#for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is not enough

[emtmercy]

Letting Tyler Perry adapt For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enough was so crazy like have some respect lol

For a dollar name a woman etc

[lboogie1906]

Rashida Leah Jones (born February 25, 1976) is an actress, director, writer, and producer. She appeared as Louisa Fenn on Boston Public (2000–02), Karen Filippelli on The Office (2006–09; 2011), and Ann Perkins on Parks and Recreation (2009–15). From 2016 to 2019, she starred in the lead eponymous role in Angie Tribeca, and in 2020, she starred as Joya Barris in #blackAF.

She appeared in the films I Love You, Man (2009), The Social Network (2010), Our Idiot Brother (2011), The Muppets (2011), Celeste and Jesse Forever (2012), which she co-wrote, and Tag (2018). She co-wrote the story of Toy Story 4 (2019).

She worked as a producer on the film Hot Girls Wanted (2015) and the series Hot Girls Wanted: Turned On (2017), directing the first episode of the latter. Both works explore the sex industry. In 2018, her documentary Quincy, about her father, Quincy Jones, debuted on Netflix; it won the Grammy Award for Best Music Film in 2019.

She was born in Los Angeles to actress Peggy Lipton and musician/record producer Quincy Jones.

She attended Harvard University. She belonged to the Hasty Pudding Theatricals, Harvard Radcliffe Dramatic Club, Harvard-Radcliffe Opportunes, Black Students Association, and the Signet Society. She was interested in becoming a lawyer but changed her mind after becoming disillusioned by the O. J. Simpson murder trial. She became involved in the performing arts and served as musical director for the Opportunes, a cappella group, co-composed the score for the 149th annual Hasty Pudding Theatricals performance, and acted in several plays. In her second year at college, she performed in For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf, which she said was “healing” because she had been seen by many African American students as not being “black enough”. She graduated with a BA in Religion and Philosophy. africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[isthespiceoflife]

Summer Don’t Fall...

U can ‘bank’ on her III national tour, touching Brooklyn just in time/during NYFW :)

9/10                Brooklyn, NY            Brooklyn Steel *

9/11                Silver Spring, MD     The Fillmore

9/13                Charlotte, NC            The Fillmore

9/14-15           Atlanta, GA               Music Midtown 2019                        

9/16                Chicago, IL                Riviera Theatre

9/17                Minneapolis, MN       The Varsity Theatre

9/19                Denver, CO                Fillmore Auditorium

9/20-23           Las Vegas, NV          Life is Beautiful Festival 2019          

9/24                Vancouver, BC          Orpheum Theatre

9/25                Seattle, WA               Showbox SoDo

9/26                Portland, OR              Crystal Ballroom

9/28                San Francisco, CA     The Masonic

10/1                Los Angeles, CA       Hollywood Palladium

10/2                San Diego, CA           SOMA                                              

10/3                Santa Ana, CA           The Observatory                              

10/4-6             Austin, TX                 Austin City Limits Music Festival    

10/9                Dallas, TX                  House of Blues

10/10              Houston, TX              House of Blues

10/11-13         Austin, TX                 Austin City Limits Music Festival                

10/15              Nashville, TN   ��         Marathon Music Works

10/16              New Orleans, LA       The Fillmore

10/18              Lake Buena Vista      House of Blues (FLORIDA)

10/19              Miami Beach, FL       The Fillmore Miami Beach 

In LA, on Friday -- 11/8/19, here’s a catchy title and art opening reception for Tommy Genesis' debut art show: “You could be my mainstream, I could be your underworld." 

New music, new musicians, 2 days of indie music-porn, “Underwater Sunshine (FREE) Fest is in NYC on Fri, Nov. 8 n’ Sat, Nov. 9 @Rockwood Music Hall.

Artists and activations featured in each section of Sneakertopia exhibit -- opening in LA on October 25, include: Adam Fu, Alice Smoluk, Ben Fearnley, David Kaul, Jade Ramey, James Haunt, Jason Dussault, Jonas Never, Kickstradomis, Man One, Matthew Laurence Knott, McFlyy, Michael Murphy, Mimi Yoon, Ricardo Gonzalez, Ron Bass,Stomping Ground Customs, Tommii Lim, Tyson Park, and more to be announced...

This "Eye To Eye” is gonna be your weekend highlight (in LA) if you’re into art, or just into the scene at art openings -- keep ya eye on Miles Regis, just saying :)

“Hello, hello, hello...”! U know how di ting go -- kicking off Miami Carnival weekend, it’s Barrie Hype, Riddim Stream n’ company, welcoming U from Weds, Oct. 9 for a reception that isn’t a reception. Can U say, soca fete anybody?!? Which kinda brings us to a theme of departure + “ARRIVALS”! This Trinijunglejuice madness gotta stop yakno?

And, ‘thy kingdom come’...to Miami! Tix here. The actual carnival (on the “Columbus” holiday weekend, Sunday!) didn’t even start yet eh, wdmc!?

Mondo NYC -- igniting music n’ tech, hits Brooklyn (@Williamsburg Hotel) from Oct. 15-18. There’s a lot to absorb, including live shows daily/nightly. Don’t miss!

In LA -- Red Bull Presents: “Holla At Ya Boy” @The Fonda Theater, w/special guests. Tix here.

Happening @The Public Theater, in Manhattan, one can use an exclusive AFROPUNK code: FCGAFRO to access $55 member tickets for this master...mistresspiece: “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When The Rainbow is Enug.” 

Can’t believe summer is over (in NYC) n’ we’ve yet to see this annual “Sun*Dance BBQ/Fest” collab ‘til the top of fall ‘19? What happened here? EyeSpy x Wonderground is the best ‘ting happened to BK since Peppa’s! Come down selector(s) on Sun, Sept. 22 in Brooklyn from 2-10p, inna mansion. So mek it feel like summer again..nuh.

So, if you’re in NOLA, here’s a gift from a friend - FREE for you (I know they’re so generous down there), & invite your friends here. Shhhh...

Opening Reception -- Dennis Morris X Eyevan // Eye-wear launch n’ exhibition on Sept. 25, in LA from 6-9p. {RSVP: rsvp@dennismorris.com}

Kon & Tyler aka Children of Zeus Tour (European) Dates:

10th October, Paris - @New Morning 11th October, Nantes - @Hip Opsession Festival 13th October, Brussels - @Ancienne Belgique/Lefto 1st November, Nottingham - @Metronome 30th November, Birmingham - @Hare and Hounds 3rd December, Leeds - @Headrow House

Only NY will be hosting a release party for the collection at their Greenpoint storefront at 49 Franklin St, Brooklyn, NY 11222; (10/24) from 7-9pm. RSVP is available here!

Still some dates/states to get your peace on for “The Big Quiet” -- +plus, all attendees will be gifted an exclusive take-home Tuft & Needle meditation cushion, kombucha from GT’s Kombucha and Antioxidant water from smartwater. Sounds will be powered by the ultra high quality Alchemy Crystal Singing Bowls™ by Crystal Tones.

Omar Apollo Upcoming Tour Dates: 11/1 - Las Vegas, NV @ Day N Vegas Festival

11/3 - Oakland, CA @ The New Parish

11/5 - Los Angeles, CA @ The Fonda Theatre

11/7 - San Diego, CA @ The Observatory North Park

11/12 - El Paso, TX @ The Lowbrow Palace

11/14 - Dallas, TX @ Canton Hall

11/15 - Austin, TX @ The Mohawk

11/16 - Houston, TX @ White Oak Music Hall

12/5 - Chicago, IL @ Concord Music Hall

12/6 - Hobart, IN @ Art Theater

12/7 - Toronto, ON @ Danforth Music Hall

12/10 - Boston, MA @ Paradise Rock Club

12/12 - Brooklyn, NY @ Brooklyn Steel

12/13 - Washington, DC @ 9:30 Club

12/15 - Atlanta, GA @ Terminal West

Upcoming Tour Dates in LA n’ NYC for these lads, Slow Hollows who dropped a dope single, “You Are Now On Fire”!

-10/24: Los Angeles, CA @Moroccan Lounge

-11/7: Brooklyn, NY @Rough Trade

[meret118]

May 1st on Netfix. Based on For colored girls who have considered suicide/When the rainbow is enuf by Ntozake Shange.   

[lifeinpoetry]

& she wanted to be unforgettable she wanted to be a memory a wound     to every man arragant enough to want her

— Ntozake Shange, from For colored girls who have considered suicide/When the rainbow is enuf

[remmushound]

Bay/rise 38!! @errorfreak88 @brightlotusmoon @digitl-art-monstr @selfindulgenz @dakotafinely @yarchurr @sententiously-sarcastic @sprinklestheditty

Content warnings!! Trauma and a scene that may resemble suicidal signs (please lmk if you can think of a better phrasing)

Leonardo and Hueso sat lotus style facing each other, Leonardo’s sword laid out in front of them. The rest of the mutants and April were forced behind a line of tape, told they could watch as long as they were quiet. Mikey and Raphael, it seemed, had trouble remembering that they couldn’t cross the line and would have to be gently reminded by Raph and Michalengalo to move back. They’d be so drawn into the ceremony like fish to a lure that they’d outright forget that they had crossed the line. Raphael, after the long nap gifted to him, was looking much brighter and calmer than the state Leonardo had left him in, and Leonardo had trouble focusing on Hueso without his eyes wandering back over to check on his brother. Hueso would snap his fingers each time Leonardo strayed and give a simple, “Eyes on me.”

The two of them sat in a silence for a long time, their hands joined. Hueso said it was only supposed to be a ten minute reflection to draw the memories forth from the sword, but for the first few times, Leonardo would have made some noise, no matter how small, and the progress of the ceremony would be lost. Finally, with great mental strain and biting his tongue to keep it from wanting to talk, finally they made it the full ten minutes. It was a delayed reaction, just enough for each of the brothers to consider that maybe they did something wrong. Then it happened all at once.

The lines traced along the blade of the odachi lit up in the brightest cerulean blue, spiraling in on itself until it illuminated a sixteen-petaled lotus with a downward-facing triangle in its middle surrounding a circle. Hueso opened his eyes finally, and Leonardo couldn’t hide the gasp as he witnessed the newfound beauty of the calaca. The usually blank canvas of his bones were decorated in bright rainbows of designs that seemed somehow dull in the presence of the glowing odachi. His normally white eyes shone a deep, powerful blue and his teeth each took on a different color.

“Hueso— your bones!” Leonardo remembered he wasn’t supposed to talk the minute the words left his mouth and he flinched with the expectation that all their progress would be erased, but it was not.

Hueso laughed at Leonardo. “My bones? You should take a look at yourself!”

Leonardo gave a confused hum and looked back at his companions, who all stared at him with wide expressions of awe and in various stages of cheers and silent words Leonardo couldn’t hear. “Why can’t I…?”

“It’s normal, don’t worry.” Hueso said, “We are truly alone. Check your reflection in the glint of your odachi if you care to.”

Leonardo leaned forward to look at the glowing odachi closer and, beyond the blue light, his reflection was as clear as if it were a mirror. Every mark and flaw on Leonardo’s face was lit up brightly, his stripes the brighter shades of the normal color, except glowing, while the rest of the imperfections matched the color of the odachi. Every scar and fault and blemish that covered his face and body was highlighted bright and beautiful.

“Wow…” Leonardo whistled, “I look hot!”

“You are Kintsugi.” Hueso said with a laugh, “And your chakra, of course, Vishuddha.”

“The throat chakra…” Leonardo touched his neck and felt the heat of the burning chakra within. “Wow. I’m literally hot!”

“You have no shame do you?”

“None at all.” Leonardo stuck out his tongue.

Hueso sighed and shook his head. “The sword holds the memories of all the places it has been. 
Each rift is opens leaves a mark in the very metal…” 

The reflection in the sword started to shift and change to show the most recent uses. Leonardo using the portal to defeat Leo in the spar. Leonardo using the portal to reach his father. Leonardo portaling away from Krang’s technodrone...

“There.” The memories stopped shifting at Hueso’s word, “When you’re more experienced, you will be able to draw forth these memories on your own. But for now, you did amazing.” Hueso let go of Leonardo’s hands to stand up. “Take your odachi and create your rift.”

Leonardo grabbed his odachi and stood up, every part of his body feeling numb and overwhelmed at the same time, and he traced the odachi through the air. It ripped through the fabric of reality almost audibly, the portal brighter and stronger than Leonardo had ever made or seen. The force of its draw was intense and unrelenting that Leonardo would have been pulled off his feet if it wasn’t for Hueso grabbing him by the bridge of his carapace to hold him still.

“We do not want to cross through there.” Hueso spoke just loud enough to be heard over the whistling of the rift, “You must move the rift to a safe entry point.”

Leonardo back to the rift and saw its placement, high in the center of the technodrone with hundreds of feet of open air below. He took a shaky breath as he moved just close enough to take a better look inside. 

“T… there?” He pointed at a ledge farther down the wall of the technodrone.

“You tell me.” Hueso said calmly. 

“Y… yes.” Leonardo decided, almost confident. “Yes, that would work.”

“Then let us retrieve your brothers.”

****

Everything was going just as planned. Krang was rubbing his ring with that devilish grin spit across his pink face, a tentacle occasionally rubbing the ring just to feel the rush of its power once more. The Shadow Fiend did just as Krang ordered, down to the smallest request. When Krang said to walk, The Shadow Fiend walked. When Krang said to sit, the Shadow Fiend sat. When Krang said to jump or growl or roar or beg, The Shadow Fiend listened. Krang liked that. He could only imagine what this creature would be like at its full power, and he could hardly wait to use it to its full potential.

“How much longer?” Krang looked away from his ring just long enough to address Draxum.

Draxum was humming softly as he did his work, as slow as he could manage without drawing attention from Krang. He had to give that skeleton enough time to find the brothers and bring them here, and he was running out of ways to stall. “The ceremony has to be perfect, Great Oni. I must make sure there is no fault in my lines.”

“Very well then.” Krang huffed, “Just hurry up then! I want my new prize sooner rather than later.”

“You will have your prize.” Draxum promised, “You just must be patient.”

“Patience isn’t a virtue of us ‘oni’ in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh trust me, I have.” Draxum muttered under his breath, too low for Krang to hear. Krang was too busy looking at his ring again to care anyway. Finally, Draxum brought Yoshi to the middle of the ceremony, the rat blind folded with his arms and legs tied as Draxum could manage without snapping the limbs. Mutants were all so delicate compared to yokai, especially their fleshy bits.

“You are a cruel creature, Baron Draxum!” Yoshi spat, trying to snap at Draxum’s hand while the yokai handled and positioned him like a doll. “Gaining the trust of me and my sons, pretending you’ve changed— betraying my dear Orange!”

“You should talk less.” Draxum warned.

Yoshi didn't stop. “And now you bring these innocent other worldly creatures into your lust for power?! What— you want to steal their mutagen too? Haven’t you done enough damage to the people of New York?!”

Draxum laughed and planted his hoof firmly on Yoshi’s back, pressing the mutant slowly and firmly into the ground and twisting him almost playfully. “You are not people, Yoshi. You. Are. A. RAT!” 

He slammed his hoof down hard and Yoshi cried out as the sharp hoof pierced the fur and flesh. 

“Leave him alone!” Splinter cried out from where he was still being held captive by Draxum’s vines. 

Draxum rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the talkative mutant. “Why is he still alive again?”

“I want him to watch as I destroy his sons.” Krang laughed, “Or, more as my new pet here does. It’ll make him all the more entertaining after I freeze him.”

Cassandra didn't know how to feel. She trusted her master more than anything, and her master seemed to trust this ‘oni’ so she had to trust him too. But at the same time… this Splinter had been so kind to her. Sat down with her during her girl scouts phase… talked with her… advised her. He was so nice, and to see him being abused by her master jut felt wrong. But then she shook her head to dismiss such treasonous thoughts as they tried to invade. She was Cassandra freaking Jones! Loyal to the Foot Clan and to her masters to the very end! And when she could get her hands on the orb and free her family and clan, she would do just that and everything would be well again— just as long as they got those turtles out of the way!

****

The portal took them through just as planned. Their feet carried them swift and quiet, even the large box turtles able to walk as silent as a panther stalking through the night. The bigger brothers were the first through, followed by the mix-matched set, and lastly April, which made the bay brother’s eyes widen in apprehension .

“Should she be here?” Raph asked, his voice as low as one could hope it to be. “This ain’t exactly safe!”

Donnie’s eyes seemed to bug out of their sockets in his panic that quickly turned to confusion. “Wait— her o2 stats are still stable… how is she breathing right now?”

“She won’t be if she goes down there.” Raph growled, “This ain’t amateur hour.”

“AMATEUR?!” 

Michelangelo practically tackled April, pressing his finger to her lips to shush her. Leonardo watched the scene with a strange expression on his face. Raphael and Donatello were quick to notice, both of them exchanging looks to make sure the other was seeing what they were. The expression wasn’t quite sad nor happy nor upset nor mad. It was just… calm. Calm and so unnerving on the usually animated face of their little brother.

“April, maybe you should stay behind.” Leonardo’s voice was even and quiet. 

“What? But Leo—“ April stopped talking the minute she saw the look on Leonardo’s face. Tired and scared and calm all stitched into his face in such a subtle manner that to anyone other than family it would be inperceptible. Something was wrong, and Leonardo’s voice sounded so serious that April quickly forsaked her previous outrage for a gentle, “Yeah… right. Whatever you say Leo…”

She went back through the rift and left them. Leonardo turned his attention then to Raphael. 

“Are you sure you’re okay to fight?”

“Y-yeah! Feeling better already.” Raphael tried to smile, but it was hard. “Are you alright Leo?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Leonardo sounded more like Donatello than like himself as he hovered over the edge of the ledge and looked down at the long drop beneath, vertigo spiraling in his mind though he hardly cared. “On your call, bud.”

“Leo…?” Michelangelo finally caught onto what was happening, sticking out his bottom lip as he eyed Leonardo with red eyes that burned like the sun. “Are you okay?”

Leonardo gave a weak laugh and smiled, his eyes looking to Michelangelo, and the box turtle could see tears trying to escape them. “Don’t you worry, Hermano. You’ll be just fine. I love you all so much.”

“Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye…?”

Leonardo didn't answer.

[caroleditosti]

'for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf' Amazing!

‘for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf’ Amazing!

for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf (Marc J. Franklin) When you have contemplated suicide, the rainbow with all its Biblical and mythological significance is not enough. The pain is cyclical, repetitive and cataclysmic until you end it. However, in ntozake shange’s choreopoem, for the empowering community of black women shining through the clouds of history to…

[hellomynameisbisexual]

“Faggot.” “Cocksucker.” “Femboy.” “Abomination.” Gay. The list of names I’ve been called since coming out as bisexual in June 2020 doesn’t stop there — nor did it stop when I went public with my sexual identity either.

From a young age, I knew I was different from my peers.

Maybe it was the way I walked. Or the way I talked. Or the way I dressed. I just knew I stood out to them like a sore thumb — or perhaps a rainbow of color in a sea of dull gray.

My differences became evident to me when other children at the preschool I attended in suburban San Diego, California, would forsake my company in favor of each other, already forming cliques and inciting drama at such an innocent age.

When my family and I moved to dreary Erie, Pennsylvania, I knew my struggles would only get worse.

Many of the children in my kindergarten class had already known each other for several years before I entered the picture.

They quickly noticed differences in my mannerisms, speech patterns, thoughts and ideas. I wasn’t like the other boys, but I wasn’t like the girls either. I was an outlier, a foreigner and a stranger considered dangerous and unwelcome.

Though I made friends the following few years — including some who would become lifelong companions — most of those primary friendships mirrored the kernels of a neglected ear of corn: delicious when ripe but quick to harden, rot and flake off.

By my fourth grade year, I was teased and bullied nearly daily for being too feminine, too weird, too annoying to fit into my school’s social circles.

When I told my teachers about my struggles, their solution was to attempt to masculinize me by placing me in groups of athletic boys in my class, boys I had nothing in common with and who certainly had nothing in common with me.

Even my grandparents — then and now my caretakers — noticed my un-boyish behavior and enrolled me in the local little league baseball team — whether to also attempt to instill in me a sense of masculinity and male toughness or to help me make new friends I knew not.

I would grudgingly participate in the sport for six, nigh on seven grueling years, never making a single lasting friend and crying almost weekly from the torment it caused me.

Needless to say, I felt like a floundering fish without fins in a sea of angry, hungry sharks during those years.

It wasn’t until the final year of my elementary education that I was introduced to the concepts of puberty, adolescence and sex.

I was told that very soon, I would start noticing the girls in my class and would begin to want to form meaningful relationships with them. Eventually, I would become sexually attracted to them and want to have children with them.

But in those coming years, though many girls would pique my interest, it wasn’t them who ignited the fire in my soul and made me feel the burning passion of desire — it was men.

I quickly realized it was this that set me apart from my male peers and resulted in me being shunned by the girls. I was a boy — soon to be a man — in every physical way, but I wasn’t attracted to or passionate about girls like the other boys in my class were. I was obsessed with men.

But I couldn’t possibly be gay, could I?

Growing up in a household of religious relatives, I was always taught that sex before marriage was a wicked abomination and that being anything but straight was a sin comparable to none.

I distinctly remember watching a news broadcast with my family around the time I was transitioning to my middle school years. The ABC World News clip showcased LGBT marriages being performed out west and contained affirming remarks from then-President Barack Obama on the matter.

“The Bible says marriage is between a man and a woman,” I remember my aunt saying in utter disgust at the television, murmurs of agreement echoing her around the room.

I resolved then to hide my feelings and my pubescent curiosity from my family at all costs, lest I be scolded, shunned or worse: abandoned.

During middle school, I relentlessly dug deep within myself and attempted to alter what I thought was but a simple mental barrier to social normality. All thoughts of being with men were forcibly suppressed in my mind before they could even become tangible, and each of my increasingly urgent bodily needs went ignored and unsatiated.

I even resorted to religion, the only weapon I thought strong enough to aid me in the war raging inside myself.

Day and night, I attempted to “pray the gay away,” but to little avail. Much to my chagrin, I realized that even divine intervention could not “help” me: My homosexuality seemed to be an immortal, malignant tumor infecting each and every one of my thoughts.

Thus, the preliminary years of my second decade of life became miserable and unfulfilling — I was engaged in a fierce battle with an integral aspect of my identity and was inadvertently shattering the chains that bound a beast capable of obliterating every fiber of my cognitive being — anxiety.

By my high school years, men — mean, nasty and indifferent but awe-inspiring, mystifying and oh-so-gorgeous men — had begun to control my deepest, darkest desires and fantasies. My lust had grown large enough to thwart even my most furious attempts at diminishing it.

As I slowly came to terms with the realization that nothing in the universe could “fix” me, my mental situation severely worsened. I fell into a dangerous downward spiral of self-doubt and woefulness.

My relationship with my grandparents quickly began to deteriorate, as did my relationships with my friends. Every day brought with it a new reason to hate my existence — the constant verbal altercations, the continued teasing and even bullying at school, the countless lonely nights spent sobbing quietly into my pillow.

And, to make matters worse, the true nature of my sexuality seemed to express itself in each of my social mannerisms. It wasn’t long before despicable rumors about me spread through the student body of my high school like wildfire.

My teachers noticed my strife, and some took the time to speak with me about a few of the different mental illnesses they suspected I had. But not even they could halt the hordes of horrifying thoughts racing through my head or the string of ruthless comments that would assault me in the hallways.

Soon, however, the light at the end of the long, grueling tunnel that was public education began to shine: I was graduating from high school and about to start fresh. Nothing could have contained my excitement at the prospect of escaping the largest source of my daily torment.

As I digested the freedom going to college offered, idealistic daydreams began to flood my mind — I could live how I wanted with whomever I wanted, and no one could judge me or tell me differently.

How wrong I was.

My first year as an undergraduate student at Penn State Behrend was a living hell.

Though the petty and immature teasing of high school was no longer an issue, standing up for my newfound political identity was, as well as dealing with my growing anxiety.

I was constantly engaged in polite yet heated political debates with those in my dorm. I felt like they were blatantly attempting to oppress me with their own beliefs and had grown to hate me for mine.

The same situation occurred with my grandparents, and we grew increasingly distant over the course of that year.

It didn’t help that I was still “in the closet,” so to speak, and contemplating methods of publicly revealing my true sexual identity. I hadn’t yet officially told anyone I was bisexual, and it remained my most closely guarded secret.

Needless to say, my social circumstances and the added stress of my adjustment to college academics and lifestyle allowed my mental state to reach an unprecedented low. I needed help.

That same year, I saw my family physician and then a psychiatrist, who prescribed me antidepressants in an attempt to lessen my now untameable anxiety. I took them with gusto and also began attending therapy sessions to teach me how to manage my thoughts and emotions.

For a small while, I felt better — I was actually happy in my skin and even happy with my bisexuality.

But then, even my long-awaited mental comfort abandoned me, and I slipped into the deepest, darkest pit of my life.

I became suicidal but never acted on that petrifying potentiality.

I didn’t trust myself to be alone, so I constantly sought the company of others, which only made me feel like a nuisance and waste of time, energy and space.

About a month later — in October 2018 — I got into an accident.

I was barrelling down the highway, escaping a particularly heated verbal altercation with my grandfather. It was raining that day, and the roads were slippery.

Going around a curve, I lost control of my vehicle and flew into a small ravine, flipping not once, not twice but three times in midair before landing upright — dazed, but alive.

Escaping relatively physically unscathed from the incident, with only a broken right clavicle, I was not mentally the same for weeks afterward.

I decided at that time I would come out and reveal my true sexuality at the soonest possible opportunity — I blamed my silence on every terrible situation that had occurred in my life up to that point. If I didn’t come out, I quite literally thought I would die.

Telling even my closest friends was difficult, but I managed, and the relief I felt was paramount to that of the titan Atlas in Greek mythology: I felt like the weight of the entire world — sky and all — had been lifted from my shoulders.

Fast forward to the present: I’m alive, well, out and proud. I’m no longer ashamed of my innate traits or of my thoughts.

Being a bisexual man has taught me many lessons, but foremost among them is that the people who can’t accept me for who and what I am don’t deserve to be in my life.

My anxiety made it difficult to let go of toxic relationships over the years — I learned that the primary source of my mental strife is a fear of abandonment by those I care about — but doing so opened the door to newer, healthier relationships that build me up and boost my confidence instead of chipping away at it.

I’ve since improved tremendously, and not even the onset of the coronavirus pandemic was able to pause my progress. Every day is a learning experience, and I’ve grown so much from the helpless boy I was mere months ago that if you showed me a map of my mentality from 2018, 2019 or even 2020, I wouldn’t recognize myself at all.

Revealing my bisexuality to the world didn’t solve all my issues — there were and still are other factors that contribute to my anxiety and mental health — but coming out was perhaps the most profound, life-altering moment in my 21 years. Nothing compares to the freedom I now enjoy, nor will any other experience compare to the relief I felt following my announcement.

[unknowingtheknown]

Hope Prevails

Summary: The day you were going to end it all - you meet a guy with the shirt ‘I’m your Hope, You’re my Hope, I’m J-Hope’ t-shirt in changes it all.

Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Planning, Depression, PTSD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Low-self Esteem, Cursing

❁♡ANGEL AU♡❁

Words: 4606

Life hasn't been sunshine and rainbows for you since day one. Growing up how you did, it resulted in giving you manic depressive disorder, PTSD ( Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder) and a good Generalized Anxiety Disorder label. Sure, genetics played a part but being slapped that label at the mere age of twelve had been devastating. You’d always been mature considering you had to be to survive, but this diagnosis was serious for you. You knew you’d never be ‘normal’. You’d never be sane. You’d be broken. Damaged goods. The anger, pain and grief you got from your parents lingered on through those years and by the time you were able to escape from them, you’d moved out, managed to get your way into college with scholarships and said ‘goodbye, fuckers’.

Now, here you were at twenty-two years of age, struggling to motivate yourself into doing just about anything. You had a job. You had classes to attend. You had yourself to take care of, but with your unresolved issues at hand, you really couldn’t care anymore. Depression hit you hardest during the winter months. The cold was no match for the coldness you felt inside your mind and soul. 

What was the point of this? Of any of it? 

You’d go through schooling in psychology, probably have loans at some point, find a job that will pay for your studies and work the rest of your life until you were deemed old enough to stop contributing to a society that hated you and then die. The end goal was to die. 

Why should you bother going through with all this nonsense when all you want is a break? You were just tired. Tired of it all and tired of trying. You’d tried your whole life to do good, be better and to please people. Though, people never stayed and being better made no sort of pleasure for you. You were alone. Alone and tired.

Endless thoughts of how you’d end it all came into play. You’d typed out many goodbye letters, suicide letters to those who didn’t do anything wrong and to those who’d destroyed you from birth.

There wasn’t an escalation of thoughts or habits that made it apparent to you to end it now. You’d woken up and merely decided it. There was no help, no hope, no mercy for you.

 Today you’d do it. 

You were going to take a stock pile of sleeping pills and that would be that. You’d decided that you still needed more pills and didn’t want to risk waking back up. You were a big girl, fat even and you weren’t taking the chance with the addicts present in your family. You knew there was a possibility of your body metabolizing too fast or just there not being enough to do the job right.

You’d packed up what little things you had in your apartment before grabbing a jacket and scarf and stepping out into the world. The wind wasn’t too bad. Snow still clung to the ground and chilled the environment. You made your way to the nearest drug store, step by step, thinking of the song you wanted to drift off to sleep to. You’d been too deep in thought when you managed to slip on some ice that’d formed during the night and immediately grabbed onto the nearest object.

 Quickly, you realized it was a male, one who’d reacted fast enough to grab your arm. You couldn’t help but to immediately flinch away once you were stable on your feet and bowed your head.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to grab you.” You said this, eyes looking at his feet that were covered in some fancy looking adidas shoes. You heard a little giggle from him and slowly you raised your gaze over his skinny form. You noticed his loose sweats and up to his white sweater that read ‘I’m Your Hope, I’m J-Hope’ in a colorful bubble letterings. Your eyes looked up to his face, a crinkly eyed smile was directed down to you.

“It’s alright! You almost fell. Can’t have you getting hurt, now can we?”

The emotions that hit you in that moment caused a lump in your throat, eyes watering. Trying to gulp down this feeling - his sweater. Hope. Was this a sign you shouldn’t go through with it? Was this act of kindness about to bring you to tears and reconsider just waiting off your timed death?

Glancing away from his handsome face, you shrugged,

“Thanks. Sorry again -“ Giving one last little bow of your head, you moved away and began to pass him when a warm hand grabbed your cold one.

“Hey- Are you okay? Did you hurt your ankle or anything?”

The question merely had you shrugging off the hand on yours, shrinking away as best as you could. “I’m fine.” You turned your head to give him a forced smile which earned him a furrowed, almost confused look. It seemed like he knew. 

‘He knew what you were going to do. He could see it, couldn’t he? Was he an angel or something?’

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

okay soooo... sorry for the delayed reply, i've been kinda busy!

i gotta start this off by saying how much i loved the way you wrote "[...] that feeling of wanting to reach divinity and holiness with your writing. The raw, exposed nerve of that writing." - it's hard for me to refer to writing as a hobby because it's such a substantial part of me, if that makes sense? or maybe that's just my codependent relationship to writing... whenever i don't write for a while i start feeling like a non-person! (ok, in hindsight this doesn't sound 100% related to the holiness bit, but that's what sparked the train of thought)

on for colored girls who have considered suicide - when the rainbow is enuf: i actually listened to a monologue from this a while ago on youtube, but I'll be sure to check out the full text!

also, on the topic of spoken-word & slam poetry: i'm going to a poetry reading at a friend's place later this month and it's nerve-racking. i mean, hey, of course i bleed into my poetry, and in theory i'm cool with that. but reading it aloud to a room half full of strangers? that's like lying on an operating table, flesh sliced open with surgeons over you. (i'm sure it'll be fun, though)

i've read primer for small weird loves and wishbone (because they're both included in richard siken's book crush - which is definitely worth the money (& btw, he has a new book coming out this year in fall/winter; thought i'd tell you in case you didn't know))! out of the two i like wishbone a lot more - although that's probably just because i relate to it a little bit more. i like making lists so i've compiled some of my favorite parts from the poem:

• "I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons [...]"

• "Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk."

• "[...] we keep doing it Henry, we keep saying until we get it right... [...]"

• "If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand."

• "This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish."

it's crazy (well, not really, but you know) that you mentioned jericho brown, because we read something by him in english class a few years back and he's completely slipped my mind since then! so, thanks for reminding me :)

first of all, i love how duplex starts and ends with the same line - and this may be a reach, but it feels sort of like coming home? he introduces us to the line, we go away for a while, then we're back at the beginning. and maybe i just feel this way because for me going home is synonymous with going back home. (not always, but a lot of the time.) also, the contrast of "none of the beaten end up how we began" & the poem ending exactly how it began? i don't have the right words to explain what, but there's something that grabs me in that.

now, let's take a short detour because i feel like dropping some recs. here's two poets whose work i really enjoy: chen chen and jasmine ledesma (who i think is on tumblr, too? @/candiedspit if i'm not wrong). i'd specifically like to recommend (and hopefully hear you opinion on) chen chen's i'm not a religious person but & jasmine ledesma's short stories no candy, sorry and FIEND.

links (just in case the previous ones don't work):

i'm not a religious person but: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58152/im-not-a-religious-person-but

no candy, sorry: https://tinyletter.com/jasmineledesma/letters/no-candy-sorry

FIEND: https://marchharemag.com/fiend

lastly, thanks for the prompt! i'll be sending you the poem in a separate ask (although i'm convinced it only makes sense if you're me) as to not make this one too long haha

-cat

Cat!

Sorry on the delayed reply on my side too. I've been sorta busy with a lot of stuff, but I had to drop in a message.

First of all, the poem? Iconic. It is so well written!!! Ahh! The way you use the numbers to count down all the things in a list sort of a format . And the splendid use of a clock ticking to signify the time coming closer and closer. It reminds of the Doomsday Clock which always reminds us that we are two minutes to complete destruction and in a way it is an inevitable destruction. "I'm one drink away from holiness and I'm not stopping" is such a vivid Ginsberg line that ahhh, it hits with the concept of the Beat Generation being these drunk, high poets who ultimately want to experience divinity through their intoxication and writing. And the ending with, "it's almost Valentine's- please tell your wretched heart I'm sorry." AGHH, the way the narrator tries to stop the inevitability of the sadness of romance?? Or being stuck in a relationship and trying to do better? The interpretations are left wide open and I love that.

[Let me know if you'd be okay with me sharing your poem? And oh, if you like to send me another prompt, I would love that.]

And I wanted to give you some advice on slam poetry performances, I have a bit of an experience with them. The surgical metaphor is indeed apt, there is some vulnerable to stand in front of a group of people to carve out yourself into words and see it take on a meaning for everyone differently. But, revel in that vulnerable state and see how that conveys meaning. Focus on a spot in the room and speak to it and let meaning take its own hold. And remember, even if you don't get the reception you are hoping for, hold onto the meaning that you initially wrote it with. How your poetry affects you in the end is what matters. And good luck! Let me know how it goes.

[I didn't know about the new Siken book. Do you know if it has a name? I'll have to look it up whenever it releases.]

Ahh, and I love the idea of listening favourite lines of poems, I might start doing that with my favourite poems too.

[Also, I know it's in the name, but there's something about the way Wishbone is written that it makes you keep as if you are splintering into bits and dissolving. Especially in the bit where he goes I wish you'd stop reminding about the debt because you can do nothing about it and even if you love me, it is not the way I want.; Please let me go, I cannot let you be in my debt anymore.]

Jericho Brown? Iconic. The cyclical nature of the form as well as it is sort of the same line all the while not being the same line is such a beautiful way to express the repetition, but all how each cycle in a way is different than the last one.

I loved Chen Chen's poem. The way God chooses to escape from his own reality through someone who does not believe enough in him to question him at first it beautiful. And what hits me is how God stops and creates a barrier again by sending the angel as soon as he is questioned in adjacent to his role in the universe. What interests me is how the atheist (I know it does not mention atheism directly, but close enough) is sent an angel and later meet with God, and therefore, the relation that they form is a meaningful bond between two individuals rather than being a power dynamic with the worshipped and the devotee.

There's something about Ledesma's stories about hopelessness in her both protagonists. In the same way, both are extremely tired of their circumstances and want to be somewhere else in perhaps a better versions of their selves. The scattered prose certainly draws it very strongly together.

And finally, to drop a rec of my own, let me know what you think of Ada Limon's "The Problem With Travel" and "Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds." They both are very beautiful poems.

Hope to hear from you soon! :)

[imbellarosa]

Bella’s 20 books of 2020! Thanks to @thewestishharpooners who largely reignited my love for reading this year. I mean I knew HOW to read, I learned in school, but I re learned how to LOVE it adkjfld but ANYWAYS! 

The Magicians Trilogy by Lev Grossman (yes. I know. this is three, but it’s lovely!!! the first one is slightly annoying re: the characters, but they LEARN and they GROW, and it feels so REAL, like I know them, like I *am* them) 

Beartown by Fredrick Backman. Have I talked about this one enough?? I don’t think I have. It’s LOVELY and gritty and REAL in the best and the worst ways. It reminds me of growing up in a small town. Lovely, lovely. It’s sequel is great too! 

My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry by Fredrick Backman. For anyone who ever loved the real fairy tales - hard and sad and full of lessons and found love and family. 

Turn Around, Bright Eyes by Rob Sheffield. I read this one at the beginning of quarantine after I realized that it was a sequel to one I LOVED a few years ago. If you like listening to soft love stories about the way music heals and how the way we love matters more than how good we are, this one is IT! 

Equal Rites by Terry Pratchett. A little girl just wants to be a wizard. No, rather, she IS a wizard, and would like for the world to understand that. How hard can that be? Lovely and sharp, and the perfect one to tune into during a run

The Storied Life of AJ Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin. This is another story about finding family, and the stories we tell ourselves. AJ runs a bookshop on an island after the death of his wife. His most precious book gets stolen, and, as a result, he finds a new beginning 

Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas. I actually read this one on a rec from here and BOY am I glad I did. I just. I don’t have any words for this one except if you LOVE “Aristotle and Dante”, this is the book for youuu

Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston. History, huh? It lives up to the hype. Just read it. 

I Wrote This For You and its sequel by Iain S Thomas on @queenlokibeth‘s recommendation. Love notes for love lost, love found, and the love which remains, always. Added bonus: you can imagine these being the type of notes left around for anyone to find! 

Less by Andrew Sean Greer. This makes the list ONLY because my little cousin recced it to me. If you liked Eat Pray Love I think you’ll like this one too. I was not super enthralled by the story but I adore the person who recommended it to me so. 

Pillow Thoughts by Courtney Peppernell. If you like “I wrote this for you”, try this one next! The poems are sad, and they’re sweet, and you knew them complete, when you wore a younger man’s clothes....

The House by the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune. Magic, madness, heaven, sin. And love. That’s it, that’s the book, it’s lovely and Important without ever being tragic. 

Normal People by Sally Rooney. Idk why I liked this one but I read it in one sitting. I think it has something to do with the idea that people can stay with you forever without being together forever. 

Trigger Warning by @neil-gaiman . This might be my favorite anthology of short stories EVER, but the one that really put it over that line is “The Case of Death and Honey”. Bees and love and Sherlock Holmes? Yes Please! 

Nowhere Near You by @cuttoothom. I’d read this before but it has to make this list ANYWAYS because of the way it discusses heart, and love, and how the best love stories are the ones that are rooted in friendship and mutual respect and trust. Also mutant teenage kids and found family. It’s the second book in the series, but it’s my favorite of the two! 

Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman. American Gods was fine, but this one is AMAZING! It’s a kids book rooted in norse mythology with talking bears and foxes and owls and far off quests and an odd boy named Odd. 

For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf by Ntozake Shange. It’s a heavy read, of course, but powerful, and it’s a good look into the way that so many of us struggle with our own needs versus what the world demands of us versus what our culture demands of us. I liked it a lot, and I saw myself in it, which is perhaps the most important part

The Enigma of the Return by Danny LaFerriere. Another heavy read about grief, history, and homecomings. One day, I will go home for this reason, as so many of us will, and this story outlines the legacies that we children of immigrants carry. 

Alice’s Adventured in Wonderland by CS Lewis . I love fairy tales. Have you notice this trend?? Anyways this is another re read but I read it at the start of quarantine as I was slowly descending into madness and it felt appropriate

My Policeman by Bethan Roberts but ONLY because 1.) it’s how I made friends with @thewestishharpooners and 2.) THERE WAS SO MUCH TALK ABOUT IT ON MY DASH!! It was a Big Book this year, but it’s a sad story, and an unequivocal condemnation of that society. Still, I’m pretty over tragedies at this pointttttt so i won’t be rereading it. It DOES have an ambiguous/happy ending though, if anyone cares! 

[verydeadpromqueen]

NYT Review: In ‘Black Exhibition,’ a Playwright Exposed In a new work far from Broadway, Jeremy O. Harris, the author of “Slave Play,” puts his body and soul on the line. 

Why would a charismatic young playwright, with a critical hit playing to 800 people a night in Midtown, debut a new work, in which he also stars, at a 72-seat theatrical incubator so far off Broadway it’s in Brooklyn? And why would he do so under a pseudonym that sounds like the name of a bot?

The answer isn’t that @GaryXXXFisher — as the author and pseudo-autobiographical main character of “Black Exhibition” are called — is hiding a messy, heartfelt, intensely personal spectacle from too much scrutiny. Or it’s not just that. The main reason is that @GaryXXXFisher is really Jeremy O. Harris, the author of “Slave Play,” and he is savvy enough to understand that his new play isn’t for everyone.

In the same way, he knew that “Slave Play” was. (Its transfer from New York Theater Workshop to Broadway this season was a great and moving surprise.) Though tightly focused on three interracial couples spending a week at a sex therapy retreat, “Slave Play” encompasses the entire scope of interracial America. From a handful of characters, it implies millions.

“Black Exhibition,” which opened on Saturday at the invaluable Bushwick Starr, turns the telescope the other way around. It features five characters who represent different aspects of outlaw sexuality, but narrows down to just one subject: its author. Part notebook, part incantation, part primal therapy, it is so esoteric it sometimes seems as if it were written in a language with just one speaker left.

And language is key here. Harris invokes Ntozake Shange’s term “choreopoem” to describe a collagelike construction that incorporates free verse, choral speaking, dance, tableaux vivants and (in his case, not hers) text message chains about getting gonorrhea in Berlin. The result is by turns caustic, coy, baffling, impish, embarrassing, insightful and, as the pseudonym suggests, frank.

But if Shange’s “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow Is Enuf” celebrates the healing power of community, “Black Exhibition” feels neither healing nor communitarian. Harris plays a figure based on the real Gary Fisher: a gay black writer who died of AIDS in 1994, leaving behind a small but potent body of work. In Gary’s skin, Harris undergoes a kind of sacrificial flaying as the world he wants to be part of also torments him with its gaze.

The four other characters, or perhaps they are merely Harris’s avatars, advise him on issues of art, submission and self-display. The experimental feminist writer Kathy Acker (Ross Days) offers a paean to anal sex as a way to see God (or at least Elaine Stritch). The Japanese poet Yukio Mishima (Miles Greenberg) schools Gary in “necessary fascisms.” And the gay Afro-Futurist Samuel Delany (Dhari Noel) sings the ambivalent praises of Fire Island, where raunch is integrated into the landscape, yet the rich have “gentrified the trees.”

The three writers make some sense as Gary’s spirit guides; he has been reading them while visiting that gay playland. What the fourth is doing in the story is harder to say. Called MandinGO, he is based on Michael L. Johnson, the black athlete sentenced, after a trial later ruled to be “fundamentally unfair,” to 30 years in prison for not disclosing his H.I.V. status to sexual partners. Perhaps MandinGO (AJ Harris) represents the twinned problems Gary is flirting with: the vulnerability of gay black bodies in white spaces, and the vulnerability of all bodies in the path of disease.

If I am uncertain about this, as about so much here, that’s fine with me. I don’t mind having to ponder the recondite (and wittily worded) questions Harris keeps sparking as Gary travels his “dark gay path.” I look to the theater, in part, to show me the lives of my co-humans as they live them beyond my ken. What it means to be a gay black man in the world is not, for instance, an experience I can ever have directly.

But writer’s block is, and that’s another of the play’s subjects, if not in fact its raison d’être. Harris draws a sly connection between — I’ll put this delicately — the openness to sex and the openness to inspiration. On the evidence of “Black Exhibition,” I’d say he’s at least got some good foreplay going.

[lboogie1906]

Rashida Leah Jones (born February 25, 1976) is an actress, director, writer, and producer. She appeared as Louisa Fenn on Boston Public (2000–2002), Karen Filippelli on The Office (2006–2009; 2011), and Ann Perkins on Parks and Recreation (2009–2015). From 2016 to 2019, she starred in the lead eponymous role in Angie Tribeca, and in 2020, she starred as Joya Barris in #blackAF. She appeared in the films I Love You, Man (2009), The Social Network (2010), Our Idiot Brother (2011), The Muppets (2011), Celeste and Jesse Forever (2012), which she co-wrote, and Tag (2018). She co-wrote the story of Toy Story 4 (2019). She worked as a producer on the film Hot Girls Wanted (2015) and the series Hot Girls Wanted: Turned On (2017), directing the first episode of the latter. Both works explore the sex industry. In 2018, her documentary Quincy, about her father, Quincy Jones, debuted on Netflix; it won the Grammy Award for Best Music Film in 2019. She was born in Los Angeles to actress Peggy Lipton and musician/record producer Quincy Jones. She attended Harvard University. She belonged to the Hasty Pudding Theatricals, Harvard Radcliffe Dramatic Club, Harvard-Radcliffe Opportunes, Black Students Association, and the Signet Society. She was interested in becoming a lawyer but changed her mind after becoming disillusioned by the O. J. Simpson murder trial. She became involved in the performing arts and served as musical director for the Opportunes, a cappella group, co-composed the score for the 149th annual Hasty Pudding Theatricals performance, and acted in several plays. In her second year at college, she performed in For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf, which she said was "healing" because she had been seen by many African American students as not being "black enough". She graduated with a BA in Religion and Philosophy. africanhistory365 #africanexcellence https://www.instagram.com/p/CpFqXjRr8hl/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[blkgirlsinthefuture]

Sassafras, Cypress, & Indigo

Week 2: Art As Magic

By: Tobi Adepoju

Just from the title alone (Sassafras, Cypress, and Indigo) I could already tell that this was Shange. She does a wonderful job with expressing the color and beauty of Black women just through her titles alone. I remember reading one of her works: for colored girls who considered suicide when the rainbow was enuf. That’s another wonderful piece of art that encapsulates the beauty and magic of Black women. In for colored girls, all women are dressed in the distinct colors of the rainbow. In this work, Shange continues to dress and address her characters with a pop of color. Shange’s use of this method is to me almost fantastical and speaks to the ‘magic’ we’ve been speaking about so far.

While researching, I also found that Shange did a lot of her work during the Black arts movement. I think that’s very important because it’s very telling as to why art, magic, and just the act of imagination through a Black lens alone are key elements of her work. In the lecture, it was mentioned that in this piece, she uses a lot of mixed media in order to tell the story of these Geechee women. Personally, I feel that identifying these different techniques were important for me to be able to read the excerpt in a way that made sense. While re-reading the chapter, I was able to point out narration as well as a poem, and a recited recipe. I also really like how in the lecture, Shange’s use of mixed media is identified as a constructed quilt. I thought this was really interesting because in the excerpt, there’s a tiny section that says, “Cypress tying off cloth, carrying the cloth to the stairway where she began the appliqués the family was famous for” (ch. 1). Although a tiny section, I think it was really important because it was one of the only parts of the chapter when the whole family was seen participating in an activity together. I also feel that this goes really well with the first line in the chapter where it says: “WHERE THERE IS A WOMAN THERE IS MAGIC” (ch. 1). I feel that Shange put this section in there to highlight again the magic, fantastical, and artistic elements of Black women. Also the use of Shange ‘constructing a quilt’ through different media forms implies that she herself is participating in this activity alongside her characters. 

I would say the main themes that I witnessed in this excerpt were imagination/magic, and all the hood’s (girlhood, sisterhood, and womanhood). Imagination/magic was the one that stuck out to me first. Throughout this excerpt I saw Indigo as a girl who is constantly in touch with her imagination/magic. For example, in a quote it says, 

“In the grocery, if the white folks were buying up all the fresh collards and okra, she made them disappear and put the produce on the vegetable wagons that went round to the Colored. There wasn't enough for Indigo in the world she'd been born to, so she made up what she needed. What she thought the black people needed” (ch.1).

In this quote, Indigo makes up in her mind that she has control over what she sees and decides to blend her imagination with reality (she also does this when she is constructing what her dolls look like). The magic part also comes in when Indigo describes a recipe or a potion that will make her vision become reality. 

Girlhood, sisterhood, and womanhood are also important themes in this excerpt. In the excerpt while Indigo seems in touch with her imagination and her magic, she is also disconnected from the outside world. In the text it describes Indigo as “ornery” or “too difficult” to have a conversation with (ch. 1). Indigo finds it hard to relate with a lot of other people like her sister’s because they're too “filled up with the white folk’s ways” (ch.1). She describes the only people who she is close with are Aunt Haydee, her dolls and some of the other ladies like Mrs. Yancey and Sister Mary Louise. It seems Indigo is able to form sisterhood with these people she shares similar characteristics with. For example, in a quote it says,

 “Yancey told Miranda that she made the pillows now because all her life she had been living between a rock and a hard place. Even though she didn't really need any more, something called her to keep sewing herself comforts” (ch.1).

Just like Indigo, Mrs. Yancey finds comfort in creating something of her own. 

  It seems to me that in this excerpt, Indigo is trying to navigate her girlhood while also finding companionship in sisterhood from people who are also navigating their womanhood.

A question that occurred to me while reading this was: “Given our various backgrounds, how do we redefine Black girlhood for ourselves so we can continue to heal as the Black women we are today?”

[kunrendeotaku]

Chapter 13

“Ughh. You’re right. I’m an awful princess.” Star slumps against a rail separating one half of the restaurant from the other, waving her empty cup in her hand. “Just like today, I can never get what I’m supposed to do right. If I do remember my lessons, it's always exactly the wrong ones.”

I lean against the rail next to her and pat her shoulder, then shrug. A bit of self reflection will be good for her, I don’t actually want my city burning to the ground after all. “Hey. Maybe you’re a bit of a screw up. But that just means you have to keep trying, and more importantly, it's what lead you here. We wouldn’t have the chance to hang out like this if you’d never had to be sent to Earth.” Much as my day hasn’t been the best, I’d trade massive highs and massive lows for the stagnant boredom of my usual life any day. Fight a demon, lose your hair, fun and despair all nicely paired together. Doesn’t change the fact I plan to mourn Rodrigo properly later tonight, but it helps get my head straight with the idea of Star altogether-rainbows and fire, amazingly wonderful but definitely going to get me horribly killed one day. I… like it a little too much.

“Aww. That's so sweet. You’re right! I just have to do my best, and listen to my Earth guide. Speaking of which… why are we carrying around empty cups??” Star tilts her head, bright blue eyes clouded with confusion. Perfect timing, she’ll be distracted by the drink machine for sure.

I walk us on over towards the machine in question, thinking that after that little detour our food will likely be ready by the time we finish off with the machine. “Behold! A soda dispenser. You just hold your cup against one of these levers, and carbonated sugary deliciousness comes out! This one here is for ice.” I quickly demonstrate by filling up my cup with ice and root beer, all the while noticing how wide Star’s eyes are.

“It… is it free? How do people not come in and just drink all of it?” I was wondering if she had any real concept of money. I guess she did have some economics lessons sink in during childhood, though I doubt she did much small money purchases as a princess.

“Ah! You see, that’s the ingenious part. We buy our -cups-! You can’t bring in your own cups or you get in trouble, so you fill up these empty ones we bought.” I flick my still lidless paper cup to show my point.

Star just responds with a roll of her eyes. “Is that all?! Anyone could cheat that! Look, look, I can do this super easy.” The crazy girl twists her head to the side and slams the side of her face into the various levers used pushed for soda, holding her mouth wide open. Immediately a small river of three different colors and kinds of soft drink pour onto her face. She doesn’t seem to care at all, other than a twitching eye from a stream of mountain dew pouring directly onto it.

Lord save me from the shenanigans of this idiot. I take a few moments to allow myself the brief stress relief of a face palm, Star giggling all the while as she glugs perhaps a third of the diet coke heading for her mouth. The rest, of course, just soaking my new exchange student’s head and upper body. Once appropriately facepalmed, I yank Star away from the soda fountain by the back of her dress and just glare at her.

She giggles nervously upon seeing my look. “I, uh, guess that's against the rules too?” I give the girl no answer for the moment, as I am too busy grabbing an absolute mountain of paper towels.

“Hold still.” I order her, before beginning to wipe her down. I swear that it feels sometimes like I’m already a parent. My mother can be a messy eater as well, and it stresses me the hell out to the point where I used to carry a handkerchief around all the time just for cleaning up any messes on her, though after one particularly grueling summer of training I disabused her of the habit enough that I no longer bother to carry one. Perhaps I should start doing so again.

I find myself thinking how odd her cheek marks are. I thought they were stickers at first, perhaps magical ones considering how they sometimes changed to reflect her emotions, but now that I’m wiping her cheeks I can clearly feel they are just her skin. She looks a bit uncomfortable at the vigorous scrubbing of her face and neck, but one look at my face convinces her that escaping me when I’m in my mothering mode is a terrible idea. I dry off what I can of her hair next, but that will likely be damp and sticky for a while.

For whatever reason, she blushes deeply when I dry off the front of her dress. Maybe the soda had started to stick and felt uncomfortable, I dunno. Ignoring her cherry red cheeks and the fact that she appears to be considering hitting me now instead of being just uncomfortable, I brush my hands off and declare “Passable. The art of cleaning is one not practiced well enough by people. If I had some wet wipes you’d be good as new, but we’ll have to be satisfied with adequate.”

Star glances towards the floor, muttering “Turnabout's fair play, I guess?” before simply shrugging and letting the tension out of her shoulders with a sigh. I’ve got no clue what she means by that, but I blame Janna. She glances back towards the soda fountain and stretches out her empty cup this time, bless her soul. She starts by grabbing some ice that quickly goes into her mouth to help chill out the blush on her cheeks. A crunching noise sounding out nearly throws me into a full on return of the rant I had on our first meeting, but I manage to just barely keep it in. Ice is bad for teeth, but not even normal humans usually care.

“C’mon Star, get something. I think we’re holding up the line.” I look behind me to see a number of impatient people who were rather unamused to be held up by our antics at the soda fountain. Thankfully Star avoids the dilemma of deciding what to choose by filling up her cup with a bit of every single type of soda. Snapping on the plastic caps for both our cups and grabbing a pair of straws goes relatively smoothly after that, after which I lead us to a booth. They’re just more comfortable than tables, you know? Even if we only have a couple people.

“This. Is. Amazing.” Star is absolutely sucking down her soda, the joys of carbonation or perhaps simply her straw made clear by the sparkling of her eyes. I’m not sure which, I still haven’t pinned down the exact technology level of her old dimension, but it seems vaguely medieval. “It’s tingly like magic potions, but instead of swamp water and magic it takes like sugar water! Best thing I’ve tried on Earth yet, hehehe.” She snags a seat on one side of the booth and slides up against the wall, then glances up at me curiously when I don’t follow her.

“If you think that's good, just wait til you try nuggets with their sweet and sour. Absolutely divine.” I kiss my fingers like what I imagine a food gourmet or chef might, then giggle a bit. “I’ll be right back, I figure our food is ready by now.” A quick run to the counter and back, and our wonderful meal of boxes of nuggets and fries is ready to be served. Naturally, I slide into the other side of the booth across from Star and get ready to dig in. Before I can touch a single bit of food, however, Star holds up a hand with a squint in her eyes.

“Waaaait.” I blink, then my new exchange student dips down under the table. I hear several crashes, bangs, and weird curses. Standard stuff for when I don’t have my eyes on her. Next thing I know her face pops up between my knees. More than a little awkward to have her that close to my crotch, but the pure oddity of her behavior helps to avoid more than a slight blush on my cheeks. “Oh, whoops! Almost got it, hehe.” She disappears back down under the table before popping up right next to me and plopping into the seat with a smug look.

“If you wanted to sit next to me, you could LITERALLY have just stood up and walked around.” Her continued refusal to take the easy way to do anything still baffles me. I notice she’s also managed to pick up another layer of dirt and grime all over herself, and at least three pieces of chewing gum in her hair. Is it actually impossible for her to stay clean for more than five minutes at a time?

“Life is an adventure Marco! You should try it sometime. Besides, if I hadn’t gone over there I wouldn’t have found...THIS!” A muscular arm disappears into her huge mass of hair before ripping out a piece of gum I hadn’t spotted before. “It's squishy and smells like sugar!” I swear my hand has never snapped out faster than in the moment I realized she was about to toss the old gum into her mouth. Whip crack quick the chewing gum is slapped out onto the floor.

“Star! Oh my god, don’t freaking eat things off of the floor! Or the bottom of the table! Or other weird places!” My voice shakes in horror. How had she survived until now? Even now she looks more upset about her stinging fingers and lost treat than the fact she had almost committed suicide by bacteria. I feel the urge to lecture rising sharply in me, and only the threat of our food going cold stops me from doing so. I cut things short with an almost growled “We’ll discuss this later. Now eat your lunch, young lady!”

[cosmic-comics-corporeal-creation]

The piece we read by the Combahee River Collective reminded me heavily of Rainbow by Ntozake Shange. Rainbow created the genre of choreo poems. It lies in the space between performance art and literature. I have included a live production of it. Rainbow was one of the first works to address the intersecting oppressions that black women face in America. It personifies colors in order to tell black women’s stories of racism, sexism, and sexuality. Though choreography and lyric style, it paints the struggle of the black woman with dignity and beauty. It presents race, sexuality, and gender as forces that act upon life unedited at the same time. It creates a sense of community among all people of color and calls for the awareness of black women’s unique struggle. I cannot recommend this work enough. Reading it for the first time was an incredibly emotional experience for me. It is the most haunting work of black feminist literature I have ever read.