by Elizabeth B., Staff Writer
Sadness comes in waves The tides been low lately Until recently The waters are high And moving fast They hit me hard They knock me back All the way to the shore I venture back into the waters And prepare myself for the waves
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by Meshia Seay Love is often the cause of the scars that appear on our hearts over time,
Some take longer to heal and others never do, All because we dare say I love you. Irrational thoughts form, direct products of our pain I mean if only I were a boy…. Right? If only I were a boy, you’d see me the way I see you Proof that unimaginable beauty exists beyond belief If only I were a boy, feelings could be pure No longer trapped inside screaming to be set free If only I were a boy, no tears would have been shed A friendship never put at risk If only I were a boy, I would have a chance A chance to give what I know you deserve If only I were a boy, we’d have a happy ending Fantasies would be reality, You and me would be we If only I were a boy, you’d need no explanation A bougie lifestyle might be enough If only I were a boy, you’d let me fall in love That kinda love you’d never get enough of But I ain’t a boy and you could be my everything. by Simone Edwards, Editor-in-Chief To think,
I was called "ungrateful" by my mother Approximately 800,634 times (not an exaggeration). Having been a spoiled child, Even when we didn't have money to waste, I took a lot of things for granted. But does that make me completely ungrateful? Almost every time my parents, relatives, or brothers gave me a gift I was ever so thankful for their work or their money earned Being used on me. Never did I think that I deserved something that I didn't Or that they were "supposed" to give me something. I didn't even get mad when I received something that I didn't want. I'd never deny a gift simply because it wasn't what I wanted or it was ugly. Knowing all this, why am I still ungrateful? I say please and thank you? I'd like to think that I'm genuinely thankful. However, I do realize that it could be about more than the gifts. Food was never an issue for me I had clothes and shoes, and so did my brothers Is my life perfect? No. But I'm very blessed that my parents made sacrifices for me. So then, am I Ungrateful? Ungratefulness is something that I've always equated with either gifts or life. I think everyone is ungrateful about life in some way or another. I don't think that, even for those who wake up praying, Everyone is immediately grateful that they have hands and feet Or that they have this sucky job or have to do that thing for this sucky class Little do we all know, there's someone out there without a chance at any of the stuff That we're complaining about. But no one wants to hear that. That's the equivalent of your mom telling you to eat your food Because of "children in Africa" Now I realize that it may be hard. Exams are coming up and there's plenty of things to stress about Sometimes, though, it's good to take a step back and look at Some of the little things in life that you may take for granted Whether that's gifts someone gives you Or something in your life. I'll attempt to take my own advice. by Nicole Ribera-Ergueta You’re half of me
Or am I half of you I’m not you’re whole If I were I’d be a monster Stomping through the dark, scaring other children You didn’t scare me But you scared my blood The blood I share, the blood that I’ve known my whole life Is it possible to be angry and scared What do we share Will I ever be able to let go of a glass Will pain surge up my fist when my knuckles hit a wall Will I haunt other children like me Will the wall actually be a person Someone I love Do you love My blood expands all around the globe It spreads from my roots and back When it comes back it’s dirtier, darker Is that what meeting you would be like The other half of me The lost half I dream that my impressions are wrong I wish that you’re sunshine, what I believe I’m made of I hope that you do love Because I love And dig into my heart to see if forgiveness was an ingredient If I let you in Would you be the same If I found you Would you still be the lost one by Dominique Malone, Assistant Editor-in-Chief The mirror deceives us all. When I see my face, I see a forehead that seems to be growing each day. I see a nose that isn’t too big or too small. I see eyes that smile even though they are hiding so many secrets. But, isn’t that the point of faces? We never know the true story behind them no matter how hard we look.
From preschool to college, it has always been the same thing. People stare at me and then the questions start to form:“Why do you look like that?” “You’re not really Black, just look at your hair.” The most prominent example always seems to come to mind at the most unexpected times. I see my six-year old self sitting in the cafeteria eating Goldfish enjoying a little alone time from my classmates. My solitude is then interrupted by three kids who thought it would be funny to pull my hair. “I saw your mom when she dropped you off today. Is she even your mom?” “Of course she is.” “Yeah well I think your family lied to you.” My day was forever shifted by what those kids believed. Why is it necessary to criticize what you don’t understand? Maybe it's because our insecurities get the better of us more than we’d like them to. Regardless, ignorance doesn't excuse hateful actions or words. But the thing that I've come to realize is that I can't let others dictate what I do or how I feel about myself. After all my face (out of anything) should be a treasure, right? The first thing that people see (my skin color) shouldn't be faced with such criticism. But that's never been the case. My fair complexion couldn’t be categorized as African-American, so I started out my elementary years thinking I wasn’t. I would look in the mirror and my childlike face would never have the glow or radiance of childish innocence; rather it would be filled with concern and worry on how to change my situation. My parents attempted to change my mind, but I could never get the words of the kids out of my head. I would look in the mirror and what would be staring back is not what I actually was. I saw exactly what the kids in my class wanted me to see. This feeling never seemed to change and it led to a long time of self-hate. Years passed of me refusing to look in the mirror because what I saw was inevitable. I can’t change my skin color. I can’t change my eye color. I can’t even change the way that I am. These thoughts always plague me and I felt that there was nowhere to turn. I figured that my family would always be there; I was incredibly wrong. The constant jocular phrases and swift comments that only seem to hurt me after they've quickly been spoken are what await me when visiting family. I remember walking into my graduation party and being excited about my recognition as holding the 2nd highest GPA among all the African-Americans in my class. Yet, the reaction that I received from my family was, “What do you mean? You’re white Dominique. You may want them to check that award again.” Although they may be unintentional, they always seem to transport me to that little girl in the mirror. Looking back at herself always wondering why she could never change. That all seemed to dissipate when my grandmother passed away. She was the single person in my family who I resembled. Standing five foot one with dirty brown, blonde hair, she was radiating in her light brown color, complete with yellow and red undertones. To top off her beautiful facial features, she had light brown eyes. She always knew what I carried with me and how I felt being surrounded by my family. After she passed, I was a constant reminder of her memory to everyone who walked past me. I used to think it was terrible because when people would see my face it would make them cry; my own father couldn’t be in the room with me for almost two years after. Yet, this loss has truly made me examine myself and it seems like I resemble her for a reason. My mom always says that everything happens for a reason and I believe that I serve a small part in keeping her memory alive. My remembrance of her has shifted many things in my life that I never thought would. She was the one person I could turn to that would understand how I felt. Losing that light sent darker days my way. However, through this sad time I was able to discover more about myself and more about my relationship with her. It’s a blessing to have unique features and stand out in a crowd. Unfortunately, due to the negative experiences of my childhood, I never really thought these things through fully. Because of my introspection, I've stopped noticing the small things that made me emotional: the slight jabs, the weird glares. They've all seemed to fade as the strength within myself has grown. The little girl who cries in the mirror is in the rear view and everything that reminds me of my past is gone. by Simone Edwards, Editor-in-Chief Is my blackness funny to you?
You laugh as you don gold hoops and tease your hair to make it "puffy" You listen to Kanye West and Childish Gambino and laugh when I don't know that one song that's not even that good You watch Trump's speeches and you laugh saying, "he's just a businessman" You say, "he's human. He makes mistakes, but he's making this country better." You want to "make America great again" And you laugh and tell me not to be "so serious" when I say that America was never great For Us. Is my blackness a joke? You joke with your friends that you don't "see color" And in the same conversation, you talk about Michelle Obama and how unqualified she was As the first lady With her two degrees, from Ivy League schools. You stop laughing when I walk in, and when I hear a giggle and ask, "what's up?" You look around and say, " we were just talking about affirmative action in the Honors College." You quickly say, "we were just kidding. I'm sure you were supposed to get in." But your eyes betray you. Is my blackness threatening? Yes. Possibly. You look me up and down when I walk into a meeting. While I am not, and will never be, anything but black, I can almost hear your thoughts. Perhaps you're wondering which "type" of black person I am. You only have two types: ignorant and educated. I know that once you hear me talk, and once you realize that I'm articulate, As many black people are, You deem me as "one of the good ones." While I don't mind praise: why is it that, when I do a minimally good job, you're so impressed? And when I do even more, you suddenly want me as your token black person for everything that you do? Does it threaten you that I'm smarter than you? Does it threaten you further that I'm the leader of this club or organization, and thus, You have to follow my lead? Why am I rude when I assert myself? But that white girl who said the same thing, in the same tone, is "bold" or a "boss"? My blackness is not funny to anyone, but you. As you vote for someone with no regard for any melanin, And you financially contribute to organizations, or prisons, that continue to systematically oppress us, You're a comedian on a stage. And I, along with all those uniquely blessed with melanin, Am the stage. It's only a matter of time before you realize that we not only built that stage, but that we're holding you up. It's only a matter of time before we’re no longer systematically beneath you. |
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December 2018
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