OBSIDIAN

a journal of Black creative expression and critical thought

[obsidian-magazine]

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DAP The Contract is a classically trained pianist and producer/rapper. Born in Lagos, Nigeria, and coming from an entirely musical family, he started playing the piano aged 4. Off the strength of self-produced mixtape Goodbye For Never (released October 2014), he was selected for a competition produced by Converse to record at the renowned Abbey Road Studios in London. DAP is currently working on his next project.

[obsidian-magazine]

Visit Original Link

DAP The Contract is a classically trained pianist and producer/rapper. Born in Lagos, Nigeria, and coming from an entirely musical family, he started playing the piano aged 4. Off the strength of self-produced mixtape Goodbye For Never (released October 2014), he was selected for a competition produced by Converse to record at the renowned Abbey Road Studios in London. DAP is currently working on his next project.

[obsidian-magazine]

Paralyzed

by gregory stewart

“Paralyzed” is a five-part poem series.  The series details moments in which I’ve been forced to confront my blackness and what it means.  But it also touches on the process of freeing yourself from the feeling of “paralysis.”  This is the introductory piece.

You know

When you know

That you’re still alive

Because you can feel

Your heart beating

But your mind is frozen

Your emotions divergent

As your soul submerges

Deep into your body

Your senses indistinct

As you think—

But can’t feel

Anything, but lifelessness.

…Could it be?

Somehow over the last couple of moments

My entire sense of self was just stolen

Away from me…

[obsidian-magazine]

The End of History 

by jeremiah prince

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DAP The Contract is a classically trained pianist and producer/rapper. Born in Lagos, Nigeria, and coming from an entirely musical family, he started playing the piano aged 4. Off the strength of self-produced mixtape Goodbye For Never (released October 2014), he was selected for a competition produced by Converse to record at the renowned Abbey Road Studios in London. DAP is currently working on his next project.

[obsidian-magazine]

Meditation on police brutality

by taylor michael 

My grandfather served both as a police officer and as a mechanic for the US army in World War II. He served his community for 28 years. He was a part of the community protecting the people he cared about from harm. He never sought to control only to protect his community.

What is Freedom when you fight for your country, but its citizens can shoot you for being black? What is freedom when you don’t have the right to claim humanity? What is freedom when you’re socially dead?

“When James was in the police force police didn’t do things like this. They did not just shoot little boys. These new cops aren’t trained properly. They’re afraid and so they fire their guns.” Mildred McCoy

It has been said so often that the saying has probably lost all real meaning. Like most sayings, eventually. But, the police are meant to protect and serve the community. Who are police protecting and serving by killing black bodies? I can never really be sure. To police is to maintain order, to regulate, to control. By these standards, the police were never meant to protect and serve people but to protect and serve order.

In order to protect and serve people, police would have to radically love. To love enough that you would take on a job that risks your life at times. For police to protect and serve black people they would have to radically love black people. To radically love is to recognize humanity. To protect and serve people. But in order to be able to love the people in the neighborhood you patrol, you would have to take the time to be a part of the community. Maybe live in the neighborhood. Maybe go to the church or other place of worship in the area. Do your kids have friends in this part of town? And to be a part of the community you would have to think of black communities as being worth having relations with. To be worth having relations with we would have to be decent human beings. In order to be decent human beings we would have to be human beings. But you probably don’t see us as human beings don’t you?

“It doesn’t make sense to me that protesters are looting black-owned businesses,” said my sister. “now those protestors have just made it that much harder for a black person to get a loan or to get insurance, because they would be risky investments.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me that protesters would block the highway,” said my sister. “What about the black nurse working a late shift at the ER and the FDR is the fastest way home.”

“It doesn’t make sense to be that protesters are just looking for the next photo op,” said my sister. “Now buying from only Black owned businesses that makes sense.”

[obsidian-magazine]

Being Black and Abroad: Initial Feels

by gregory stewart

“Where are all the black people?”

This was probably one of my initial thoughts upon arriving in Amsterdam. During first couple of days, I would walk around central Amsterdam and notice the diversity of racial and ethnic heritage. But I’d only see a black person every so often. When I did see them, their existence appeared to be largely transitory. Somehow I surmised that black people weren’t really meant to be seen in public spaces; and if they were seen, they had to appear to be on their way to their next destination outside of the public eye.

I definitely took for granted the ability to actually physically see black bodies move freely in public places.

I was raised in the part of Boston, Massachusetts, where if you looked to your left and to your right, you’d see black people. At Brown, black students may constitute only 6% of the total population, but still you’re given tons of opportunities to surround yourself with as many black people as you desire.   It may have partially been a lapse in my decision to study here, but prior to coming to Amsterdam, I’d done little to no research about demography.   I think I was too preoccupied with simply getting away and being in a new space to the point that I didn’t really factor in how it would impact my experience. But surely, it hit me hard. The initial feelings of loneliness and being in a foreign place were doubly felt just because there didn’t seem to be a black community that I had immediate access to.

“There are enough [black people] […] they rule the night.”

This is the response I got from a Surinamese barber when I asked him where all the black people were. Obviously, there’s a lot to be unpacked, but I kind of just took it for what it was. Being black, but still obviously an outsider of American origin, I’ve had to dismantle a lot of the assumptions I’ve had about how blackness manifests and is conceived across space and place. I still don’t know what the barber meant, but I took away the nuts and bolts of the black community could potentially be very different here. Nevertheless, you have no idea how thankful I felt walking into a popular Amsterdam club and hearing Migos and Fetty Wap, while seeing black people getting lit.

Then there was the night this man called me a black cunt…

So yeah, that happened. Now, this was after the only racial discourses I’d heard since arriving were in the comedian sketches that were conveniently scheduled into the orientation program. This was after learning that there’s a Dutch holiday in December during which everyone puts on blackface. This was after meeting international students and having my blackness be acknowledged by way of drunken outburst attempts at conversation. These experiences undoubtedly verified that anti-black racism, not just racism, is globally constructed. Although it may manifest socio-historically in a certain manner in an American context, it’s not only present everywhere else, but very much so interconnected in intentional, but not always visible, ways.

That being said…

I’ve honestly had a good time here so far. I’ve managed to find turn up conducive to the soul. A black history tour I more recently took has helped me contextualize Amsterdam’s relationship with blackness in really valuable ways. Over the next couple of month I’m going to be getting involved with some black activist organizations and unpacking further what the experiences are of the black people who actually live here.

Some pieces of advice for those studying abroad in Amsterdam or anywhere else:

Do your research: If it’s important for you to be able to turn up or be surrounded by black people, make sure you can do that wherever you plan on going.

Be prepared for bullshit: American racism is one thing, but racism in other places can be a harsh surprise especially in that split second during which you feel like you’ve finally made it to somewhere completely different.

Finally, stay woke: I think it’s obvious that study abroad is meant to inform your studies, particularly in a global sense. But for me, beyond having experiences that have informed those in America, I’ve also had to inform myself and come to terms with what it means for someone like me to even be here to begin with.

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Summer in a Ghetto

My only fear is that these idle hands Collaborate with other hands to concoct devious plans As the very thought of corrupting my brother Leaves me to shudder.

The caught exhale, speaks in crimson and dripping color.

Fearfully, my deep and breath-ful slumber Comes to a burning stutter As the sweat spills, as again, I must muster How to inform a single mother Why her child will not be joining her for supper.

Matthew Johnson is a 2015 December graduate of the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Matthew is a sports journalist who has written for the USA Today College, Fansided, The Carolinian and StoopSports. His work has been published in the The Carolinian, The Coraddi and The News Verse News

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THE SUN CHILD

I.

I swayed –

The grime bellowed out from my core

Green eyes;

Dirty green palms

Bitter like ginger

Gnawed at my taste

I was tied to this pole

With gold –

Twenty four karat shining beaming

Handcuffs

Twenty four hours

Staring wishing screaming

GOLD

Rope laced round my neck

Laced round my ankle

Laced round

Dirty green palms

Gnawed at gold

Rope

Staring wishing screaming

The grime bellowed out from my core

Handcuffed these dirty green palms

And tethered

This neck

With

Gold

II.

Swift breath

Tormented lungs below the surface

Teased open hearts and fleeting memoirs

I ran into resistance

A brick wall – a concrete blockade

And I furiously attacked it

From above

Below

The sides

But it would not fall

And we never met

We never met in Florence

I sat in miles of romance

And solitude

And we never met

After months of safety

A month of distance

Felt like isolation –

Miles and memories and skin.

I watched your voice disappear

I saw you vacuumed into a world that

I could not reach

I pushed

I fired

I bombed those bricks –

But they stood tall as I wilted and I wilted and I shrank and I shrank

And I sat in myself

Sat in puddles of pity

Soaked in bathing doubt

Miles and memories and Skin.

Their eyes watched me like a Shadow and you said you were different but

I could not move what was between our beating hearts

So I grabbed

My earth with brazen fists

I dug down low

I dug a hole as far as I could

But the earth was in pieces

And we never met

We never met in Cuba

I dipped myself into fresh sea

And sang your lullaby to Black waves

And we never met

These bricks this blockade

Immovable

These

Miles and Memories and Skin

Twisting the world into dark carnivals

Endless mazes

Where I sank into myself

And I was

Still

I

Was

Still

I was

Still

Next to you

Separated by these bounds

And yet unmoving from your side

My arms had gone limp

So I stood

Exhausted from my resistance

And the brick remained unchanged

I breathed with its carved matter

And the spattered protrusions smoothened from

Days of my touch

From the base of those bricks

Vines extended their artificial hands

And wove me into what stood between us

My charred skin became callous

And the brick no longer stung –

The blockade softened to embrace the curve of my spine,

The sway of my hips

These bricks this blockade

Immovable

Stood strong through the perils surrounding –

Fury and fire and men

And we never met

We never met in Miles

Or Memories

Or Skin

I felt that everlasting pulse

Of bright red stature

Of solid foundation

At my back

And we never met

But when the fire had left my chest

And my soil was renewed

I climbed

To My

Sun

III.

a.

Plush pink lips

Passed down the sweet hissing

In my left earlobe

Vibrations plucked

And my chest expanded

Around the world

I was at the edge of

Broken pines

And soft angels

With an electric pay phone

Gentle taps patted

Cocoa hues

Numbness teasing with explosion

And I sat

In the

Throne

b.

Pines broken

Teasing numbness

I was at the edge of

The world

With an electric pay phone –

Cocoa hues

Passed down the sweet hissing

Of plucked vibrations

Soft angels expanded my chest

The throne exploded

Gentle taps

Patted plush pink lips

Left in my

Earlobe

IV.

It could not have been my heart

That Fell

Every time I heard you’d taken a step

Every day you walked toward your dreams

It could not have been my eyes

That Labored

Burst open with cold sticky salt

Took out fragments

Drop by drop

I’d been showering in the idea of eternal love

Deluded as I had always been

But with your complicity

Because you never dared to believe

That we could not help but drift

That it is not true –

Eternal love

That change comes in our dreams

And when we wake

The earth has shifted

The tide has fallen

And we are

New

It could not have been my soul that dragged behind me

In that heaven I found

Gazing from my podium of invisibility –

Tucked away in the attic

Shading on my vision

Friction at my touch

It could not have been my stomach

That Growled

Too hungry to choose

Too hungry to make

Too hungry

Cold sticky salt felt like home

Every Sunday

In my hollow cocoon –

But it could not have been my heart

It could not have been

It could not have been my hope

That Dried

Pruned and shriveled

Once mighty with stature

Now captured

Just as I

And moored

To you

It could not have been my heart – no

It could not have been

V.

Imagine you were dancing – dancing on the sidewalk listening to a jams list put together by

your best friend as you voyaged to a sunflower exhibit at the Van Gogh Museum. Imagine

you were dancing – dancing and singing actually. Singing along to the jams because they

were so catchy and feel-good you couldn’t resist. Imagine you were dancing and singing –

dancing and singing but you didn’t quite know the words and you were dancing and walking

at the same time so really the dance was a bit spastic and you had headphones on so you

couldn’t really hear yourself singing.

Now imagine you were smiling – smiling and laughing between missed words and stumbled

dance steps and grinning so big your face felt like it was going to burst open at any minute

because now your heart was racing with joy and you were singing and dancing and smiling

and laughing and then you were there.

Imagine you found the sunflowers – found them in profound sunshine that had only just

appeared from luminous clouds and bitter air but the sun was out now and it was beautiful.

And you were still laughing and smiling because you were still listening to jams but imagine

you weren’t dancing anymore now that you were next to the Van Gogh Museum with all the

sunflowers.

Imagine you weren’t singing anymore either – imagine all the sudden you were standing in a

vast pool of white glares – that you were feeling the weight of hundreds of white eyes looking

through you or glancing over quickly while they moved closer to their husbands, grabbed

their children.

Imagine that when you were dressing this morning in the long skirt with the flowing blouse

that had funky and yet earthy patterns you felt beautiful – imagine you were dressing and

thinking that you looked attractive, imagine you were thinking you looked approachable.

Imagine you weren’t dancing and weren’t singing but you were at the exhibit and the sun was

still shining – it had dimmed a bit and the nippy wind was back – but the sun was out and

you were nourished and so you were smiling. Imagine you were still walking around with

your headphones on and silently bopping while beaming back at your Mother Sun and

letting out small hums of appreciated at your surrounding sunflowers. Imagine that, just for a

moment, you were feeling eclipsed from everything that was not a jam or a sunflower or a

smile.

The kid behind you kicks wood chips up on your skirt – he looks back as he walks ahead of

you to let you know it was on purpose. The lady entering the sunflower maze pushes on your

ribs to squeeze by and everyone looks at you because you are alone and lost.

The sun fades and people run mad to take their sunflowers, those greedy people, and glare at

you the whole while through while you are just trying to soak in the last moments of sun.

Imagine you were moving away now, moving to sit on a cement stair step – moving to look

through books in the Van Gogh Gift Shop, moving to escape those eyes – moving to where

you could dance and sing and smile and laugh.

Imagine you were always moving.

Imagine.

VI.

Lately it was harder for her to move from bed to room, room to world.

She had been up late talking– hours on the phone running in circles from “I love you” to

dead silence, dead silence that led to crying – empty dead silence.

The broken clock ticked obnoxiously, a reminder that time was passing, life was moving, and

yet she remained in bed. Not asleep or awake, but rather somewhere in between.

Outside distant pops echoed in the distance; they felt like violence.

Some nights she could rise slowly to sneak down creaky steps, find herself hidden on the back

porch. A glass pipe filled with green spells and she fell into a daze that lifted her to memories.

She would hum here – old jazz standards or his lullaby. Slipping into old tunes while smoke

drifted forward then disappeared into the atmosphere.

VII.

I am a floating head in a white room

Pushed back into the corner

For safe space

Safe as in obsolete

Safe as in floating

I am the nameless butler

At the Van Loen museum –

Erased from the description

And quiet, almost

UnReal

I’m the figure you saw

Lining the tip of your house –

That mask of Blackness

Without name or voice

Silenced as a Moore

Subverted by your Gaze

And Still Here

You drank my blood as labor

You took my body at your will

And I am bodiless

Floating in your white rooms

You asked for my labor

To confront your guilt

And still I am floating

Floating between four homes

Negotiating citizenship

While I am missing

My history

But remembering your violence

Where do I take refuge

From the Archaic Father

While I depend on your tools?

Where do you

Draw the line?

VIII.

Last night I dreamt

In Black

And when I woke the world was shaking

There was no sun

For four days

And I could not speak

I could not move

Last night I woke

In a puddle of nails

Drenched with pain

Gasping for you

Woken by death

And its fair warning

When I dream in Black

It wraps me round

And when I wake

My ground is

Shaking

When I wake my palms are

Shaking

When I wake my time is

Shaking

And there is no one

They advise against

Returning home

But my safety is never certain

So if I die before the New Year comes

I will die in Black dreams

In my father’s eyes

I will die in the world

Shaking

IX.

By the time I was lost in dance

The sun came out

When I left your home it was misting

Clouds hanging in my ears

But by the time I was lost

The sun came out

My body was your vessel

Collected from our spilled mass

And I was

Dancing

Lost in this sun

Lost in this dirt –

Lost in your hands

I shook as you shifted

In my Black body of Gold

And you beckoned for my gleaming

While I was lost in dance

Lost in my dreams

And the sun was hot

Kneading my skin like God’s palms

Too warm for touch

And elusive to your tongue

I was shaking to my son

Shaking the beat of

Our past

And the sun was blazing

Blazing so warm

I was roasting

Too much heat

On my thick leather back

And so I kneeled

Closed my eyes to find

Peace

Closed my eyes to find

Life

My eyes were closed so tight

I could finally see

Blackness

Kneeling in motion

To the West

Kneeling in

My womb

Of truth

Kneeling in dreams

By the time I was lost in dance

Your bullets did not phase me

My spine lengthened,

Body spread wide

And I was bullet proof

Swinging through fire

Saluting my sun

And lost in a dream of

Black Gold

Your bullets could not phase me

For I was lost in Dance

Lost in Dance with the son at my back

And your fire

Just a flicker of madness

In the distance

Poking at my hip, perhaps,

But I was lost in Dance

And that metal did not phase me

Your bullets did not phase me

Your fear did not phase me

You did not phase me

For I was lost in Dance

And dreams

And you were

Lost

In

Hatred

That bullet slid past

Woven skin

Brothers and Sisters sewn

Into the Black Mass of Gold

A Black Mass that is not destroyed

A Black Mass that breathes –

O’ Brilliant Black Mass.

To you

We were bleeding

But you had been

Blind

For centuries

Trying fruitlessly

To remove a Sun

That lies within

Keep losing me,

Oh I pray

For I will be lost in

Dreams and Dance

And our Son will Come

Isa(bel) Diawara is an Afro-Latina with roots in Mali, West Africa and Mexico. She wrote this series of poems while abroad in Amsterdam, hoping to confront the isolation she felt as a POC in an extremely white-supremacist society. She is currently a junior, planning to study in exchange at Tougaloo College during her senior fall to further understand the variances between college environments.

[obsidian-magazine]

About the piece: On the day of the no indictment in the Tamir Rice case, poet and rapper Sean Avery shares his performance art video “Nigga: A Monologue” with the world via social media. The video addresses those who say nigga but are not Black, using a recording of Sean performing text over-layed with choreographed movements and images of actors.

As a child, Sean Avery was a military brat who kicked his grandma because he thought he was a Power Ranger (but that’s a story for another time). Today, Avery is a rapper, poet, First Wave Scholar (look it up), and senior studying English Creative Writing at the University of Madison–Wisconsin, by way of the Sun (b.k.a. the suburbs of Avondale, Arizona). His work embraces both his imagination and his journey towards defining his own Black Masculinity.

[obsidian-magazine]

To the Silent Black Student: A Call to Action

Donovan Hicks, Wofford College ‘16, Truman Scholar (SC-15)

Chelsea Jones, University of Texas-Austin ‘15, Heman Sweatt Legacy Scholar

Armani Madison, Brown University ‘16, NAACP president

The Dilemma

We get it.

You’re intelligent. You’re observative.

You saw the Million Student March protesters marching along, but you thought it might be better for you to distance yourself from the movement.  Maybe you saw posts for the protest on Instagram, empathized with the cause, but evaluated the risk and concluded that your smartest option was to stay focused on what’s really important, your education.  

Let’s say you didn’t even have a mental debate about it, you knew immediately that Black Lives Matter Movement wasn’t for you. You may not even understand why people aren’t satisfied with having the opportunity to attend a prestigious institution and receive the marvelous perks that come with it. You just don’t see why much of this is necessary.

What if you’re the reader who’s not truly involved in campus activities?  You haven’t joined your school’s Black Student Union and honestly haven’t felt a need to do so.  It’s possible you don’t feel a strong connection to the students involved in the movement or the issues that have caused their protest.

Regardless of where you fall, we get it.  There may be a reluctance to associate yourself with the culture of student movements, or you may feel that you have not personally seen or experienced racism to the extent that you will be galvanized to join in.  You have every right to want to avoid the ridicule that may come as a result of participation.  You are entitled to feel the fear of facing backlash from professors and peers who don’t understand your plight.  You are justified in wanting to honor the sacrifice that your parents made to get you to college, by putting graduation as a higher priority than student movements.  Your desire to not sacrifice class attendance for protests or sacrifice your comfort in white spaces because of your association with the unsatisfied black population, is even acknowledged.

There are more than enough reasons to stand on the sidelines and watch student activists work to solve racial climate issues.  It is very easy to assume that by not getting involved you can distance your image, or even your blackness from that of the protesting students. Perhaps you don’t understand why you cannot just be a student. Maybe you feel that it is revolutionary enough to just be a Black student in the institution. Maybe you feel that this fight isn’t yours, but that of a radical, misguided minority. You may feel you are different, more safe, more protected than these protesters. But we have to be honest; there is no difference between you and the student who attended the protest in the eyes of racist administration, student body, and institution.  Even if occurrences of overt racism are not a concern on your campus, please understand that there is surely no difference between you and that protestor in the eyes of systemic racist policies put in place by your administration. Coming from one student to another, I must tell you that despite your rational reasoning, your silence will not exempt you from the treatment that the movement is fighting against.

Your silence towards the student movements will not protect you. Silence has not and never will create changes for black lives. Silence from our precursors did not get us a seat in a predominantly white classroom, and it surely will not make it easier for you to keep that seat.  Non-violence led Martin Luther King through the Civil Rights Movement, but silence was nowhere to be found. Silence will not ensure that the generations that succeed us will have more support and encounter less racism than we do today; in fact, silence will guarantee that future generations will be subject to as much, if not more, oppression as that which we face today. Silence will not protect you from racism on campus or increased tuition; and it surely will not protect you from police brutality, as it did not protect Trayvon Martin, Sean Bell or Tamir Rice. If our interest is to prove that our predecessors’ efforts were not in vain, or if it is to create a better future for our children, or even if it is to protect ourselves, silence is the poison, the opposite of the antidote.

As Dr. King said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." In a society that wishes death and disorder upon the Black and Brown, make the conscious decision to fight back for the lives of yourself and others. Choose life by making your voice heard.

This is Your Movement, Too

Taking a look back, it would appear that the first major racial shock to those living in a “post-racial” America in recent years came as the media helped to rip off the band-aid that exposed the truths within the Trayvon Martin case, and which brought to our faces that explicit racism was alive and well in our time. Ever since then, we, as a country have been unable to re-apply that band-aid, as post-racialists have repeatedly had their beliefs undermined as the existence of racism has been repeatedly reaffirmed through the recent unjust assaults on black and brown bodies. Hashtags that show solidarity have become the norm, as police brutality has spread from Charleston, to Ferguson, to even Waller County, Texas, in a manner not unlike that of an infectious disease. As a result, the controversial subject of race - one which seems to have no place in our "post-racial" society - has once again entered the forefront of dialogue nation-wide. Race is not something we can theorize about anymore, as such often occurrences of police brutality have forced people to take a stand on the issue. Such has indirectly encouraged those who refuse to credit these tragedies as racist to lash out against those who will. Unfortunately, most of that hurtful dialogue is happening explicitly on college campuses, like Mizzou, Yale, UCLA, Brown, etc.

You see, movements like the Black Lives Matter Movement and the Million Student March are not entirely dissimilar; while one movement points to the unjust treatment of blacks across the country both incarcerated and nonincarcerated, the other movement points to the subjugation of all students alike by the increasingly unaffordable nature of our higher education systems in this country. Nevertheless, the overlap in these movements for black students is that your life matters enough that you should not be the bearer of mindless micro-aggressions on your college campuses or be crippled by staggering amounts of debt...No. Both you and I should demand from our colleges/universities to foster inclusive societies and to help encourage affordable education that helps to improve our quality of life post-grad, not stifle it.

And, because these two movements touch each and every black student’s life on some level - no matter what your political affiliation, there is no room for indifference. As black students, we must err on the side of what is right, fair, and just. After all, our very history in this country as black people binds us together by some indescribable force, which explains why when one black college  student meets another black college student, there seems to be an instant connection: we all know the struggle of what it means to be black in college today.

Often, social movements like Black Lives Matter and the Million Student March have come to be associated with ultimatums and divides: either you stand with us or them. Or, more directly put for black students: either you recognize your blackness with us or ignore your blackness and be labeled “white;” this is a folly. The notion of being black is not what is not as the crux of this racial debate, as the very color of your skin involves you in these movements. Your high GPA, prestigious school, or even majority white friend group cannot exclude you from these conversations - even the Student Body President at Mizzou was the target of racial slurs on his campus. As black students, you will be questioned about your views on these movements by both allies and non-allies alike. Those moments provide an opportunity to protest or to stand up for these movements’ ideals. And, by protesting, it does not mean that you cannot have other friends who are not black or that you must label all white people as racists. However, it does mean that you can have thoughtful and engaging conversations with those populations who do not understand why these matters are so pressing.

I know all too well about being put on the spot as the “voice” of all black students - a position that often made me scowl. I often felt so distant from my peers protesting on the streets for justice, and felt that my campus climate did not lend itself to such protests.  But, I have come to learn that there are many forms of protests. While not every protest should seek to accuse your peers of racism or lash out in hurtful dialogue, you cannot let fear of tough conversations keep you from necessary conversations.

Taking Up the Charge

James Baldwin famously wrote that “to be Black and conscious in America is to be in a constant state of rage.” All of our lives, we have been taught to control our rage, told that our discontent is invalid or misplaced, advised to put the injustices “of the past” behind us, and informed that our demands for measures essential to achieving equity, to making our campuses and our country more safe for us, are irrational and ridiculous. Rather than disregard that rage, for fear of being labeled the “angry Black man/woman”, we should channel this righteous rage into passion for doing whatever we can to contribute to dismantling the system of white supremacy that pervades every institution in this country.

For the students who have remained silent and disengaged up to this very moment, when consciousness finally hits, the first response is generally to ask “how can I fight back?” Most likely, the question will not just be that of how to fight back, but will read more closely like “how can I fight back...with minimal to zero risk?” These students are also likely to feel a sort of guilt in fighting back against the same institutions that have ostensibly provided them with the incredible opportunity to attend, which have given them the scholarships that enabled them to even make going to these schools possible. They feel grateful for the opportunity. What is important, however, is to remember, that in most cases, your institution was built on the backs of your ancestors. Do not be grateful for the opportunity to be present on the Ivory Tower; have the attitude that you are owed this, and much more.

Even for those who agree with the aims of protest, there are disagreements about method. When most imagine protest, they think of marching in the streets, shouting chants, and publicly reading demands. This type of protest is important. By demonstrating strength in numbers, and by forcing media coverage by making public displays, institutions are placed under tremendous pressure, and risk a potential loss of credibility, if the protesters do not receive their demands.

What is not understood, is that a successful movement has several stages and components. There are no correct or incorrect forms of protest; there are many different ways to challenge the status quo.

There are students who host discussions, in order to get a sense of what others feel. There are then those who bring up these concerns in meetings with the relevant administrators. There are students who meet to write out grievances. There are students who work to turn grievances into demands. There are others who have more concrete knowledge to turn the general demands into specific ones that can hold the institution accountable. There are those who can raise or provide funding for workshops, teach-ins, and even a bail-out fund if protesters run afoul of the police.

There are those who create art, who write, who perform spoken word, who take pictures and video, in order to spread the word and provide documentation. There are those who make connections with other activists, with media, and even potential benefactors. There are those who post and share on social media. There are those who plan logistics. There are even those who have discussions among friends who are on the fence and who bring these friends to planning and organizing events. There are those who organize, and who bring in uninformed students and bring them up to speed. There are those who join university committees and get involved with the institution in various processes, to ensure accountability and follow-up. There are those who serve as historians, who keep records to ensure that future generations can access the movement, the strategies, the demands, and university promises, so that the next movement will not have to reinvent the wheel. There are doubtlessly endlessly more roles beyond the aforementioned, that are essential to building and sustaining a movement.

Begin looking for ways to get involved. Go to a workshop, a teach-in, a relevant club meeting, an organizing/planning meeting. Find out the individuals and/or the groups who lead it. Connect with them and inquire about how you can help. Branch outwards and make connections with others who are passionate and engaged. Attend as many meetings and join committees as you are able. Make sure not to become overwhelmed. Self-care is an essential and oft-overlooked component of the change-making process. Eventually, where you fit in should become clear.

For the students uninvolved because there is risk, or because they feel that they do not have experience or talents that contribute to the movement, we wish to disabuse them of these notions. Everyone has talents, connections, and/or knowledge that will prove invaluable to the movement. At the same time, instead of seeking to lead, defer to those who have toiled longer, and work within existing efforts, until you have the knowledge and skill to lead. A danger of every movement such as this one is that of the ego. In the modern era, activism has become trendy. It is human nature to want to have recognition. A real advocate for change cares little about personal recognition; their sense of purpose is derived from the success of the objective.. One cannot consider themselves an activist, without incurring risk. In the pool of social justice, an advocate for change does not just dip a foot in and take it out when the water gets a bit hot; they jump in, and commit to the swim. They do not need the other swimmers or the lifeguard to acknowledge every time they make a lap; they derive satisfaction from knowing that the lap was made.

As a Black individual in America, there is no action that you can take that is free of risk. The risks that are asked of you, furthermore, are no less than those required of our very predecessors, who risked everything to ensure that you can be in these ivory towers, in the first place. Do not be grateful to the institution. Be grateful to the real trailblazers, those Black and Brown heroes who risked their very lives to ensure that, one day, a generation would come about who would be free of oppression. Our generation lives in an era that is far from that day. As such, let us pick up where the ancestors left off. Let us grab the baton that they have extended. The present generation has asked countless times: “what would I have done if I were alive during the Civil Rights Movement?” The new Civil Rights Movement is today. You are alive, aware, and able. What is your answer?

[obsidian-magazine]

stop staring at me

by Taylor Michael 

Eyes give me anxiety.  Hateful eyes, pitying eyes, blinded eyes, overbearing eyes. So many eyes it makes it hard for me to see clearly through the haze of irises and ignorance. Eyes that couldn't picture me walking down the main green. Eyes that consume me as desire. Eyes that never let me be.

This summer, I explained to my sister how much I couldn’t stand the eyes. I saw them in my sleep. I saw them in class. I saw them in dining halls. I couldn't escape the eyes. My sister threw something to my lap. It was a bracelet. Eleven turquoise eyes linked into a circle.

Before she leaves for work she says, "Taylor, you sound like you really need this for protection. Wear it until it breaks and then find someone you trust to get rid of it for you."

She told me it'd protect me against evil eyes. The bracelet would take all the negative energy that would otherwise be directed towards myself until the bracelet could no longer bare the burden of so much evil, causing  it to break.

The first bracelet lasted a month.

The bracelet I wear daily now has lasted since the end of the summer. But I wonder if it's because I'm being protected from eyes or hiding from eyes.

At Yale University, a white frat had a party for white girls only. They didn't want to see Black, Latinx, Native, Asian women.  They said shut your eyes if you’re offended by cultural appropriation.

At University of Missouri, black visibility means white violence.

At Brown, freedom of speech turns a blind eye to violence against people of color.

This semester, I find myself in libraries, or my room. I'm reading alone, doing homework alone, eating alone. I don't want people to see me anymore. Visibility means violence. Eyes will follow me as their stares bore into me. I don't know if I want to carry the energy of their stares any longer. Maybe if I close my eyes for long enough they'll go away. Maybe I can go longer than a few months without my bracelet breaking…

...it just broke.

[obsidian-magazine]

"the way i see it: black abroad in são paulo, cape town & ahmedabad"collage, mixed media maya finoh '17

[obsidian-magazine]

Rainy Day #39

Roses had been soft in times before I dreamed with apathy

We clapped in silence

And spoke only in fear

Of the ghost­like state in which our hallowed bodies already hung

Side by side ­ face to face

And alone

Here I was missing the memories we had once made

When dirt was sacred

Family close by

Greetings with handshakes

Not cold blank eyes

Not metal puncturing our ghost­like bodies hanging

side by side ­ face to face

And alone

Mornings had felt sweet

Sticky, even in times

Before I woke with apathy

We mourned in silence

Spoke only of the death that touched us

But how could it

Hanging hollow

Side by side, face to face

And alone

Here I was pitying distant souls

Left with two weeks in ten years

Of home

Left with foreign pictures, transformed tales and fear

Fear of basic and simple

Of community

Who did not spend their blank days hanging ambitious bodies

Side by side

Face to face

And so alone

Evenings had felt full in times before

I left my Mamou’'s bed

Nights had felt warm with monie in my belly

The smell of freshly made white rice

And company ­ true company

But all that was null on Western soil

Where we excused our greed

To cry in paper boxes

Sold ourselves for the highest bid

Hanging heartless

Side by side ­ face to face

and

Alone

Here I was swinging

Heartbreak to heartbreak at these merciless hands

Too busy to tend to our death

Too busy burning through paper

Burning bodies burning

These blank eyes that did not blink

This metal puncturing ghosts of the people we had once been but now we hung alone

Roses had felt soft in times before we lived with apathy

We hurt in silence

Spoke never of the fear

That one day death would touch us in this ghost­like state in which our bodies already hung

Side by side ­ face to face

And alone

Roses had felt soft in times

Before

Roses had felt soft

Isa(bel) Diawara is an Afro-Latina with roots in Mali, West Africa and Mexico. She wrote this series of poems while abroad in Amsterdam, hoping to confront the isolation she felt as a POC in an extremely white-supremacist society. She is currently a junior, planning to study in exchange at Tougaloo College during her senior fall to further understand the variances between college environments. 

[obsidian-magazine]

Yet Another Verdict

Brianna Cox

One and a half to two seconds or so…

That’s about how long it takes me to…scan somebody’s full outfit from toe to head. From Sperry shoelace to Brown University baseball cap, or from Jordan sneaker to Knicks beanie.

From this outfit scan I can garner a couple of things—what outfit the person is wearing that day, the color of their skin, their approximate height, their age give or take a few years, maybe a facial expression they are making as I glance at them.

One and a half to two seconds. Officers arrived at the scene of a nine-one-one call in Cleveland, Ohio, saw a Black twelve year old  boy and shot and killed him. A police officer shot a twelve year old twice, inflicting fatal wounds to numerous parts of his torso and abdomen, which killed him.

A police officer did all of this after less than three seconds of being on scene. If he made any assessment of the situation, if he considered any de-escalation tactics, if any logical, rational thoughts ran through his head, he took milliseconds to justify the killing of a middle schooler enough to carry out this cold-blooded murder.

To boil this all down to two seconds: Officer saw boy and killed him.

It goes without saying that this murder was senseless. It goes without saying that what happened to this young boy should never happen to a child again. It goes without saying that the action these officers took was unlawful. Why is it then, that these reprehensible actions were protected and justified by the branch of government whose purpose is to hand down justice for unjust crimes and actions?  Why is it then, that the laws that allegedly protect all citizens of this country are allowed to be broken if the person killed is Black? Why is it then, that juries continuously fail to indict the depravity that those assigned to protect and serve carry out each and everyday?

How is it that during a span of years during which awareness is being raised in America’s political, social, and cultural spheres about the value Black lives are given in America, that a jury, lawmakers, and the justice system itself could still fail to understand that racism is systematically ending children’s lives and that they have the power to indict the depraved who murder young innocent people?

I mourn as I try to make sense of it all. It is a metaphysical dilemma I’m stuck in. Stuck between what I know to be true and what I hope to be true some day. Deep down I know of the depravity and racism this country has always been built by and upon. But I keep looking for optimism, for light, for the redeeming powers of the humanity and love I am sure that some humans are capable of.  However, I cannot find any in these verdicts.

Where is the humanity in any of how these systems run, and how does one conceptualize, internalize, and come to terms with the fact that on this plot of land their body means nothing to the people who have power to enforce what the justice system deems law and protect who the nation deems worthy of daily breath? 

Where is humanity here?

I had to sit down and write to give myself a sliver of my own humanity back. Too much humanity is lost when a child's killer goes free.

And after they killed her little brother, officers brutalized Tamir’s fourteen year old sister and handcuffed her…for having a mournful reaction upon learning about the news of her own sibling’s execution.

a young Black girl’s grief torn from her 

by white adult men and cuffed behind her back with the metal of two cuffs, her hands shackled to her own in escapable pain.

the officer overseeing the plot of land these Black children work on play on grow up on saw trouble and couldn’t have that so a second and a half after stepping out of his vehicle he pulled out his gun and he loaded the boy up with lead like he could have survived the impact of lead bullets tearing up his insides and officer whose name i can’t type without pain made Tamir another Emmett Till

put another Black boy in the ground another Black momma on the tv screen and just like they made his sister cling to her own mourning they have blk ppl in america choking on their tears cuz we only get seconds to live everytime there is a pause they kill another one of us, what? just to remind us that they don’t want us to

live no child hood children wearing hoods or not wearing hoodies just walking round a ‘hood just breathing or standing is good enough to put these innocent children on post-mortem trial for their skin was too Black and the murderers in such denial and those officers got off on being the pre-teen’s judge jury and executioner decided that a boy my weight and height was just not fit to thrive and was disturbing the peace by taking up space by breathing oxygen by having dreams by having a shiny bright life ahead of him by being beautiful by being Black by having life

Where is the humanity here?

[obsidian-magazine]

Hear My Cry

Alexa Chukwumah

“I am not angry. I am mad as hell.”

My anger is wearing the shackles Of Lord Lugard around my throat. The weight of the chains tightening With every-breath-I-take.

It is frustration and resilience. It is simmering, boiling and screeching.

My anger is the heat of my tears Slamming down my face. It is the blood on your hands It is your gun caressing my cheek.

My anger is my salvation It is acidic –     Eroding away your lies Viciously.

It is bringing to light my truth.

[obsidian-magazine]

what we do in the shadows

​​Kamille Johnson '16.5

the valley of the shadow of death has become a canyon, a city, a nation. let us uncover our legs and finally run from what the shadow of death would have us become.

Coming to Brown from the Bay Area, Kamille Johnson is studying Africana Studies and Science & Society with a focus on computer science.