My name is Jada Hinds-Williams and I’m a sophomore majoring in Psychology. I am from Brooklyn, NY and I enjoy creating poetry and art to help relieve stress. I also just enjoy creating art for fun. I don’t have much experience with digital art, but I do enjoy painting,  DIY projects, makeup, and fashion. 

Intro.

I live in the skin of a young queer black woman. With this skin, I get a pair of eyes that have become beautifully tainted along my journey, so now I wear glasses. In this body, with these pair of eyes and glasses, I’ve been able to see why my mother prays over her black family. I’ve been able to see the cracks in the sidewalk and I hopped over each one to ensure I wouldn’t break my mother’s back. During recess, I hopped over the jump rope and large boxes drawn with chalk on the concrete. On my walks home from school, I saw the men who puffed cigarette smoke outside of the corner store. I was able to see the way they looked at me, even with my school uniform on.  I could see the beast that lurked in each of them as I passed by. They would look at my body and I would look into their eyes to try and find their light. There was none. Their hollow eyes would look me up and down. I wonder who took their light.  

When my mom would hold me tight, I could see her cape flying in the wind. She’s my badass superhero.  I could see how the sun would shine brighter in the rich neighborhoods. I didn’t know redlining affected the sunlight. I could see the leaves change color then fall onto Brooklyn’s concrete, right on top of the dog poop. I could see the numbers change as I turned the dial to my favorite radio station, 105.1 The Breakfast Club. If I close my eyes, I can see my mom and I swaying from side to side as she sang to me in our little apartment in the Bronx. She loved Keyshia Cole and Mary J. Blige. 

If I close my eyes, I can see a world where I’m not just a young queer black woman fighting to keep her light. 

A Cup of Oil.

Black and beautiful,

but only when your hair is long and silky straight.

So my aunty applied the creamy crack to my roots. 

I felt the chemicals relax my kinks and curls.  

Eventually, the humidity would cause my straight hair to frizz,

leaving me displeased with my cotton candy tresses. 

In middle school, I spent most of my nights on Youtube

watching beauty gurus.

I took their tips for beautiful, healthy hair.

I wrote down every organic hair mask:

A half-cup of coconut oil, one egg, one avocado.

I wrote down every organic oil treatment:

A quarter cup of avocado oil, a half cup of pumpkin seed oil, ten drops of rosemary essential oil. 

I watched as my mother grew concerned about me as I poured fresh carrot juice into my hair.

She told me I should drink it instead. 

I hid in the bathroom and watched as chunks of my hair

fell

each time

 I

squeezed 

the scissors 

shut.

My mother thought I was experimenting. 

Maybe she’s a lesbian.

I was insecure. 

I was taught that my hair is what made me feminine.

so without it, I felt unladylike.  

I wouldn’t wear my short hair out. 

I watched as the African lady braided extensions into my hair.

I remember the day I couldn’t get my hair done,

I pulled at my hair, 

secretly hoping it would stretch out 

long and straight.

That day, I had gone to school with my little afro.

I was worried that people would no longer see me as beautiful. 

My math teacher’s compliment fueled me enough to continue to wear my natural hair out.

I learned to be gentle with myself and I spoke kind words to myself. 

I whispered positive affirmation to my mirror.

You’re a bad bitch!

I had let go of society’s definition of beauty.

I watched myself become more confident.

I watched as curls sprouted.

I watched as I became cautious of the ingredients I put in and on my body.

I grew to understand how to care for my hair, 

I grew to love how my hair grows upwards instead of downwards,

defying gravity.

I grew to love.

I became more patient with myself and more forgiving of myself.

I was becoming the woman I was too shy and once unworthy to be.

I was becoming more of 

me.

But sometimes I look back and cringe at the girl I once was. 

I wish she took more pictures. 

Girl, It’s okay to be bald-headed. 

Free Me From the B.S 

Weed is nice, sometimes.

Maybe God put this here to help the black souls escape 

this place where our lives are political,

and our dreams are limited,

and our light is dimmed.

So I fill up my bowl and smoke until I’m wandering in limbo, 

searching for an external source to guide me to my purpose.

Your savior will descend onto Earth,

but I hear mine when I ascend. 

I feel mine when I put myself into a meditative state. 

I see mine when I look at the black kids who feel unworthy

because society has convinced them that they are only three-fifths of a person.

But they don’t know that they are worth more than any currency on this Earth.

So some black souls ascend to a place we feel limitless. 

A place where our birth certificate isn’t a ticket

raffled and drawn for the next body bag.

A place our black skin isn’t a target that is aimed and shot at.

Don’t shoot!

A place where we’re free to pursue happiness.    

A place where I don’t panic while passing a group of officers. 

A place where we’re free and black and free.

A place where we can rock hoodies at night.

A place where being black is actually beautiful, not a struggle, not ghetto, not hood, not unruly, and not stereotypical. 

A place where I don’t have to leave my city to purchase organic produce.

A place where I can see without my glasses

and my heart doesn’t race when it’s time to speak up.

My life matters, but you don’t seem to get that.

So until then, I lay back and allow the smoke to carry me. 

Free me from the bullshit!

I am Jane Doe. 

I remember when you took my power. 

You made me believe that real love is supposed to break me 

and put me back together with dollar store glue. 

I thought that love was one-sided and

 I should be chasing after you 

to love me. 

I thought love was violent and threatening.

I thought love broke pinky promises. 

I thought love was supposed to leave you with a frozen heart 

that you chip away at with therapy.

I thought love was supposed to make you lower your head.

You brought me on the path less traveled 

and left me without a bread crumb trail to find my way out.

How many times must I find my way out?

Your love made me feel shameful.

It left me heavy and without words. 

It doesn’t respect boundaries. 

It left me questioning my worth.

 I remember how I felt after you took my power. 

I could see the light bleeding out of my once incandescent host. 

You made my soul and body split.

When my thoughts would become overwhelming.

I would hold my breath under the water,

and allow it to baptize me. 

And it would cleanse my body of everything that is of this world;

so I could enter the realm of euphoria.

I was no longer angry.

It took away my pain and worries.

It took away my hate.

It is a world I can’t see when my eyes are open and I’m above water.

I can’t see it through this vessel,

even with these glasses.

When I hold my breath and pretend to leave this world,

I am able to leave my limitations and insecurities behind.

I am able to leave my intrusive thoughts,

 and I become the small whisper in the back of my head.

And I hold hands with my past self who’s light I thought had bled out.

but I was strong enough to grip onto some of my light before it slipped.

She’s been with me all along.

I was just avoiding her presence 

because, I couldn’t forgive myself after I gave her a mere facade to cover her tender wounds.

Because, I wanted to run but she was too hurt to keep up, so I left her.

Because, I was actually running with the hope that she would stop.

I thought that she was my burden, 

My heavy cross that left me sore and torn up.

But as much as I try to fill up the pages with my words, I see hers in the margins.

And when I play certain songs, she plays memories for me to see. 

Some I watch, and others I hope forever buffer. 

While I’ve been walking on my spiritual journey I’ve come to realize that she makes me beautiful.

You can never take her light. 

She is so giving and childish enough to love with her whole heart,

even though she’s been warned to keep some of it for herself. 

To live.

She creates art that has layers and she never forgets inside jokes.

She holds beauty I can’t describe to you,

because it is so timeless.

Maybe her past soulmates carved the words that describe her in a language that is now dead,

into a rock that glides on the ocean’s floor.

She is so ruthlessly intricate yet delicately simple.

She surrenders to her emotions and whispers blessings for her family to God and her angels.

I’ve been given the task to learn about her.

To learn her love language and purpose.

I hope that in the next life I remember who she was to me,

so I don’t repeat this cycle of leaving her. 

Because my worldly eyes see her as wounded, but, when I dive in

and hold my breath under the waves,

they strip me of everything worldly.

I can see everything that makes her of God. 

My best friend told me that I’m a yellow ball of light.

It made me laugh because her words felt warm and stupid in a good way.

It made me cry because this light felt like a reflective sticker.

You could only see the image on the sticker at the correct position.

She was able to find the light in my eyes.

I know you wanted my eyes to hollow out like yours, 

I wonder who took your light.

Funny Game You Play.

I was born to Jamaican immigrant parents in Brooklyn, New York during the early 2000’s. 

The public school classrooms always had more than thirty kids and one teacher. 

97% of the school qualified for free or reduced lunch.

The textbooks were never up to date.

Why is a white man teaching African American Literature?

There were always budget cuts.

The english teacher was the math teacher.

We real cool.We 

Left school. 

We couldn’t do quick math.

2+2 Quick! Fast! Quick! Fast!

The lead paint was prominent in low income neighborhoods of color. 

The fast food chains and liquors stores were on every street corner. 

The local jobs didn’t pay a living wage.

 Implicit bias causes “black sounding names” to go in the rejection piles. 

The factories were so close to our neighborhoods. 

It was impossible to escape smog and the system was poisoned. 

Generations before me believed in the American Dream, 

but I quickly realized the game was rigged. 

It wasn’t so much how hard you worked,

 but who you knew and

 we knew no one. 

Sunsets at 6pm

Remember when you use to

shake

the quarters out of Dad’s piggy bank

and walk

with 

heavy pockets

to the corner store?

Ten Hubba Bubba bubble gums, 2 packs of Sour Power Straws, 2 honey buns, a chocolate brownie, a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, 10 Laffy Taffys, 6 mints, 2 packs of Gushers, 2 fruit roll-ups, and one bottle of water.

He threw it all into a brown paper bag.

The man smiled as you counted out five dollars worth of quarters. 

I loved it when we would walk through the sun’s rays that fed me warmth. 

Through the sprinkling fire hydrants and dancing kids.

Through the aunties and uncles who sat on their porch.

Through the brick buildings and past project housing.

Through beats from DMX, T-Pain, Fantasia, The-Dream, Nas, Chris Brown, Ciara, Biggie, Puff Daddy, Usher, Neyo, Jay-Z, Lauryn Hill, Lil Kim, Mary J. Blige, Keyshia Cole, Young Money, and 50 Cent. 

I loved how we would dance without a care.

We would 2-step while entering the park.

Harlem shake by the monkey park.

Dougie by the water fountain that was never cold.

Jump, shake and break down to the bass that vibrated through our bodies.

Hold hands and criss-cross while running through the animal-shaped sprinklers.

Then, buy ice pops from the Hispanic lady with the bells.

Don’t laugh and say you don’t remember because 

Mom found the pictures.  

Lol, 

CashApp me,

then, 

I might get rid of them for you. 

My Spirit Travels but My Body Stays.

I am both body and spirit, 

flesh and soul, 

divine and natural, 

black and American, 

woman and child of God.

 I am a complex being.

 I am both worldly and out of this world. 

I am made up of air, earth, water, and fire.

 I am solid, liquid, and gas. 

Bitch, don’t kill my vibe. 

Two of my favorite works of literature are “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman and “I, Too” by Langston Hughes because they discuss dualism. A dualism between man and nature, spirit and body, black bodies and America, skin color and power, as well as human beings and divinity. The purpose of both poems is to explain the importance of the two connecting and becoming one. The divine spirit and the human body must become one through nature and the black body and the American nation must become one through equality.

In “Song of Myself”, Walt Whitman celebrates the “self”, the human body, and it’s ability to become one with the help of nature. This poem can be read as a conversation between the human’s higher self who is spiritually “woke”, omniscient, immortal, and divine and the worldly human self who needs to become spiritually free in order to see the world the way it was created to be. Throughout the poem, the spirit is telling the body that it will attain absolute fulfillment once it joins the spirit. This “joined-self” is able to become one with nature but also detach itself and witness what is going on in nature at the same time. I became fascinated with the theory of Mind–body dualism. I started researching astral projection which is pretty much figuring out how to separate your spirit from your body so that you can travel the astral plane. This can be done while in a deep meditative state or while sleeping. My experiences with astral projection changed the way I wrote poetry. Some people find my writing a little trippy because I separate the spirit from the physical body and then the two reunite again after the spirit’s journey. 

“I, Too” by Langston Hughes celebrated the beauty of the black body and touches on what it feels like having a darker hue in “White America”. Black people, especially immigrants,  aren’t seen as the ideal “face of America”. This poem heavily emphasizes W.E.B Du Bois’ concept of double consciousness, the conflicting black and American identities that black people struggle with. African American’s were never the cover picture for the “American Dream”. The commercials showcased well-trimmed lawns, a white picket fence, and a homogeneous white community. The magazines and media celebrated European features. The straight hair, fair porcelain skin, and slim nose defined America’s beauty standards. 

  I discuss not being America’s ideal woman because I didn’t see girls like me on magazine covers or in commercials. Homes in my neighborhood didn’t have a color scheme and instead of a white picket fence the homes were divided with barbed wire . I also discuss the challenges of being black in America and how sometimes I need to escape to a world I can only dream of. My work is supposed to allow the reader to see life through my eyes for a few minutes. Hopefully they’ll gain a new perspective. 

This theme of eyes and light carry out in most of my work because the eyes are the windows to the soul. The eyes hold your story. People who are able to keep their hearts “pure” throughout their journey have a light in their eyes because their souls shine bright. Different experiences can cause people to have a dimmed light or lose their light completely, but there is a way to get your light back once you’ve reclaimed your power. 

I am who I am because

I come from Brooklyn.

We go hard said, Jay-Z.

My Empire State of Mind

and Shea Butter body is filled with dreams.

Naz told me that we could rule the world, next to Lauryn Hill and her Fugees.

I came out of the kitchen because Langston Huges told me that I, too, sing America.

I came from the Brooklyn Net’s game

and I pass the smoker’s 

outside of the corner store.

Hold your breath.

I come from a place with a church and liquor store, 

on every corner.

Pray for your sins so you can start fresh again,

and sin again.

Lord, forgive me for I am just flesh.

I come from hope, a praying mother, and coconut oil.

She prays for my peace and protection 

and rubs coconut oil on my feet so that I can 

slide

past the haters 

who whisper too much.

I come from my past that has molded me,

and I stand before you, my clay not yet hardened. 

You see that my hair grows up, not down, the swoops of my edges framing my face.

I am me because I was made in the likeness and image of Him.

I come from Poetic Justice, The Proud Family, and the Bernie Mac Show. 

We come from the change caused by civil disobedience.

We come from the island of the scotch bonnet pepper and the Reggae tunes

telling me to not worry about a thing.

We’ve come from marching arm and arm.

We come from resilience, The Little Rock Nine, Sir Legendary Du Bois, Mr. X, Sam Cooke, Nat Turner, loving teachers, strong mothers, protective fathers, genuine friends, broken hearts, smiles.

I came from the actions taken for a better tomorrow.