by Sydney Green

I don't remember the exact time. I couldn't provide you with details as to what was worn, what was being discussed nor what was the plan after dropping my sister off for her weekend custodial visit with her dad. I can tell you that my brother and I sat on 125th Street in Harlem in an awkward silence that eventually turned to this indescribable, silent rage when our mother came back in a car with her hand on her face and told us she was hit by our stepfather. I never forgave him for that. I never forgave myself for becoming a victim of domestic violence myself years later either.

by Nana Brantuo

Sitting in class after a long day of teaching and data entry, my mind drifted away for the discussion at hand. Events from the day played over and over in my head. Earlier in the day, the class I TA reviewed Donald Murray’s case against the University of Maryland (Pearson v. Murray, 1936). Out of nowhere, he raised his hand, Mr. White Privilege/Future Leader of America. Without a care in the world, he attempted justifying segregation – referring to it as “unfortunate” but necessary to maintain financial sponsors of the institution (some of his white peers nodding their heads in agreement). By the time my evening course began, I was still upset. Was this the life I planned on, teaching privileged white kids who had no interest in the lives of experiences of people of color? I wasn’t interested in hearing my classmates reflect on years of teaching Black and Brown children (stories that I label as The White Savior Chronicles). I was fed up with their eyes staring at me when discussions shifted to diversity and equity, sorry attempts at soliciting the Black woman to speak. Familiar feelings of doubt and depression consumed me and quickly shifted to feelings of sadness. 

In the United States, skin bleaching is generally frowned upon. We think of it more as an anomaly, a strange spectacle for us to ponder. But for many black women and women of color around the world, skin bleaching is a regular routine, one that’s openly discussed, expected, promoted, and practiced, even on infants and young children.

by Andrea Hanson

I took two big gasps of air hoping to regain my breathing. It seemed as though my breathing was stuck in another life trying to catch up with my efforts to live on in this one. My shifty eyes were blood shot red and practically swelling from my head once I regained consciousness. I took more gasps of air because it didn’t seem like the oxygen was getting to my brain fast enough. I looked around the room, shaking, wondering what had just happened to me.