Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935727
Diamond Forde
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Collard Greens & Ham Hocks: Or What to Do When the Bills Are Due, and: Pineapple-Coconut Cake, and: In Your Next Life, and: Acts of Submission <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Diamond Forde (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>COLLARD GREENS & HAM HOCKS</h2> <h3>Or What to Do When the Bills Are Due</h3> <h4>INGREDIENTS</h4> <p>3 lbs. collard greens fanned like money</p> <p>2 tbsp bacon fat pearled in a jar</p> <p>1 onion</p> <p>3 ham hocks cleft from rickety knees</p> <p>4 cups chicken stock</p> <p>1 dash of Lawry's & an equal amount of salt</p> <p>1 big pinch of store-brand pepper</p> <p>1 splash vinegar</p> <p>your deepest pot</p> <h4>DIRECTIONS</h4> <ol> <li> <p>1. Ablute the bunches. Free the greens from their bitter spines, twine them 'round your finger, fret the rugged ends—your Daughters' heads: edges leafing their box braids already, dark hairs wilding like vines—you twist the hairlets, sulfur-handed, a tired thumb drumming their roots. Pray they bloom but not too soon.</p> </li> <li> <p>2. Dice the onion squinting near the sill. Citrine-silky, the onion flirts, an acrid bustle from its bulbous skirt. Its sharp sting, Vidalia lye—see anyone but you in its blade-worn eye.</p> </li> <li> <p>3. Start a pot no deeper than an empty pocket. Sauté the onion—clot of grease leaping in the heat. Ham hocks & their jointed knots sizzle drippings. Pray the gas guzzles long enough for the stove to wreathe with heat.</p> </li> <li> <p>4. Your Daughters ask when they'll see you again. Do not tell them you hook each minimum-wage minute with the sharp end of their frowns.</p> </li> <li> <p>5. Combine the collards & hocks, the chicken stock, the vinegar & spice.</p> </li> <li> <p>6. Twice, you dined in the light of home's every candle. The Daughters, bowed heads flamed with wildness, held vigil for the sweat stringing their necks.</p> </li> <li> <p>7. Braise the collards two hours. Holler for your Daughters pretending the patched toe of their socks struts a stiletto. The borough broadways in midday's spotlight. Who doesn't want to smell Italian leather?</p> </li> <li> <p>8. Whenever the collards' iron perfumes pennies in the broth, measure the greens in heaps. Eat off whatever you have too much of: paper plates, the divet on the couch where you used to sleep, eat from the dog's ALPO-dusted bowl, eat from their school shoes, rubber peeling back from the soles. <strong>[End Page 80]</strong></p> </li> </ol> <h2>PINEAPPLE-COCONUT CAKE</h2> <blockquote> <p>why didn't I celebrate you that night : when my cousins leaned across your nursing-home bed to paint your mouth bright pink : who'd know this'd be the last time I could count each opal tooth : pineapple bright as a beachside : tinned for home, aluminum hum still clung to the fruit : on birthdays, you ate the biggest slice of cake : your indefinite origins : doctors unsure if you'd
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Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935736
NitaJade
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Mooshie <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> NitaJade (bio) </li> </ul> <p>Nana say it's called <em>changes</em>. Every time I stop by Auntie Junebug's, I go through <em>changes</em>. I walk into her place squeaky clean and leave greasy; Blue Magic-coated fingers pinch my cheeks and get away with it. Her couch feel like wet clay melted on sandpaper, feel like pomade when it sneak under nails. Her place tiny, like Uncle Sir's matchboxes. 'Bout time you walk through the door, your body halfway through the livin' room. Once in a blue moon when the windows open, it look like storm clouds done settled inside. I figure that's why she keep the blinds closed.</p> <p>Auntie Junebug started it, the name-callin'. She call me by the nickname I never asked for and never wanted: <strong>Moo</strong>shie. Everybody else took after her, callin' me <strong>Moo</strong>shie too. She say it's 'cause my granddaddy's name was Moo-Moo, and I was always under his frayed wing, but we know better. She call me <strong>Moo</strong>shie because I'm fat. I know it. The white boys at school always tell me so. I know what I am. Her eyes twinkle when she look at me. I see it. She try to mask it but ain't ever been one to try hard. I don't know which hurt my feelings more: the fact that they eyes call me fat or that they think I'm too stupid to notice.</p> <p>I don't think Auntie Junebug mean <em>much</em> harm, though. Her godliness just hide under the bed when the bottles come out. Her gaze scold my flesh. She say, "Come here, <strong>Moo</strong>shie." I do as I'm told. "Run these food stamps on down to Nana." I snatch the card with a "Yes, ma'am" and walk away from her eyes. I stride two steps and emerge onto a beige-stained, cigarette-scented porch. "Don't drop that card, lil' girl!" Auntie yell through the screen. She supposed to watch me goin' 'til Nana can see me comin', but nine times outta ten she go back to her bottle. I wade myself into a pool of sun and imagine the rays scrubbin' my skin free of scrutiny.</p> <p>Auntie Junebug got a twin, but he not a girl. Mama say that mean they in a frat. He come up the steps as I come down. He smell like Nana's gossip. She say he disappear for days, only come back when he want somethin'. I ask her what he do when he gone. She say he don't shower. "Hey, Uncle Sir!" I smile over the rail and hop down the last few steps. His sneaker scuffs the step, and he falls into the brick. The corner catches him. "Hey-<em><strong>Moo</strong></em>!" he slur, pushing himself up. "How-my-<em><strong>Mo</strong></em><strong>o</strong>shie-doin'?"</p> <p>"I'm blessed," I say. Yeah, I say that. I think I say that.</p> <p>I can't think real well on account of his spit in my mouth. Not sure if it's mine or what's left on his breath, but I taste throw-up. Mama say nobody allowed to kiss me not nowhere 'specially not on my lips. He make
{"title":"Mooshie","authors":"NitaJade","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935736","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935736","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Mooshie <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> NitaJade (bio) </li> </ul> <p>Nana say it's called <em>changes</em>. Every time I stop by Auntie Junebug's, I go through <em>changes</em>. I walk into her place squeaky clean and leave greasy; Blue Magic-coated fingers pinch my cheeks and get away with it. Her couch feel like wet clay melted on sandpaper, feel like pomade when it sneak under nails. Her place tiny, like Uncle Sir's matchboxes. 'Bout time you walk through the door, your body halfway through the livin' room. Once in a blue moon when the windows open, it look like storm clouds done settled inside. I figure that's why she keep the blinds closed.</p> <p>Auntie Junebug started it, the name-callin'. She call me by the nickname I never asked for and never wanted: <strong>Moo</strong>shie. Everybody else took after her, callin' me <strong>Moo</strong>shie too. She say it's 'cause my granddaddy's name was Moo-Moo, and I was always under his frayed wing, but we know better. She call me <strong>Moo</strong>shie because I'm fat. I know it. The white boys at school always tell me so. I know what I am. Her eyes twinkle when she look at me. I see it. She try to mask it but ain't ever been one to try hard. I don't know which hurt my feelings more: the fact that they eyes call me fat or that they think I'm too stupid to notice.</p> <p>I don't think Auntie Junebug mean <em>much</em> harm, though. Her godliness just hide under the bed when the bottles come out. Her gaze scold my flesh. She say, \"Come here, <strong>Moo</strong>shie.\" I do as I'm told. \"Run these food stamps on down to Nana.\" I snatch the card with a \"Yes, ma'am\" and walk away from her eyes. I stride two steps and emerge onto a beige-stained, cigarette-scented porch. \"Don't drop that card, lil' girl!\" Auntie yell through the screen. She supposed to watch me goin' 'til Nana can see me comin', but nine times outta ten she go back to her bottle. I wade myself into a pool of sun and imagine the rays scrubbin' my skin free of scrutiny.</p> <p>Auntie Junebug got a twin, but he not a girl. Mama say that mean they in a frat. He come up the steps as I come down. He smell like Nana's gossip. She say he disappear for days, only come back when he want somethin'. I ask her what he do when he gone. She say he don't shower. \"Hey, Uncle Sir!\" I smile over the rail and hop down the last few steps. His sneaker scuffs the step, and he falls into the brick. The corner catches him. \"Hey-<em><strong>Moo</strong></em>!\" he slur, pushing himself up. \"How-my-<em><strong>Mo</strong></em><strong>o</strong>shie-doin'?\"</p> <p>\"I'm blessed,\" I say. Yeah, I say that. I think I say that.</p> <p>I can't think real well on account of his spit in my mouth. Not sure if it's mine or what's left on his breath, but I taste throw-up. Mama say nobody allowed to kiss me not nowhere 'specially not on my lips. He make ","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"33 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182633","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935726
Lolita Stewart-White
In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:
Blue Note
Lolita Stewart-White (bio)
For Ernest Hunter of Savannah, Georgia
What must it have been likefor a colored man to love his woman in 1958?His heart broken open,his words choked back,stifled by the heat from an indifferent Georgia sun.He hummed his blues for her,moaned under the blows of a billy clubuntil his very last note.
Until his very last note,moaned under the blows of a billy club,he hummed his blues for her,stifled by the heat from an indifferent Georgia sun.His words choked back,his heart broken open,For a colored man to love his woman in 1958,that's what it must have been like. [End Page 79]
Lolita Stewart-White
LOLITA STEWART-WHITE is a poet and playwright who lives and works in Miami. She is a Cave Canem fellow, Pushcart nominee, and winner of the Paris-American Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Boston Review, The African American Review, and Beloit Poetry Journal. Stewart-White is a part of City Theatre's Homegrown Playwrighting Program which nurtures and supports Miami's BIPOC playwrights. Her play "7" received its world premiere at the Adrienne Arsht Center's "Summer Shorts."
Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935739
Enkeshi Thom El-Amin
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> The Harlot at the Spigot <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Enkeshi Thom El-Amin (bio) </li> </ul> <p>The Bottom was quite impressive. In the low-lying, foul-smelling, lined-with-shacks, barely standing neighborhood where hunger and laughter made imprints on postures, Black people in Knoxville made a home. Homes made of wood too sparse, so they got holes in them. The rooms damp but the rooms full. Rolling hills and rolling tides and rolling herds of pigs and cows and cattle. Prayers always going up in the Bottom on somebody's lips, no matter what time of the day. Praying to God, cursing God, mad at whoever is praying or cursing God. Generation after generation, memories never washed away, not then and not now.</p> <p>And just as impressive as the place was, so too were its inhabitants. Remember down at the spigot? Every evening, buckets in hand fetching water, mud on ankles, fetching gossip? There was Henry, couldn't hardly find no job but was always down at that sanctified church whooping and hollering and shouting. Wille Bell sure couldn't stand it, but she loved him and he took care of her and all them kids. Then you had that one Negro police coming around asking questions, knowing good and well wasn't no answers. With too-big-for-him pants staring at everybody with them frog-like eyes, Dr. Brown came around sometimes. Nevermind him though, neighbors laughed at him, said if it's gon be a negro doctor, might as well not be a doctor at all. Can't forget the bully, mighta been called Big John or something like that, somebody said he killed at least two but probably three men.</p> <p>And in the midst of mud and lust, Bessie always stood with shoes on her feet. Her brain was as big as her dreams, and her dreams kept her walking at night, kept her lonely in the daytime, kept her close to the Bottom. She was born in the Bottom, raised up in the Bottom, most of them were. But mothers rolled their eyes, whispered at each other when she came around. Father turned their heads, the minister damned them all to hell. Damned himself right along with them. And as they washed away the taste of yesterday's dinner, the teenage girls noticed Bessie's clean shoes. Tip tap, tip tap patting the dirt as she walked, she got some red ones and some white ones too. "She ain't washing no white lady clothes but she always got new shoes." Wonder where she got them from, wonder how many she got, wonder how they can get some. Ain't all God's children supposed to have shoes? <strong>[End Page 126]</strong></p> Enkeshi Thom El-Amin <p><strong>ENKESHI THOM EL-AMIN</strong>, a community sociologist, is an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Agnes Scott College. Her current research examines and analyzes the contested experiences and meanings of urban Black space in Appalachia, a region conventionally represented as a domain of r
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Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935747
Tonya Abari
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Catching Magic:<span>The Importance of Affrilachian Representation in Children's Books</span> <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Tonya Abari (bio) </li> </ul> <p>When I was six years old, I labeled a Mason jar "magic" and stashed it beneath my bed. It was for catching lightning bugs. A few of my classmates who spent summers down South boasted of evenings with their grandparents and the fireflies. I didn't know any of my extended family down South, and I also didn't have a relationship with my grandparents. However, I was ecstatic that, in addition to blue crabs and humidity, even Baltimore had lightning bugs.</p> <p>I'd catch fireflies one-by-one, watching the light flicker against my cocoa-buttered palms. Then I'd slide as many as I could into the 32 oz. glass jar. I marveled at their conspicuous glow and interpreted the light beneath their soft bellies as only a six-year-old would.</p> <p>"They're making magic," I'd say to Ma, who only wanted me to "let the flies free and do more girly things" like play with dolls or her Fashion Fair makeup.</p> <p>As I grew older, the fireflies seemed to disappear. I'd like to think it has something to do with climate change, but I also know that my desire for catching lightning bugs was swallowed whole by the process of growing up way earlier than I'd wished. City lights, noisy buses, penny candy stores, corner boys, and extra tall buildings that soaked up the skyline were the backdrop of my adolescence. The youthful innocence of glow-in-the-dark beetles just didn't seem to fit into the daily grind of "making it" in Baltimore. I was taught early that survival took precedence over catching magic.</p> <p>Geographically, I was born in a city near the Appalachian region, but Baltimore isn't considered as part of it. However, the region includes areas of Mid-Atlantic states Maryland and Pennsylvania, and when I learned that Pittsburgh was Appalachia, I immediately thought about how the two blue-collared cities—Baltimore and Pittsburgh—were more alike than different. And in middle school, I placed a post-it note on a map of Pittsburgh in my textbook. I was enamored with descriptions of Appalachian life—a slower pace, farm-to-table food, foraging and canning, crisp mountain air, and a quiet that is often missing from major cities. However, I wondered why the descriptions in our textbooks didn't include the Black folks living there.</p> <p>"Why do you care so much about them mountains? I bet it ain't no Black people there!" a classmate inquired. Judging by that whitewashed textbook, she was right. I couldn't confirm or deny if there were Black folks in Appalachia. I've always known that we are everywhere, but the books we were given in school showed no proof. <strong>[End Page 160]</strong></p> <p>In my late twenties, my husband's career as a football administrator landed us in another city on the ed
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Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935724
Amanda Johnston
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> The Soldier's Mother, and: For Loud Women Like Me, and: Grace & Kindness, and: To Keep From Crying <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Amanda Johnston (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER</h2> <p><em>Fort Knox, 2001</em></p> <p>In the PX, she tells me her son is joining the Army, and we share the face of birthing loss, the knowing that our children are not meant to live forever but not meant to die like this. A television flickers in the background with the sound off to not disturb the passing customers. <em>Five dead, more injured</em>. Overthere came home with him, another mother's son flailing against the ghosts of his demons. <em>The voices</em>, he said, <em>the departments</em>, he said, <em>kill</em>, they said, and released him to his mother when every face he saw blurred into a target. A mother somewhere collapses and thanks God. A mother somewhere collapses in search of God. Another mother in a hospital, at the morgue, in a church, prays to a silence in the shape of god. <strong>[End Page 74]</strong></p> <h2>FOR LOUD WOMEN LIKE ME</h2> <p><span>when it's a good holla</span><span>and you can see my teeth</span><span>in the back of my mouth</span><span>you'll know you've found</span><span>the best of me, rich with spirits</span><span>full on good folk</span><span>going on about something</span><span>no one will remember but</span><span>somebody told the truth</span><span>somebody's testifying</span><span>somebody's laughing</span><span>the salt to sweet</span><span>somebody found honey</span><span>in the marrow of the night</span><span>and passed the cup around <strong>[End Page 75]</strong></span></p> <h2>GRACE & KINDNESS</h2> <p><em>for the congregation of Mother Emanuel AME Church</em></p> <p><span>Because <em>god don't like ugly</em></span><span>Because <em>make a bigger table</em></span><span>Because <em>build a bigger boat</em></span><span>Because <em>all god's children</em></span><span>Because <em>come as you are</em></span><span>Because <em>mind your business</em></span><span>Because <em>do unto others</em></span><span>Because <em>they not all bad</em></span><span>Because <em>kill 'em with kindness</em></span><span>Because <em>laugh to keep from crying</em></span><span>Because <em>open-door policy</em></span><span>Because <em>open-arms</em></span><span>Because <em>what would jesus do</em></span><span>Because <em>the more the merrier</em></span><span>Because <em>the devil in the details</em></span><span>Because <em>no questions asked</em></span><span>Because <em>the devil stays busy</em></span><span>Because <em>the devil you know</em></span><span>Because <em>we knew better</em></span></p> <p><span><em>the hell we did</em> <strong>[End Page 76]</strong></span></p> <h2>TO KEEP FROM CRYING</h2> <p><span>we know the many ways</span><span>we risk our lives</span></p> <p><span>breathing, sleeping, walking</
{"title":"The Soldier's Mother, and: For Loud Women Like Me, and: Grace & Kindness, and: To Keep From Crying","authors":"Amanda Johnston","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935724","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935724","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> The Soldier's Mother, and: For Loud Women Like Me, and: Grace & Kindness, and: To Keep From Crying <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Amanda Johnston (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER</h2> <p><em>Fort Knox, 2001</em></p> <p>In the PX, she tells me her son is joining the Army, and we share the face of birthing loss, the knowing that our children are not meant to live forever but not meant to die like this. A television flickers in the background with the sound off to not disturb the passing customers. <em>Five dead, more injured</em>. Overthere came home with him, another mother's son flailing against the ghosts of his demons. <em>The voices</em>, he said, <em>the departments</em>, he said, <em>kill</em>, they said, and released him to his mother when every face he saw blurred into a target. A mother somewhere collapses and thanks God. A mother somewhere collapses in search of God. Another mother in a hospital, at the morgue, in a church, prays to a silence in the shape of god. <strong>[End Page 74]</strong></p> <h2>FOR LOUD WOMEN LIKE ME</h2> <p><span>when it's a good holla</span><span>and you can see my teeth</span><span>in the back of my mouth</span><span>you'll know you've found</span><span>the best of me, rich with spirits</span><span>full on good folk</span><span>going on about something</span><span>no one will remember but</span><span>somebody told the truth</span><span>somebody's testifying</span><span>somebody's laughing</span><span>the salt to sweet</span><span>somebody found honey</span><span>in the marrow of the night</span><span>and passed the cup around <strong>[End Page 75]</strong></span></p> <h2>GRACE & KINDNESS</h2> <p><em>for the congregation of Mother Emanuel AME Church</em></p> <p><span>Because <em>god don't like ugly</em></span><span>Because <em>make a bigger table</em></span><span>Because <em>build a bigger boat</em></span><span>Because <em>all god's children</em></span><span>Because <em>come as you are</em></span><span>Because <em>mind your business</em></span><span>Because <em>do unto others</em></span><span>Because <em>they not all bad</em></span><span>Because <em>kill 'em with kindness</em></span><span>Because <em>laugh to keep from crying</em></span><span>Because <em>open-door policy</em></span><span>Because <em>open-arms</em></span><span>Because <em>what would jesus do</em></span><span>Because <em>the more the merrier</em></span><span>Because <em>the devil in the details</em></span><span>Because <em>no questions asked</em></span><span>Because <em>the devil stays busy</em></span><span>Because <em>the devil you know</em></span><span>Because <em>we knew better</em></span></p> <p><span><em>the hell we did</em> <strong>[End Page 76]</strong></span></p> <h2>TO KEEP FROM CRYING</h2> <p><span>we know the many ways</span><span>we risk our lives</span></p> <p><span>breathing, sleeping, walking</","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"1 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182584","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935723
Chiquita Mullins Lee
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Georgia Paranoia <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Chiquita Mullins Lee (bio) </li> </ul> <p><em>Star Point, Georgia, August 1937</em></p> <p>Star Point Holy Church. Miss Alma worked steady there, becoming a woman strengthened and ripened and wizened by the grief and the grind and sometimes cautious joys of taking care of peevish, imperfect, and somehow precious folks. Cora was growing up there, a tight-lipped teenager in the background, relieved her mother's shadow blocked every ray of light.</p> <p>Folk always had something to say.</p> <p>"Everybody knows he run off somewhere with another woman."</p> <p>"Yeah, chile, don't no man want no preacher for a wife."</p> <p>"That gal don't look nothing like him. You 'spect that's why he left?"</p> <p>"The child ain't right in the head. She don't never say nothin.'"</p> <p>Miss Alma never heard it. Cora heard it all, the hateful comments pushing her further inside herself. Miss Alma never talked about Mr. Henry. Cora never asked. She kept close by her mama when the church folk weren't around, and when they were, Cora removed herself from the present and the premises through a mental escape into Miss Alma's shadow.</p> <p>"Miss Alma," they'd say, "My baby is already trying to out-talk me."</p> <p>"Miss Alma, I crocheted this muffler myself, and I'm making another one for you."</p> <p>"Miss Alma, did you love that pecan pie I sent you? Nuts came right off my backyard tree."</p> <p>They'd talk right past Cora to Miss Alma, as if Cora wasn't even there. Miss Alma would be so consumed with soothing the new mama too anxious to switch to table food, calming the loud-talking elder with selective deafness, and loving on them in spite of themselves, that she didn't notice how they treated her girl, how her girl retreated into herself.</p> <h2>________</h2> <p>Cora learned early to cling. She found comfort with Alma, only. Miss Alma had shared stories and always suggested books or newspapers for Cora. Even before Cora learned how, Miss Alma sat with her little girl and talked about the world. Amazing Cora was so quiet. Seems she would have inherited that talking spirit from her mama.</p> <p>Miss Alma and Cora had been sitting on the back porch one night when Cora was five years old. Star Point was deep dark and full of sounds. Every hoot and cricket gave a jolt to little Cora and she tensed into a knot, scared of every snap. Miss Alma could hear Cora holding her breath and drew her close.</p> <p>"That's some music, right there," Miss Alma said. "That ain't noise to scare nobody. Just the jazz of the night. It's better when you relax and let it surprise you." <strong>[End Page 68]</strong></p> <p>Cora took a deep breath and heard an irregular drum beat of squawks, a flutish thrill of coos, a guttural something that might have been a lonely alley cat.</p> <p>"Awww, looka there," Miss Alma pointed s
{"title":"Georgia Paranoia","authors":"Chiquita Mullins Lee","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935723","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935723","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Georgia Paranoia <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Chiquita Mullins Lee (bio) </li> </ul> <p><em>Star Point, Georgia, August 1937</em></p> <p>Star Point Holy Church. Miss Alma worked steady there, becoming a woman strengthened and ripened and wizened by the grief and the grind and sometimes cautious joys of taking care of peevish, imperfect, and somehow precious folks. Cora was growing up there, a tight-lipped teenager in the background, relieved her mother's shadow blocked every ray of light.</p> <p>Folk always had something to say.</p> <p>\"Everybody knows he run off somewhere with another woman.\"</p> <p>\"Yeah, chile, don't no man want no preacher for a wife.\"</p> <p>\"That gal don't look nothing like him. You 'spect that's why he left?\"</p> <p>\"The child ain't right in the head. She don't never say nothin.'\"</p> <p>Miss Alma never heard it. Cora heard it all, the hateful comments pushing her further inside herself. Miss Alma never talked about Mr. Henry. Cora never asked. She kept close by her mama when the church folk weren't around, and when they were, Cora removed herself from the present and the premises through a mental escape into Miss Alma's shadow.</p> <p>\"Miss Alma,\" they'd say, \"My baby is already trying to out-talk me.\"</p> <p>\"Miss Alma, I crocheted this muffler myself, and I'm making another one for you.\"</p> <p>\"Miss Alma, did you love that pecan pie I sent you? Nuts came right off my backyard tree.\"</p> <p>They'd talk right past Cora to Miss Alma, as if Cora wasn't even there. Miss Alma would be so consumed with soothing the new mama too anxious to switch to table food, calming the loud-talking elder with selective deafness, and loving on them in spite of themselves, that she didn't notice how they treated her girl, how her girl retreated into herself.</p> <h2>________</h2> <p>Cora learned early to cling. She found comfort with Alma, only. Miss Alma had shared stories and always suggested books or newspapers for Cora. Even before Cora learned how, Miss Alma sat with her little girl and talked about the world. Amazing Cora was so quiet. Seems she would have inherited that talking spirit from her mama.</p> <p>Miss Alma and Cora had been sitting on the back porch one night when Cora was five years old. Star Point was deep dark and full of sounds. Every hoot and cricket gave a jolt to little Cora and she tensed into a knot, scared of every snap. Miss Alma could hear Cora holding her breath and drew her close.</p> <p>\"That's some music, right there,\" Miss Alma said. \"That ain't noise to scare nobody. Just the jazz of the night. It's better when you relax and let it surprise you.\" <strong>[End Page 68]</strong></p> <p>Cora took a deep breath and heard an irregular drum beat of squawks, a flutish thrill of coos, a guttural something that might have been a lonely alley cat.</p> <p>\"Awww, looka there,\" Miss Alma pointed s","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"33 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182566","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935721
Marcus Morris
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Artist's Statement <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Marcus Morris (bio) </li> </ul> <p>My work explores liberation via imagemaking. I am interested in the way photography and the moving image can be used as tools for personal and global liberty. I explore this with traditional and alternative photographic methods, video, installation, and performance.</p> <p><em>Elegance Is Refusal</em>, my current project, aims to reimagine the past by making new images where trauma existed. <em>Beloved</em> by Toni Morrison provides a loose framework for engaging childhood trauma as a Black queer millennial in Appalachian Ohio. Elegance, to me a feminine of "cool," long associated with Black culture, considers Black queer and femme identity as a source of power and refusal in a white supremacist patriarchal capitalist system. <em>Elegance Is Refusal</em> comes from the editor Diana Vreeland, who says, "Elegance is innate. It has nothing to do with being well dressed. Elegance is refusal." The project employs theatrical costuming to set the stage of a Reconstruction-era landscape. Working with Xavier Cruz, cast to play my younger self, I engage race, gender, sexuality, history, class, and the promise of liberty via queer mothering. The series of images and video is made near land my family has occupied in Ohio since being emancipated in the early 19<sup>th</sup> century.</p> <p>Reclaiming history and identity in my art practice feels essential for liberation. Catharsis that happens in the photographic process, even without reconciliation, can be freeing. One can make a picture, find peace, and move on. It is an offering to the invisible Black, queer, and Appalachian people who were ghosts so I could be in the wild. <strong>[End Page 59]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 60]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 61]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 62]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 63]</strong></p> Marcus Morris <p><strong>MARCUS MORRIS</strong> is a multidisciplinary artist and imagemaker from Appalachia whose work centers queerness and performance. He is an MFA fellow in Photography from The Ohio State University and received his BFA from Columbus College of Art & Design in 2012. In addition, he spent six months studying art and photography at the Michaelis School of Fine Art at the University of Cape Town in Cape Town, South Africa. He has exhibited work at NoPlace Gallery, Herron Gallery, 934 Gallery, ROY G BIV and Urban Arts Space. He is a founder of Cineseries, an experimental film program series at The Wexner Center for the Arts, was recipient of the Greater Columbus Arts Council Grant, an
{"title":"Artist's Statement","authors":"Marcus Morris","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935721","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935721","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Artist's Statement <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Marcus Morris (bio) </li> </ul> <p>My work explores liberation via imagemaking. I am interested in the way photography and the moving image can be used as tools for personal and global liberty. I explore this with traditional and alternative photographic methods, video, installation, and performance.</p> <p><em>Elegance Is Refusal</em>, my current project, aims to reimagine the past by making new images where trauma existed. <em>Beloved</em> by Toni Morrison provides a loose framework for engaging childhood trauma as a Black queer millennial in Appalachian Ohio. Elegance, to me a feminine of \"cool,\" long associated with Black culture, considers Black queer and femme identity as a source of power and refusal in a white supremacist patriarchal capitalist system. <em>Elegance Is Refusal</em> comes from the editor Diana Vreeland, who says, \"Elegance is innate. It has nothing to do with being well dressed. Elegance is refusal.\" The project employs theatrical costuming to set the stage of a Reconstruction-era landscape. Working with Xavier Cruz, cast to play my younger self, I engage race, gender, sexuality, history, class, and the promise of liberty via queer mothering. The series of images and video is made near land my family has occupied in Ohio since being emancipated in the early 19<sup>th</sup> century.</p> <p>Reclaiming history and identity in my art practice feels essential for liberation. Catharsis that happens in the photographic process, even without reconciliation, can be freeing. One can make a picture, find peace, and move on. It is an offering to the invisible Black, queer, and Appalachian people who were ghosts so I could be in the wild. <strong>[End Page 59]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 60]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 61]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 62]</strong></p> <br/> Click for larger view<br/> View full resolution <p></p> <p><strong>[End Page 63]</strong></p> Marcus Morris <p><strong>MARCUS MORRIS</strong> is a multidisciplinary artist and imagemaker from Appalachia whose work centers queerness and performance. He is an MFA fellow in Photography from The Ohio State University and received his BFA from Columbus College of Art & Design in 2012. In addition, he spent six months studying art and photography at the Michaelis School of Fine Art at the University of Cape Town in Cape Town, South Africa. He has exhibited work at NoPlace Gallery, Herron Gallery, 934 Gallery, ROY G BIV and Urban Arts Space. He is a founder of Cineseries, an experimental film program series at The Wexner Center for the Arts, was recipient of the Greater Columbus Arts Council Grant, an","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"12 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182565","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935722
Khalisa Rae
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Flood Gates With Fangs, and: Collaring Our Native Tongues, and: Mahalia Sings to Freedom <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Khalisa Rae (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>FLOOD GATES WITH FANGS</h2> <p><span>Momma say, "Cross your legs in church, girl."</span><span>& I'm not sure what she thought would fly</span><span>out—a bee, a psalm, a moan, wet-fanged</span><span>beast</span><span> running</span></p> <p><span>to where we lost ourselves, where we first saw</span><span>the light, <em>come where the dew drops of mercy</em></span><span> <em>shine bright, shine all around us</em>,</span></p> <p><span>a liquid call that says, <em>I'm alive here</em>, when I'm gaped</span><span>open & splayed like a fish platter. I'm sure that whatever will rush</span><span>will be a flood, a stampede, whatever Noah escaped from—</span><span>that</span><span>that's what we've got between our legs.</span><span>They boarded that ark to get away from our wet jaws,</span><span>they afraid of our flood-beast—our water be <em>so</em> scary. <em>Close it up</em>,</span><span><em>chile, and follow the elephants into the boat like</em></span><span>good little girls.</span></p> <p><span>I notice church women wear cloths over their short</span><span>skirts to not to show their private</span><span>parts to the pastor, and I wonder why women</span><span>are always plugging their holes. Why we hiding the gush</span><span>like men be wolves without control?</span></p> <p><span>What if at night my vagina grew shark fangs & that's why</span><span>the mommas said to shut this feral flow–</span><span>they worried about what my foaming, rabid lips will do</span><span>when the preacher comes down from the pulpit. <strong>[End Page 64]</strong></span></p> <h2>COLLARING OUR NATIVE TONGUES</h2> <p><span>Heard we rattle in the walls, small</span><span>and rat-tailed rumbles, people</span><span>ignore. They swear we're just the pipes—</span></p> <p><span>creaks in the floorboards. Our native tongues</span><span>crawl out of tight spaces and tumble</span><span>into hushed cracks. We scavenge for substance,</span></p> <p><span>but settle for the need to be heard. Search</span><span>for the words you tried to exterminate.</span><span>We know the social norms set</span></p> <p><span>for us are a trap. Our dirt-road, desert stories</span><span>are called trifle, fleeting, when in the dark</span><span>you consider us rodent—hard to get rid of.</span></p> <p><span>You cannot lure us with moldy scraps.</span><span>We've learned how to sniff out the risk before</span><span>appearing full faced. Our accents are not welcome</span></p> <p><span>here, presence not loud enough to be heard</span><span>over your King's English. We're trained to sneak</span><span>out and go quiet to force you to listen closer.</span></p> <p><span>But sometimes we'd like to be domesticated,</span><span>taken
以下是内容的简要摘录，以代替摘要： 带着獠牙的水门，以及领会我们的母语，以及马哈利亚唱响自由 卡莉莎-雷（简历 妈妈说："在教堂里双腿交叉，女孩。"我不知道她以为会飞出什么--一只蜜蜂、一首诗歌、一声呻吟、一只湿漉漉的獠牙怪兽，奔向我们迷失自我的地方，奔向我们第一次见到光明的地方，奔向仁慈的露珠闪耀的地方，奔向我们周围闪耀的地方，奔向一种液体的呼唤，这种呼唤说，我在这里活着，当我像鱼盘一样张开双臂的时候。我相信，无论发生什么，都将是一场洪水，一场踩踏，无论诺亚逃出了什么，那都是我们两腿之间夹着的东西。他们登上方舟，是为了躲避我们湿漉漉的下巴，他们害怕我们的洪水猛兽，我们的水是如此可怕。闭上眼睛，智利，像乖女孩一样跟着大象上船。我注意到教堂里的女人都在短裙外面蒙上一层布，以免在牧师面前露出私处。为什么我们要像狼一样把男人藏起来？如果到了晚上，我的阴道长出了鲨鱼的獠牙怎么办；这就是为什么妈妈们说要关闭这股狂流--她们担心当牧师从讲坛上走下来时，我那发着白沫、狂暴的嘴唇会流下什么。[第 64 页完] 唱出我们的乡音 听到我们在墙壁里嘎嘎作响，细小的老鼠尾巴般的隆隆声，人们视而不见。他们发誓，我们只是地板上吱吱作响的水管。我们的土语从狭小的空间里爬出来，翻滚到寂静的缝隙里。我们寻找实质内容，但满足于被倾听的需要。我们知道，为我们设定的社会规范是一个陷阱。我们的土路、沙漠故事被称为微不足道、转瞬即逝，而在黑暗中，你却认为我们是难以摆脱的啮齿动物。我们已经学会了如何在露面之前嗅出风险。这里不欢迎我们的口音，我们的声音不足以盖过你们的国王英语。我们被训练得偷偷溜走，保持沉默，以迫使你们仔细聆听。但有时我们也想被驯化，带我们出去散步，或者去公园玩接球游戏。我们喜欢被宠爱，喜欢被表扬我们的安静和听话。[我越过了界限。我自由了，但没有人欢迎我来到自由的国度。我是异乡的异客...."。哈里特-塔布曼（Harriet Tubman）而我是一个陌生人，还是一张没有人认识的脸，还是一个先攥钱包后问问题的借口，还是一个矢口调查的理由，还是一个在我的名字上冠以虚假罪名的原因。永远是一副勉强算是人的躯壳。我是如何来到这里的，这将是一个谜--我的抓捕者在重复同样的调查。我是如何在走过这片地形后获得自由的？好像一个树桩、一座小山、一颗破碎的心都不是我匍匐前进，穿过泥泞和粪便，经过千里隧道才来到这里的。我是怎么过来的？[狱警们会问，会疑惑地把头扭向一边，不明白我干裂的皮肤和布满皱纹的眉毛是如何挣脱束缚，跌跌撞撞地来到货币的封面上，而这温柔的到来将足以判定我是在逃亡。我是怎么过来的？一个逃亡者是如何到达的？绳索灼伤的伤口还未愈合，流血的背上还带着绷带，满是污垢和泥土，但我还是过来了。但我永远不会忘记我皮肤上的伤疤，也不会忘记我头上的赏金比我的总和还要多。[Khalisa Rae KHALISA RAE 是北卡罗来纳州达勒姆市的获奖作家、组织者和艺术管理者，热衷于以艺术促进社会变革。蕾是小册子《...
{"title":"Flood Gates With Fangs, and: Collaring Our Native Tongues, and: Mahalia Sings to Freedom","authors":"Khalisa Rae","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935722","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935722","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> Flood Gates With Fangs, and: Collaring Our Native Tongues, and: Mahalia Sings to Freedom <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Khalisa Rae (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>FLOOD GATES WITH FANGS</h2> <p><span>Momma say, \"Cross your legs in church, girl.\"</span><span>& I'm not sure what she thought would fly</span><span>out—a bee, a psalm, a moan, wet-fanged</span><span>beast</span><span> running</span></p> <p><span>to where we lost ourselves, where we first saw</span><span>the light, <em>come where the dew drops of mercy</em></span><span> <em>shine bright, shine all around us</em>,</span></p> <p><span>a liquid call that says, <em>I'm alive here</em>, when I'm gaped</span><span>open & splayed like a fish platter. I'm sure that whatever will rush</span><span>will be a flood, a stampede, whatever Noah escaped from—</span><span>that</span><span>that's what we've got between our legs.</span><span>They boarded that ark to get away from our wet jaws,</span><span>they afraid of our flood-beast—our water be <em>so</em> scary. <em>Close it up</em>,</span><span><em>chile, and follow the elephants into the boat like</em></span><span>good little girls.</span></p> <p><span>I notice church women wear cloths over their short</span><span>skirts to not to show their private</span><span>parts to the pastor, and I wonder why women</span><span>are always plugging their holes. Why we hiding the gush</span><span>like men be wolves without control?</span></p> <p><span>What if at night my vagina grew shark fangs & that's why</span><span>the mommas said to shut this feral flow–</span><span>they worried about what my foaming, rabid lips will do</span><span>when the preacher comes down from the pulpit. <strong>[End Page 64]</strong></span></p> <h2>COLLARING OUR NATIVE TONGUES</h2> <p><span>Heard we rattle in the walls, small</span><span>and rat-tailed rumbles, people</span><span>ignore. They swear we're just the pipes—</span></p> <p><span>creaks in the floorboards. Our native tongues</span><span>crawl out of tight spaces and tumble</span><span>into hushed cracks. We scavenge for substance,</span></p> <p><span>but settle for the need to be heard. Search</span><span>for the words you tried to exterminate.</span><span>We know the social norms set</span></p> <p><span>for us are a trap. Our dirt-road, desert stories</span><span>are called trifle, fleeting, when in the dark</span><span>you consider us rodent—hard to get rid of.</span></p> <p><span>You cannot lure us with moldy scraps.</span><span>We've learned how to sniff out the risk before</span><span>appearing full faced. Our accents are not welcome</span></p> <p><span>here, presence not loud enough to be heard</span><span>over your King's English. We're trained to sneak</span><span>out and go quiet to force you to listen closer.</span></p> <p><span>But sometimes we'd like to be domesticated,</span><span>taken ","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"33 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182586","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2024-08-29DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935730
Torli Bush
<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span> <p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> To Be Affrilachian, and: Reflecting on a Dream in Which the First Boy Who Called Me Nigger Stabbed Me in My Right Lung Twice, and: Proper <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Torli Bush (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>TO BE AFFRILACHIAN</h2> <p><span>is to be the coon and the coon dog, tree myself on the</span><span>highest branch to jump noose tied, Judas:</span><span>guts bursting to make love to the field</span><span>cause kissing my brother is impossible.</span><span>I am both</span><span>not brown enough to be true</span><span>& just brown enough to be target, and the white people I've</span><span>lived around my whole life will ask why I put</span><span>my hands up, take a knee, can't breathe, want to light the stars</span><span>and bars on fire:</span><span>use the coal that killed my grandfather</span><span>and the sugar cane my mom's ancestors cut to burn it like Sherman,</span><span>dust and ashes</span><span>consuming their "blood and soil."</span><span>The soil I grew up on</span><span>was West-by-God Virginia, which is to say we have a love affair with</span><span>unions, which is to say we know how to teach old rich, white bastards</span><span>in suits a lesson.</span><span>To be Affrilachian is to hold all of this</span><span>as a fire in my bosom pen it down as a poem</span><span>under Holy Ghost inspiration; call it a negro spiritual,</span><span>cause my soul is still south of the Mason-Dixon <strong>[End Page 91]</strong></span> <span>full of people whistling Dixie:</span><span>it is the old white man with his four canine teeth</span><span>framing the black hole of his mouth calling me <em>Nigger</em>!</span><span>on primary election day</span><span>in my hometown of Webster Springs for holding a sign in protest:</span><span><em>We are all made in God's image</em> and I stare into in his eyes wanting to</span><span>break all four frames of that black hole</span><span>but I clutch the sign bite my tongue</span><span>because my black mother, a poet, left her muse to me as her dying gift</span><span>after my birth,</span><span>and my white father, a sailor, taught me death is the only thing to</span><span>weep over:</span><span>her mother was political revolutionary in Grenada,</span><span>his mother worked her whole life around food in Webster Springs, her</span><span>father was a tailor in Barbados,</span><span>his father was a coal miner in Craigsville, and I am an engineer in</span><span>Bridgeport,</span><span>but that old stranger knew nothing of this. Saw my skin and his eyes</span><span>went Fox News red, <em>Fuck your Jesus</em>. <strong>[End Page 92]</strong></span></p> <h2>REFLECTING ON A DREAM IN WHICH THE FIRST BOY WHO CALLED ME NIGGER STABBED ME IN MY RIGHT LUNG TWICE</h2> <p>I don't know why dream deaths feel so tangible. I don't know why you appeared to me, Toby. We haven't spoken in years, and you are far
以下是内容的简要摘录，以代替摘要： 成为阿夫里拉赫人，以及反思一个梦，在梦中，第一个叫我黑鬼的男孩在我的右肺上捅了两刀，以及：To be AFFRILACHIAN is to be the coon and the coon dog, tree myself on the highest branch to jump noose tied, Judas:gut bursting to make love to the fieldcause kissing my brother is impossible.我既不够棕色，也不够真实；只是棕色得足以成为目标，而我一辈子生活在周围的白人会问我为什么举起双手、跪下、无法呼吸、想要点燃星星和铁栏杆：用杀死我祖父的煤炭和我母亲祖先砍下的甘蔗来燃烧它，就像谢尔曼一样，灰尘和灰烬消耗着他们的 "血液和土壤"。"我生长的土地是西弗吉尼亚州的土地，也就是说，我们对联盟情有独钟，也就是说，我们知道如何教训那些有钱的白人老混蛋。要成为阿夫里拉奇人，就必须把这一切当作我胸中的一团火，在圣灵的感召下，把它写成一首诗；称它为黑人灵歌，因为我的灵魂还在马森-迪克森[第 91 页完]以南，那里到处都是吹着迪克西口哨的人：是那个长着四颗犬牙的白人老头在他的黑洞洞的嘴里叫我黑鬼！在初选日，我在家乡韦伯斯特斯普林斯举牌抗议："我们都是按照上帝的形象创造的，我盯着他的眼睛，恨不得把那黑洞的四颗牙齿都咬碎，但我还是用舌头咬住了牌子，因为我的黑人母亲是一位诗人，在我出生后把她的缪斯留给了我，作为她临终前的礼物，而我的白人父亲是一名水手，他教导我死亡是唯一可以克服的事情：她的母亲是格林纳达的政治革命家，他的母亲在韦伯斯特斯普林斯终生与食物打交道，她的父亲是巴巴多斯的裁缝，他的父亲是克雷格斯维尔的煤矿工人，而我是布里奇波特的工程师，但那个老陌生人对此一无所知。看到我的皮肤，他的眼睛都红了，福克斯新闻，去你妈的耶稣。[我不知道为什么梦中的死亡会如此真实。我不知道你为什么会出现在我面前 托比我们好多年没说过话了 你也不再是那个叫我名字的金发蓝眼睛的孩子了也许这次你是个象征，但我的睡眠没必要把你描绘成一个恶棍，那又怎样？先行者，警告我，我的家不再安全，或者它从未真正安全过？我并不责怪你在这幻象中扮演的角色：韦伯斯特郡曾经是我这种人的地狱。也许正因如此，当玛琳娜在你之前叫我黑鬼时，我的祖母才告诉我我不是黑人；也许正因如此，别人才会告诉我，我是混血儿，在三座大山之间长大，不知道是否有树木熟悉喉咙的抓握，所以我在 "文化上更像白人"。托比，如果我再在梦里见到你，我希望我们能像小学时那样一起踢足球。也许我可以打好挡拆，为你开辟一条通往白昼的道路。["你真聪明 "的 "PROPER"，"关掉说唱 "的 "PROPER"，"你很轻，我爸爸可能会把你当成你 "的 "PROPER"。如 "我一直认为你在文化上更像白人"，如 "我从没想过你会越轨"。就像 "你为什么说话这么正式？"就像 "你是混血儿，不是黑人"。就像 "我们都觉得你会是个好男人"[托里-布什 托里-布什...
{"title":"To Be Affrilachian, and: Reflecting on a Dream in Which the First Boy Who Called Me Nigger Stabbed Me in My Right Lung Twice, and: Proper","authors":"Torli Bush","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935730","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935730","url":null,"abstract":"<span><span>In lieu of</span> an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:</span>\u0000<p> <ul> <li><!-- html_title --> To Be Affrilachian, and: Reflecting on a Dream in Which the First Boy Who Called Me Nigger Stabbed Me in My Right Lung Twice, and: Proper <!-- /html_title --></li> <li> Torli Bush (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>TO BE AFFRILACHIAN</h2> <p><span>is to be the coon and the coon dog, tree myself on the</span><span>highest branch to jump noose tied, Judas:</span><span>guts bursting to make love to the field</span><span>cause kissing my brother is impossible.</span><span>I am both</span><span>not brown enough to be true</span><span>& just brown enough to be target, and the white people I've</span><span>lived around my whole life will ask why I put</span><span>my hands up, take a knee, can't breathe, want to light the stars</span><span>and bars on fire:</span><span>use the coal that killed my grandfather</span><span>and the sugar cane my mom's ancestors cut to burn it like Sherman,</span><span>dust and ashes</span><span>consuming their \"blood and soil.\"</span><span>The soil I grew up on</span><span>was West-by-God Virginia, which is to say we have a love affair with</span><span>unions, which is to say we know how to teach old rich, white bastards</span><span>in suits a lesson.</span><span>To be Affrilachian is to hold all of this</span><span>as a fire in my bosom pen it down as a poem</span><span>under Holy Ghost inspiration; call it a negro spiritual,</span><span>cause my soul is still south of the Mason-Dixon <strong>[End Page 91]</strong></span> <span>full of people whistling Dixie:</span><span>it is the old white man with his four canine teeth</span><span>framing the black hole of his mouth calling me <em>Nigger</em>!</span><span>on primary election day</span><span>in my hometown of Webster Springs for holding a sign in protest:</span><span><em>We are all made in God's image</em> and I stare into in his eyes wanting to</span><span>break all four frames of that black hole</span><span>but I clutch the sign bite my tongue</span><span>because my black mother, a poet, left her muse to me as her dying gift</span><span>after my birth,</span><span>and my white father, a sailor, taught me death is the only thing to</span><span>weep over:</span><span>her mother was political revolutionary in Grenada,</span><span>his mother worked her whole life around food in Webster Springs, her</span><span>father was a tailor in Barbados,</span><span>his father was a coal miner in Craigsville, and I am an engineer in</span><span>Bridgeport,</span><span>but that old stranger knew nothing of this. Saw my skin and his eyes</span><span>went Fox News red, <em>Fuck your Jesus</em>. <strong>[End Page 92]</strong></span></p> <h2>REFLECTING ON A DREAM IN WHICH THE FIRST BOY WHO CALLED ME NIGGER STABBED ME IN MY RIGHT LUNG TWICE</h2> <p>I don't know why dream deaths feel so tangible. I don't know why you appeared to me, Toby. We haven't spoken in years, and you are far","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"40 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142223926","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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