savory, healthy and completely made from scratch dishes his entire life…We don’t go to restaurants. Mom can make all types of international meals herself…I remember the story of a Haitian dish called Akra de Malanga Marie had prepared. It was so exquisite that a five year-old Justin told her, “that was good chicken,” only to find out through the family’s snickers that the entire meal was made of black eyed peas, a vegetable called malanga and green peppers. Although his family brings this story up to embarrass Justin even now, over fifteen years later, what the story’s retelling really does is praise Marie’s rewarding culinary feats.

Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, but I had to assure Justin that that at least someone in my family could cook. I mentioned my dad as the memories of the spicy Chuletas con Chile Verde came to mind. Every visit to Dad’s was a guaranteed flavorful dining experience. He is one of the best cooks I know, better than my aunt and I dare say, equal to my Abuela whose famous Carnes en su Jugo I crave every time I see a lime.

I guess it’s her fault. Her great cooking made Dad’s taste buds as refined as Justin’s mom’s made his so that he just knows what ingredients go well with each other. What did this mean? Will Justin be the cook in our family when we get married like my dad was when my mom and him were married? I guess we’re headed there anyway considering all I can make are omelets with pre-shredded cheddar cheese.

I know why my mom can’t cook save for the generic mac-and-cheese from the box and spaghetti with Ragu sauce. Her own mother would never teach her. That’s because her mother never cared. My mom was forced to work; babysitting children (as a child herself), then cleaning other’s homes (though she hardly had one herself) and then as a nanny in a different country called the U.S.A. all to help support the tiny but poor family that consisted of her mom, herself and her younger sister. Before my mom was exiled and away from the only family she knew all she did was go to school, work, and sleep. No time for homework or hugs, let alone cooking lessons.

Maybe there is the missing ingredient in the piquancy of my mom’s food. Maybe there is a lack of whatever my Abuela gave my dad, and didn’t give my aunt enough of. My mom was never told this secret, it was never passed on, she can never make a dish as lovely as Justin’s mom’s or my dad’s or my Abuela’s.

I wasn’t given it either. Not by mom and not by anyone else (not even my dad who hardly has the time). When I am a mom I will surely fail as a cook. And maybe one day my daughter’s hatred towards me will allow for a comment from her boyfriend regarding the fact that he isn’t crazy about my cooking.

"White Lies" (Excerpt)

We waited in silence for the next fifteen minutes while Radio Disney roared out of the cracked windows. The smell of flame broiled burgers, salted fries, and the exhaust from the cars lined up at the drive thru, permeated the summer air. Through the tinted Camry windows I observed a family placing an order-to-stay (a calculated choice, considering the 92 degree humid weather). While receiving their order, a boy around my age ran to take a cardboard crown from off the indoor platform that protruded away from the glass pane, toward the registers. As I built up the courage to ask my father if I can get a crown from inside Burger King, I heard the beeping of a motor vehicle approaching from across the walkway-median that divided the parking lot.

My mother parked the burgundy Corolla in the parking space across from my father’s Camry. My Dad kissed me good bye and told me that he would see me the weekend after next. I hugged his right arm tight (the only part of him my seven-year-old arms could wrap around) and left the car. I walked across the median that divided my parents’ Japanese car-notes and opened the back seat door on the passenger side of my mother’s Corolla.

I sat silently on the way back home, enduring the contrasting senses of a damp lower back and a throat dried from the summer air: no air conditioning and open windows. As we pulled into the driveway of 15 Tower Court, home, my mother broke the quiet of our four minute ride in silence.

“I’m sorry boo-boo I know it makes you sad when you have to leave your father. Do you want to talk about it?”

I responded with a faux smile and lowered eyes, an awkward facial expression that had grown more common over the past months.

“O.k. baby. Well—what did you and your father do today?” My mother asked attempting to smooth over the subject.

Remaining silent, I opened the back door, grabbed my Spiderman backpack, and walked toward the front door of our Tudor styled home. Without asking any questions my mother followed me to the screen door and ushered me into the inviting cool of our sunken living room. Once inside, I rushed to the couch (and after kicking off my shoes) sat back, dug my thighs into my chest and hid my head behind my knees.

“Oh come now bay-bee.” my mother added as she sat beside me. “You were all smiles until we drove home. What did you do today?”

I always wondered why my father, who was still married to my mother at the time, even dated Michelle. I think the answer was part of the reason I kept the truth about her from my mother until that day. The idea of an intact home, family weekend strolls through the mall, and Saturday morning matinees was tempting. My father must have found playing house on the weekends, a feminine distraction alongside his only son, to have been as equally enticing.

I looked at my mother and provided the parcel of information that would seal my childhood.

“Dad and me saw Bugs Life; Michelle came too.”

Lie Story - Kai

It began my freshman year. I was in the process of starting winter track and field. I ran Cross Country in the fall and was worn out by the seasons end. The idea of running again did not excite me in the least. Even if there was less actual running and it was indoors, away from the natural, raw elements of XC running. The coach, had allotted cross country runners extra time off between seasons, to recover, in the meantime, we were to run on our own for thirty minutes, four times each week, until our official practice began. It was nothing strenuous, according to him. I felt slight relief, but I still had to run.

I did what he asked of us, but only occasionally. The runs were supposed to be done before school started, which meant I had to get up at six to run at six thirty. Until then, I had never gotten up earlier then seven thirty. School began at 8:30, but I lived two blocks away . Some days, I did not feel like getting u[, so I simply did not. I never told my parents about the early morning runs, so they never questioned me when I slept in. When I did run, they were under the assumption that I did them on my own.

Practice loomed over my head every minute of every day, at least that’s how it seemed at the time. On rare occasions I did forget, my parents, or some teammate in the hall with a red and black XC hoodie, reminded me again. My track vacation was coming to an end, but I was determined to extend it a bit longer.

My first day of practice was underway but I was not present to participate. My first actual day of practice was well into the second week. The first thing that struck me about the team was it’s size . In cross country, we were a small group of fifteen. In indoor, there were close to a hundred athletes. Track and Field was the only sport you did not have to try out for, so this was expected. The second thing I noticed was the ratio of upperclassmen to freshman, which again, was to be expected, but it still intimidated me. They were loud in every sense of the word. The cross country runners were, in comparison, calm and laid back; more in line with my own sensibilities.

Skipping out on those early runs definitely affected my performance on the first day. I felt fatigued through many of the drills and exercises. My poor performance was likely the cause of laziness and my decreasing interest in running, I somehow convinced myself otherwise. I determined that my ability was to blame, even if my performance in XC proved otherwise. The physical pain I experienced during practice was made worse by my inconsistencies in preparation.

The following day I did not to show up to practice. And the day after that, and the next day, and so on. For the next month and a half I continued this. It was not an easy task and caused a lot of stress on my part. My parents assumed I was still on the team, practicing everyday after school. To keep up with this facade, I would arrive home everyday around the time practice ended. To fill the gaps, I’d split time between my best friends house and the library. Sometimes I’d wander around town, with no specific destination in mind. I did the same for weekend track meets. One time I went to the movies during a supposed meet. Luckily, I never ran into my XC teammates. They assumed I’d quit the team altogether. My coach, on the other hand, thought my absence was school related. That’s what he told my mother when she called him to confirm the date of a meet.

My punishment was not as severe as I thought it would be. My parents didn’t ground me. In fact, I don’t recall them ever grounding me. Maybe that’s why this whole thing lasted as long as it did. Maybe deep down, I knew the consequences would not be as severe as I imagined.



*XC = Cross Country

Porky's Diner, 3 AM by Liane Graham, Group 1

We’d been in Yaakov’s dilapidated, rust-green hand-me-down Chevy for over
four hours by the time we found a place to eat. Like a brightly lit oasis on the I-95,
Porky’s Diner’s mascot – a neon pink pig with a top hat – called to us: Come in, we’re
open, it’s warm in here and our coffee is probably old and burnt.
We sat down in a booth by the window and looked around. Yaakov nodded at
the counter, where a nun and a putrid smelling and obviously drunk man sat side by
side. “You think they’re Jeweeesh?” he said, chortling.
Dana laughed a little too hard and knocked the ketchup over.
“It’s okay,” I said, returning the ketchup bottle to its rightful position by the
napkin dispenser. “That bottle’s probably older than you anyway.” The waitress
came over to take our order. She was hunched over as if she’d been clearing tables
for so long that she’d forgotten how to stand upright.
“What’s in the tuna?” asked Yaakov.
“Oh, the usual,” she said. “Mayo, breadcrumbs, some grated cheese. I’ll let you
in on a little secret, though: the best part is the toast. We don’t fry it in butter, see,”
she said with what appeared to be sincere excitement. “Here at Porky’s, we fry our
toast in bacon grease. That’s how we got the name.” She looked proud.
Dana looked nauseated. “Can you give us another minute?” she asked. Our
waitress limped away, mumbling something about picky eaters.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Obviously, anything with toast is out. Eggs, too – they make it right with the
chazir,” said Yaakov.
I hesitated before speaking. “Um, I guess we could get hamburgers?” Yaakov
and Dana looked at me as if I’d suggested donning white hoods and setting fire
to our shul. “I know,” I continued. “But it’s just meat, and, I mean, we could get it
without cheese. That’s kind of okay, right?”
“Will’s got a point,” said Dana. I was surprised. I didn’t take Dana for a rule
breaker. Yaakov looked unconvinced, so she went on. “Look, nothing in this place
even remotely resembles kosher, but some things are more treif than others.”
With varying degrees of discomfort, we agreed that hamburgers seemed to
be the safest choice.
Our waitress returned. “What’ll it be?”
My palms were sweating like those of a 16 year old trying to buy beer with a
fake ID for the first time. “Three hamburgers, please? And no fries.”
Dana looked at me. “Bacon grease,” I mouthed.
When the burgers came, I picked mine up with both hands, poised to eat it.
Out of nowhere, I heard a thunder clap. I looked out the window, but I saw no rain
or lightning. What I saw was a mass of people; generations of rabbis shaking folios
of the Talmud above their heads, screaming silently as they came toward Porky’s
Diner. The thunder continued to protest. I’ve heard of people having crises of faith
and all, but this was ridiculous. It was more like a tantrum of faith.
I trembled. “Do you hear that, guys?”
“Hear what,” asked Dana, her mouth full of hamburger.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Nevermind.”
I took a bite.

Peter Frampton Shows Me the Way

Who can I believe in, I'm kneeling on the floor, There has to be a force, who do I phone?
In 1977, Peter Frampton had a hit song, “Show Me the Way”-and for me it did just that. That first electric whine, fires up my personal time machine, and resurrects a 9 year old me.
I’m in the Summer of Sam, Cypress Hills Brooklyn, with the J train rolling 8 feet from our roof line; neighborhood crime and parental paranoia making a window sill my periscope to the world. Ma and Da, (names as far as possible from “mother” and “father”) are still alive, but I don’t invite them this time.
Well, I can see no reason, You living on your nerves, When someone drops a cup and I submerge…
You can’t tell me the sky wasn’t bluer then; it didn’t matter that you could only see a sliver through the steel. Maybe, like a plain girl with ugly cousins, it was made prettier by comparison with the greasy track. The night sky was a Christmas constellation of streetlamps, and subway signal lights: gold, red and green. This was a cosmos of airplanes, our falling stars the contrail of the Concorde unfurling like a super-sonic party streamer; a miracle to see it, then hear it, a lightening conveyance for rich passengers. And we, the awed, ignorant poor, were grateful for the crumb of a sonic boom. It’d be another 5 years until I saw real stars but that was in Pennsylvania. In Brooklyn, we couldn’t figure why anyone would name a galaxy after a candy bar.
The stars are out and shining, but all I really want to know...
Frampton, my only visitor that summer, was a toothy, tanned British boy with flowing blond hippie hair that he shook out of his eyes when a guitar solo swept him away. He wore denim shirts opened to the waist like a poor man’s Roger Daltry, but with a less menacing brand of sexuality. If the Who is unbridled lust, then Frampton is shy, first kisses at a High School dance. He being 60 and me being 40 once terrified me. But his guitar, with bended notes, wakes up that wondering kid who taps at the window of my jaded soul. 20 countries and 30 years later that window still frames my view of the world and the joyful anticipation that there is so much more to see.
Oh won't you show me the way (everyday)…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Al9WmowJ3bQ&feature=fvwrel

Salty Oranges

My late grandmother found it apt that her parting advice to me was to say a prayer and ask permission from the spirits if I ever found the urge to relieve myself of bodily fluids, or solids, when passing through a jungle. Spirits are very temperamental she said, and if my lips do not whisper the silent prayer before my waste touches the ground, these spirits will follow me home and walk in my shoes.

Surely not in my white-patented Mary-Janes with the gingham strap, my 8 year old self thought, these were my treasure shoes. Even then I found it quiet ridiculous that a flaccid, easily-offended ghost would parade about town in my delicate shoes. For that was surely what I did the day my mother gifted it to me.

I remember that day vividly, I remember it in citrus. What is it about scents that trigger solid, tangible memories of forgotten pasts, when I can't even remember what I ate yesterday? I was sitting in my grandmother's outdoor kitchen, left to my own vices. A cerulean plate filled with four orange wedges sits in between my outstretched legs. My grandmother was outside raking the leaves and just past the kitchen window I can see her head bobbed up and down. I was sprinkling granules of salt on my orange wedges and reciting incantations as if I was a witch-doctor making potions. When the coarse salt finally dissolved into the pulp of each wedge, I bite into it whole. The combination of sweet, salt and sour danced excitedly on the roof of my mouth and slivers of juice dribble down my skin, like tears. When I've completely sucked the orange dry, I pushed the corners of the peel into my lips and smiled an orange wedge. I looked up to see my mother coming in with a newspaper wrapped parcel underneath her armpits. She looked at the bottle of salt and the remaining three wedges on my lap and said "you're going to have high cholesterol when you grow older, just like your nana." She then placed the newspaper parcel next to me and said "for you" in a sing-song voice as she saunters of outside, as if the sting of her words can be easily sugared with a gift.

I feigned ambivalence towards the parcel and was busy attending to my second wedge but the shiny patent leather peeping out the newspaper caught my eye. I ripped apart the wrapper and squealed in delight to find the Mary-Janes and hurried to put in on my feet, abandoning my magic oranges. How easily dispensable objects on my childhood desires were, in those days, before I learned to treasure acute memories only revisited when triggered in scents.

My grandmother passed away not long after that. On the day of her funeral I managed to string together from stolen adult conversations that my grandmother's body was to be burned. It's a celebration they told me, you're grandmother is to be cremated so that her five elements, earth, water, fire, air and ether can be released so she will be reincarnated back into this world. Their faceless smiles told me to sing and dance, but only misery inhabited my limbs. Orange tears dribbled uncontrollably down my chin as I watch the confetti flames consume my grandmother's corpse. A weeping child is a bad omen at a cremation and so I was sent back to the outdoor kitchen. My mother gave me oranges and took it upon herself to sprinkle the salt to appease me. And I was left alone to swallow my grief in salty oranges.

Nadia Norzuhdy
(Group 3)

The Lie

Niani Peebles

Intermediate Creative Writing

Short Story – The Lie

“My aunt passed away”, I said innocently to my boss that I absolutely hated.
“I have to go to the funeral.” I figured this lie was excusable giving the fact that I didn’t have a relationship with any of my aunts. I had been so exhausted from traveling to New Jersey from Brooklyn and going to school. I had absolutely no days off and I was taking a difficult Statistics class. I really did enjoy the position, which was volunteer at first. I also admired the owner of the company, a beautiful wholistic healthcare practitioner who looked way younger than she really was. The guy I lied to was obnoxious. He had a thing for talking down to females, but I wasn’t going for it. He was hardly ever at the work place, so he had no idea how much I contributed. With this lie I was able to have a couple of days off. Not feeling like I had enough rest and study time I called in again to have another day off. By the time I came back, people acted as if they were shocked to see me there. The boss told me that the owner thought I wasn’t going to come back at all. I wondered why she thought that since I told her myself what the situation was.

I get a feeling that something isn’t right, so the boss tells me that he needs to have a talk with me. He tells me that everyone is talking about me in a negative way. He told me that they were saying, “What does Niani do?” I thought really, all of this just for 3 days? I had lost weight running up and down the stairs making deliveries. I hurt my fingers on the computer typing up handwriting that I could not make out. I was constantly answering the phone to take orders, then pack the boxes for UPS, then take the boxes down the stairs all by myself when there was always someone there to help me. In the end he told me my problem was assertion. In the past I had shown assertiveness but was called “ghetto” and accused of bringing drama to the work place. All in all I quit but was shockingly surprised a few months later when I was called to rejoin the company, but I declined.

Suggestions?

I've played around with editing my poem, taking your suggestions into consideration - but now I absolutely hate it. I feel like there's something missing. (I'm sure that happens to everyone when you start editing!) I can't seem to do anything with the "Roman bridge" part, other than DELETE it. Although I like it, but now it doesn't really fit in. Suggestions?


Ronda

Air burns in Ronda.
Lingering from nostril
to nostril,
until the bark’s flames,
poison the dusk of
mountains,
and the clouds gorge
the thirsty leaves of trees
elevated so high,
that rainwater betrays them.

Small houses ornament,
the saddened cliffs,
that were once connected by
streams of clotheslines.

The village children
race across the east valley
to the old bridge of Arabs,
allowing their toes to breathe
the warmth of summer streets;

El Viejo also breathes,
but differently.

He sits in the Plaza de Toros,
pipe in hand,
dispelling myths of
a youth he barely remembers,
but often recalls.
____________________


Vertigo overlooks el Tajo.
And with each step,
the Roman bridge shrinks.

_______________________
The scent of churros,
baking in an oven made of clay.

The Ronda of my childhood,
that is now gone.

"My Tina Green"

“My Tina Green”

My Tina Green
who is she?
Or is it a he? I see many of those, high and low’s.
Who is Tina Green to Me?
There was once in 5th grade, I think that was my Tina Green.
I used to watch his butt move as he swindled across the chalkboard
showing us the addition, multiplication and division of the numeric world.
I’m not a math person, maybe that’s why.
My Tina Green.
1st and 2nd grade.
Short and witty, teaching us the simple ways to be.
Now: College.
Tina Green?
I find one, leave him, and move on.
We are always an e-mail away, and thank God for the internet.
I don’t have a Tina Green for me, or do I?

-Nyesha Davis

Cherry Groves_Group_Two

Groves in half-acre root thought and tragedy.

At the water’s edge firmament grows.

Nagasaki cherry blossoms flake in season.

Sap in the belly of bark, truth limbs know.

Quiet northern winds tunnel away leaves.

Remaining pigments marked crinkle and dry.

Toddler impressions in piles; memory cleaves.

Outstretched hands and capes; imagination flies.

Festive rite and guise dawn the budding branch.

Elders and youth find mischief under cherry moon.

Family roots lead to countryside ranch.

“Farewell” Goodbye. Requests to be seen soon.

Rehearsed salutations buried in morning brew.

“Where do cherry blossoms grow?” Who ever knew?

“Cherry Groves”

Written By Christopher J. Greggs

On 3/7/11 at 11:42am EST

Sonnet Assignment

What the Swine Took with Him

How I will miss you Sandalwood
And your companion Bergamot
Evoking mem’ries as you could
Of lakeside idylls like Thoreau
Of letters sent that reek’d of rosehips
And later ones suffused in musk
One stood watch, forgot me midships
The other’s interest only lust
Regret abuse of Frankincense
Sweet Olive Nola’s presence grieves
Turbid youth my sole defense
The hope of you why I still live
Memories lost forever in a fever
Scents forgotten, no more do deliver

Betty Trevino

My father knows what work is

I see it in the droopy bags of his tired eyes
and the cracks of his hands
running deep like rivers
I think it’s our way to be always working
searching for fortunes hard to come by
Along the way, dreams are deferred
goals are shifted for something closer to home
and the real-estate man becomes a security guard
returns to taxi-driving
We aren’t too good with emotions, my father and I
this life’s too harsh for the weak
but the cab he drives has many scars that tell many tales:
a jagged hole in the seat marks the passage
of a passenger who refused to pay
a smashed mirror tells of another
I think there was a broken windshield once—
I didn’t get to see it—
but I, like him, stay mute and see red

— Ikè Nwankpa

13 ways of lookimg at black hair (Group 2)

13 Ways of Looking at Black Hair
By: Alexandria (Alex)

I.
Thick, luxurious, Strong, Black
Thick like wood but luxurious as diamond eyes.
Strong as a Nubian prince and as black as midnight skies.

II.
Twists after twist,
Hair coiled within each other
Like strands of DNA.
Bonded by ancestryAll on top of one little black head.

III.
Three strands, equal in size
Woven together on my head.
Some thin, some wide.
Braids, from plats to corn rolls
Applying to my hair a little grease
Turning it into a braided masterpiece.

IV.
Goddess, Saga, Outre, Remy
In the winter is long and curly,
Summers it’s short and straight.
Whether its bob or body wave,
Weaving can make a head look great.

V.
From the first glance of the blind eye
It’s undone.
But the beauty is uncovered
Once blind eyes are open wide.
Reflecting a young Huey Newton,
It’s a rebel in foreign eyes.
Reminiscent of Angela Davis in her youth
The hairstyle of Black pride
Afro! Bigger than hair with a symbol of BLACK.
Afro! Stronger than hatred. A style coming back!


VI.
Nappy and course
Too tough to be done.
Why the hell would you keep it natural,
When a perm keeps it done?

VII.
Yea…
It’s nappy and thick
And my heritage is just the same.
Criticizing my hair because it fails to beContemporary.
You call your hair permed but a perm is just
Temporary.

VIII.
Ay dios mio! Mami your hair is so thick.
That’s ok mami, I like it like this.
Ay dios mio! Mami, your hair is so rough
That’s because it’s like my ancestors mami,
Strong, black and tough.

IX.
Locks,
Falling down to my shoulders
Just as free as the leaves.
Though it’s locked within each other
The wind still blows through it
Like a tree.

X.
I’m happy because it’s nappy,
Sets me aside from the mainstream.
Never will I chemically enhance my hair.
It’s better without the L-Y-E.
XI.
I’m in a room,
Where the people aren’t the same as me.
I get stares because it’s bold.
I’m sorry it’s not blond, brunette or gold.

XII.
Red strands with a texture like Brillo pads.
Or purple waves flowing like the sea.
Colored hair, multiple colors but why?
Who says black hair can’t be living
Just because it’s dyed?

XIII.
Many Different styles,
Many different ways.
Worn in twists, locks, or braids.
Weaving for when you want it
Down your back.
Afro, when you want it looking Black.
Criticized by the many
Who cant handle hair of such royalty.
Sorry its not permed.
I prefer it nappy.
Naps, curls,
Real or fake.
Just take a look at my hair baby
In thirteen different ways.

Kai - Untitled (Group 1)

Untitled

Thin, frail, skinny arms
Long sleeve cotton in ninety degree weather arms
Hang down to your knees without bending over

“I Pick him”

A subtle arrogance in the way he holds the ball.
Poised, strong, assured,
Not me
He points to the last one standing.

This is me.

It is Spring. Sophomore year. Volleyball.
I know it is Spring because my arms are exposed.
At this point, I am not embarrassed by them.
.
Wilted, slumped, diffident arms
hang stationary as the ball looms over

Quietly, stubbornly
They protest my being picked last.

I'm Watching Laellanie Gonzalez

I feel alive

Everyday same thing.

New outfit,

Weekly

I see the lady in teal walk up to the register every week

She buys the same outfit that I have on.

You know a lot of people buy the outfit I have on

Who am I?

I think like them

Can’t move like them

You see me as a model of beauty

You are lucky

You get to feel

What I get to do is gaze at you

Smile.

Laugh.

Walk

There is a rod up my ass all day

My plastic base hurts from standing

People strip me naked all the time.

Humiliated,

Just take my arms off,

walk away from me

You see me.

Of course you do I’m on display

For the world to see

You love the way I dress

You don’t know me

You know me?

No?

bother to ask

can you grasp ?

It’s my life

Living but not alive

clothes on a mannequin

and unfortunately I can do nothing but stand here

My Hair - Group 1

My Hair

Who’d ever thunk it?

A head full of round, squiggly, popping curls,

softened with water and subtle rosemary herbs,

leaving the scent of warm sunshine.

Stretchy confections spring back towards

the head, waiting to grow up.

Called sweetness, it is gathered

together for a fluffy puff.

Rose colored sexy, it is wild and free.

Behind me like a second moon.

Bad Hair/Pelo Malo Betty Trevino

Bad Hair/Pelo Malo

She dug in that comb like a tiller through a corn field;
Her smile over the curlers; part grimace of exertion, part satisfied smirk.
This was my punishment-the crime was having been born of her.
The mere suspicion of being mixed is a public shame and a private grief.
Self-loathing is an inheritance too.

Happy, little-girl-curls, an innocent remainder of a long forgotten Celtic conquest
from which came my father’s blond hair, green eyes, lousy skin and pug-Irish nose.
But to her, embarrassing proof, uncovering black bones in white graves.
Blond curls are born to catch favor and black ones to catch beatings.
Reality can’t compete against perception.

She said that in the Caribbean they’d ask “Y tu abuela donde esta?”
Is she in my head? Are you digging her hate out of me? Or planting it deeper?
Why is no one arrested for putting base poisons on the head of a child?
In this case untruth is spelled lye.
“They’ll think you’re black” she accused.
“I’ll know you’re evil” I thought.
Cancer cured her hair issues, but didn’t relieve her panic at mine.
That cancer cured lots of issues.

"Moving (Lamppost)"

Under Uniondale lamppost,

adolescent delinquents puff

loose cigarettes and debate the bra sizes

of bangable teachers at Uniondale high.

I drag my bags toward the back of a '98 Ford Windstar

"What did I tell you about dragging those laundry bags!"

(more a command than a question)

I mouth the reprimand

(a record that echoed in my head

15 seconds before they left her lips)

and throw my winter wardrobe onto collapsed rear seats.

"What time is it?"

"Forty-five past midnight", the perfect time

to put into effect the change

of address forms she filled out last week.

Trapped in an uncharacteristic

black South Pole trap jacket,

(the one

with the fur trimmed hood), and watch

the smoke rise from under the lamppost on Jerusalem Ave.

No one would know

where I lived for the next three months

and I could not find myself either.

But unlike them I was not looking.

"Moving (Lamppost)"

Written by Christopher J. Greggs

on 3/1/2011 at 1:52pm

"White" by Liane Graham (Group 1)

The milk in my morning
Elixir, making mild the bitterness
Of my daily routine

The powder on the mirror
That kept me from falling asleep
At that impossibly boring party

The pervasive, piercing blanket on the mountain
Blinding me with my goggles off
And my ski tips up

The color of my skin to strangers
Who are blind to the reflection of colors
That is my heritage

The saccharine in my evening tea
Tricking my tongue
Soothing my sweet tooth and stomach

The worn in sheets of the bed
We share, a place to indulge
In our comforts

The garish lights that beat on my brain
As it empties its contents on the page
For a grade

The piles that stop traffic
And places of business, warranting the wear
Of a blue pair of mittens

The empty page I’m compelled to fill
With blackness, out of sheer
Fear of silence

The face of the clock on which time
Ticks by, without its
Or my permission

The color my hair will someday turn
When it’s had enough of itself
Or of my abuse

The cream Saba whipped into heaven
For his two little girls, crying into a glass dish
Tears to be saved for the next water shortage

The flour I beat into love
Devoured in the forms of cakes and cookies
He calls “the best in the world”.