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Unity 3:170:00/3:17
Fall 2021 Edition
A Conversation
by Donnie Moreland
Michael turned off his car’s ignition. His hands shook the more actionable his movements became towards his intent. Two cars were in the driveway — two Chevy Impalas. The usual suspects must’ve been inside the house — Bubba, Charles and Sam. His father’s “day ones” as he referred to them. Especially Bubba.
As Michael stepped out of his car, he digested the nostalgia. This was his childhood home. 1245 McAllister Lane. The house sat at the top of a densely forested and sloped cul-de-sac. The neighborhood had always been a predominantly Black one, as Michael peered down the road at five little brown girls racing their bicycles near the intersection of McAllister Lane and Forest Wheel Street.
The cheerful colors of children in play blended with the pink of noon to wash over him until he could remember his father pulling him along in a red wagon with Bubba following behind with his now deceased pit bull, Damion. Until he could remember his mother leaning against the doorway looking out at his father who’d be slumped over halfway out of his Ford Bronco, from an all night bender, screaming at her.
“Hey! Look who it is!” Bubba screamed from the front door, bringing Michael back from the hypnosis of memory.
“Hey, Mr. Henderson.” Michael returned.
Bubba started towards Michael, grabbed his hand and pulled him close.
“Boy, where the hell you been hiding!?” Bubba shouted.
Bubba had always been obsessed with Michael and Michael had always been fond of the man, especially given how Bubba had stepped in between the two once or twice when altercations between Michael and his father spilled over into the street.
Michael pulled away a bit indicating to Bubba he’d had enough. Bubba let out the timid grunt of unrequited affections, before releasing Michael.
“You still with that girl?” Bubba inquired, trying to hold onto as much of Michael as he could. “We broke up, actually. About a month ago.”
“Ah, shit. Well, hey. Plenty more where she came from.” Bubba said, patting Michael on the shoulder.
Michael grinned to affirm the man’s gesture of consideration.
“My Dad inside?” Michael asked, moving in the direction of the porch.
“Let me go get him!” Bubba rushed in front of Michael towards the door yelling out to Michael’s father.
“Gerald! Hey, man! Come see your boy!”
Michael stood, looking at everything but the house to settle his heartbeat. His palms were moist, as was his brow. He started to breathe heavier than when he’d arrived and that scared him.
But just as he was thinking of excuses to leave, his father’s other friends were already offering the same energy of surprise from the foyer. And then he heard a voice no less intimidating than a motorbike starting on a quiet evening.
“Well look who decided to come see his old man!” Gerald called out from the porch. His locks were grayed, which accentuated his facial features even more. Some referred to the man as “Black Brad” on account of his jaw line, eyes and smile fancying that of actor Brad Pitt. An inheritance Michael wished he could return to possess eyes that didn’t engage memories of his father in others.
“Hey, Pop. I was hoping we could talk.”
“I don’t get no hug! We about to put something on the grill and invite some more people over. Come on up here and see your old man!”
Michael took a deep breath to work up the courage to empower himself past the fear of challenging his father.
“Actually, I was hoping I could talk with you in private.” Michael demanded, before putting his hands in his pockets to pinch his thighs which settled his chaotic expectations.
Gerald shrugged and told his buddies to remain outside. Michael made his way past the playful head nods as his stomach began to turn over. He thought about going to the bathroom, but coming into the home eroded the nausea. The place was what it always had been. The flat screen TV had been updated, but the two coffee brown couches were still there, the family mementos, West African ornaments, school trophies, all of it was in place as Michael remembered. He could feel the urge to yell out, “Hey, mom!”. He also felt he had shrunk, following his father to the kitchen. He felt like a child, again. He was afraid, again.
“Go ‘head” Gerald started.
Michael decided to sit down at the dining room table to keep from thinking about how heavy his legs had become since walking inside the house.
“Teyana broke up with me.”
“Oh boy. I’m sorry son.” Gerald mumbled past a cigarette he had saved before Michael arrived. “Well hey, there’s plenty of girls…”
“Mr. Henderson said the same thing. But that’s not the point.” Michael quiveringly interrupted. Gerald walked over to the table and sat down to see that Michael was crying.
“I been…I get so angry, y’know. Like, that’s why she left. I just…”
Michael started to weep, as his father sat observing his son.
“Hey, you a’int put your hands on her…” Gerald started, considering his own past.
“No! I hit a wall when we were arguing and…I was drunk…I mean I’ve been drinking. I just…I don’t know how to say this.”
Michael’s eyes were wide open staring at the table, as Gerald put his hand on his shoulder.
“Son, go ahead and say what you need to say.” Gerald offered, hoping to help his son reach the words he was hiding from.
Michael tried to lift his head, but he was so heavy. So burdened with the space between him and his father.
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to escape you. I left home to the furthest school I could. I don’t call. I don’t visit. I have nightmares about what you did to me. To my mother. I was happy when she left. And I told her that. But no matter how far I have tried to run from you, I can’t get away from you. I hear you in my voice. I see you in the mirror. Your words come out in arguments. Sometimes it’s like having deja vu when I’d start yelling at Teyana. I get so angry. So mad. And then I think of you and I can’t stop thinking of you. How much I just wanted you to stop. To stop and fuc….think of me. How much I want to call you and ask you what to do when I fuck up and then I reach for my phone and I remember we can’t…”
Michael stopped, noticing something in his father’s eyes. A memory.
Gerald got up from his seat and ashed his cigarette in the sink. He didn’t turn around. He just stood there, as Michael licked the regret inside his cheeks.
“When you were born my father said to me, “make sure that thing is yours”.
Gerald reached for one of the cabinets to grab a cup but realized this moment called for his sobriety. He then turned away from his shame to face his son.
“I spent my whole life chasing that man. Military, trucking, marriage, kids. All of it was to be like him. And it didn’t get me anything. Not his approval. Not his love. Nothing. I’m not going to blame anything I’ve done on him, just like you better not blame me for what you did to that woman. You own up to that. I had better taught you that much. But that anger. What you do with that bottle…that’s what I own and..”
Gerald stopped, as did Michael.
“And what would you want him to say next?” Doctor Maxwell asked, bringing Michael present in their role play.
Michael looked at the car clock to see the session was coming to an end. He looked at the rear view mirror and thought of only the words, “release me, Michael”.
“I think that’s appropriate. And like I said, before you go inside understand that there is no pressure in confronting him. In fact, it’s not a confrontation. It’s a conversation. One that’s overdue and if what you have told me about your father over our time is true, he’ll agree.” “Yeah.” Was all Michael could manage in a whisper.
“Okay. Well, let’s check out before…”
“Is it okay if we skip that, this week. I’m anxious to get this over with”, Michael requested. Doctor Maxwell hesitated before responding with, “I understand. We’ll talk next week. Take good care, Michael. And please text me if anything arises. I’ll be thinking about you.”
The video call ended, leaving Michael with his father’s face in the black of his phone screen’s reflection.
Michael laid his head back before being startled by the sensation of knocking on his window. Michael turned off his ignition and opened the car door to meet the man.
“Hey, Dad.”
Donnie Denkins Moreland Jr is a Houston based health educator and multi-disciplinary artist. Donnie holds a Master’s Degree in Film Studies from National University and a Bachelor’s Degree in Sociology from Prairie View A&M University. Donnie’s work centers cultural healing, black masculinities and film criticism. Donnie has contributed to Black Youth Project, Brown Sugar Literary Magazine, RaceBaitr, Root Work Journal, A Gathering of the Tribes and Sage Group Publishing.
Instagram: @donniemoreland_
Twitter: @donnie_moreland
Waste Removal
by Grace Utomo
How long before They throw me out?
I arrived yesterday, passed from car to hand in one furtive motion. My burger vanished immediately and now – nothing. Nothing to do but flutter among the other dank wrappers. These ghosts tell me of Him: rotting shoes and mountainous form atop a moldy mattress. Him has been here ten days, ever since a black and white car pushed Him out its glossy door and sped away. His days bake past – scrounging, pacing, mumbling to Himself. Not quite in our world, not quite in another. But Him is kind, they say: always releasing us to join our fellow wrappers in the dust. No shredding, wiping, or worst of all – burning.
How long before They throw me out?
Don’t worry, say the ghosts. They’ll come for Him first. If They remember Him at all.
Grace Utomo: As a woman, and a stroke and brain injury survivor, I advocate for the underrepresented while exploring a universal theme: Life isn’t what happens to you – it’s what you do afterward. I’m a contributing writer for the International Examiner, an Asian Pacific American magazine in Seattle, and am completing an MFA in Writing at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Bylines include the Ghost City Review, Kaleidoscope, the Rain Taxi Review of Books, the Manhattan Book Review, and the San Francisco Book Review.
The story of Kutulutsa
an album to be re[a]l[i]eased by Júlia Lins
Silfos, my debut full-album, was already flying. It had come through the most childish-like, light blows of fresh wind, and just in the beginning of the middle of 2020. It is magical, in all the forms it takes: ethereal, wooden, spiritual… new narratives of desires, grace, liberty and foundation.
So space opened for what else was to be born. My next album – rhythmic, intense, hot, red-full, electric. An exorcism of my traumas. An expelling of sad and tenuous feelings. A telling of untold stories.
I knew it was an exorcism, an ultimate confession – in any shape it would take.
I started to look for strong and magnetic words. I translated the word “exorcism” in different languages and among the words that appeared, two stood out. In Finnish… “Manaus”. But then… Chichewa, “Kutulutsa”.
I dwelled between these two aesthetics. One had a rounder energy, as if it could capture a bunch of stuff without losing its softness. M, such a round letter. I took fancy on it, but it was locking heads with Kutu – as I nicknamed my second full-album. Kutulutsa had an aggressive energy. The sonority, though, was the most appealing. Ku-tu-lu-tsa. Not a single syllable that doesn’t require force on the lips and uncommon guttural sounds from the throat. Such beauty. And such rawness. It enchanted me.
Just for fun, I did a mini quiz on my personal Instagram asking what word my friends and family preferred: Manaus or Kutulutsa? It was a surprise that most went with Manaus. Maybe not so inconvenient of a word. But we need inconvenience to tell these stories. They are total inconveniences to cultural taboos – such as suicide – and middle class comfort – you are losing on life!
So Kutu was born, right there. Songs were coming for it. One was already born before Kutu’s entitlement, which takes the name of Last Sunday – not at all sunny as it sounds.
But as time ticked a little further, Silfos required more of me, and Kutu stayed at bay, maturing by itself.
All of Silfos’ tracks were taking places of their own. But The Sun is Setting, It’s No Good For Fury was picking my mind… I couldn’t figure if it belonged to number 7, with its sharp irreverent vibration, or to number 8, the last number of the album – the sunset. But when I came back to Kutu, something puzzlingly amazing happened.
I dove into the Chichewa language. I already loved the sonority and energetic signature of Kutulutsa so much. So I went for Google, to discover this new language, this new culture, this whole new world.
Malawi, a South African country with no exit to seas. Neighbor to Mozambique. Very populated: full of beautiful people considered “the Warm Heart of Africa”. With 16 different languages and two official ones: Chichewa and English. And the second country in Africa to have a female President, Joyce Band. And then, the most striking of all…
Malawi namely means the break of a new day. The first rays of the sunrise. The born sun. The shining of a new, refreshed, renewed strong day, beautiful people. You just have to look at Malawi’s flag. It had to be Kutulutsa. And Kutulutsa with Silfos.
I discovered too that Kutulutsa’s most literal meaning is actually… EXHALE. And the first thing we need to do before laughing our guts out is… exhaling, completely. Exhale to laugh. Thank you universe.
This interestingly was also the time in which I started to look more at my hands and my skin and utter the words black heritage to myself, and possibly as myself.
My hands are of my dad’s. My skin is of his. We move a little alike. Gestures and reactions have already confused my twin sister once. She also has his lips, his smile, his freckles and his eyes, as does our older brother. And the stories of my great grandfather, grandchild of African enslaved people, that my dad told us about. It seemed silly to me – to be honest – to be indecisive at that time… to question if, I was truly black. Why didn’t I explore this part of my history, this part of myself, before? Can I truly question this? Only now, after a whole Social Sciences graduation, after my dad passing to another existence, after so many political self-affirmations I made… now I’m looking at my black heritage? It was a shift of perception indeed… in its own time, I know.
All of it merged, and it is still merging. I’m still finding the words and giving space for songs to come, that will tell about what needs to be told. I’m still forming this album in its full body, its full meaning, its full identity… I’m still touching more on my own black history, talking to un-talked relatives from my dad’s side. Still finding the natural colours.
All of these different traces already compose Kutulutsa.
But I’ll be here, until their full birth.
________________________________________
Click here to learn more about Kutulutsa and Silfos
Click here to listen to Silfos (2022) and Kutulutsa (2023-2024)
Click here to learn more about the country of Malawi
And do specially click here to learn about the unique story behind Malawi’s name and flag
Júlia Lins is a Brazilian independent singer-songwriter. In 2017 she released her homemade EP, Music & Emotion, composed of five songs mostly based on raw emotions. Her main inspirations comes from her early childhood memories from Bristol, England UK – from them she finds her best lively-sensations and can very naturally translate them into music. Júlia is recording Silfos (2022), her debut album, and composing Kutulutsa, her next. New guitar intimacy and freedom in voice expression is to be expected as Júlia is diving wider and more consciously in her own tone, guitar style, narratives and imagination.
Website: www.julialins.com
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0mAYtALlJIYXwfwSYR10CW
Instagram: www.instagram.com/ensaiosdejulia
My Origins, Your Visions
A prose-poem by Tejas Yadav
Their eyes look up, then down, an iris of dormant disdain erupts!
A foregone opinion nucleates, of which I am not the maker.
Alien lips utter, one half of what is concealed, a question:
“You’re Indian? I thought so.”
What exactly did you think?
The other half sputters on the surface like a miasma.
“I’ve been to India.”
“I’ve never been to India, you know, I’m…afraid.”
“I’ve seen a documentary about India.”
“Slumdog Millionaire?”
I’m offered a shriveled up caricature, of which I am not the maker.
A land of billions bottled into a billion neatly peddled tropes.
New encounters, old bottles, all free and unsolicited:
Suffering, from time immemorial, exotic is not a dirty word for you.
Poverty: the overture, the chorus, forever. Poor savage souls!
Caste system: our homegrown, unique hierarchy of doom. You may have class but we have both!
Arranged marriage: the destruction of free will, the nemesis of chivalric romance, pitiful misogyny unknown in the enlightened ‘West’!
Spicy food: to make your stomach run, to conceal the true taste of dead meat, to make your pale sweat pores exert for once.
Overpopulation: chaos of the universe incarnate, bothersome brown folks staring, leering, existing in your private imagination.
Noise, humans, animals: the annoyance of life, buzzing unbridled.
Yoga: from your air conditioned studios with sexy lycra clad blondes and white noise.
Heat and dust: contemptible filth and squalor of unwashed primitives.
Cows and Elephant-headed Gods: laughable pagan tokens, heathens untouched by the word of the One true God.
Terrorism: for brown men with beard are always dangerous! So why are all serial killers white?
Rape: heinous and a reality but blown into a generality of dualism, like civilisation and whiteness.
Lecherous men, see above.
Bollywood: gaudy, low-brow escapist dance musicals to twist the lightbulb. What substance of intellect or art can emerge from the risible albeit largest film industry in the world?
Big fat weddings: extravagant, inordinate displays of joy and wealth in a destitute country. Paradoxes, abhorrent paradoxes!
Dysentery and diarrhea: oh you know this well, your eyes search me for signs of contagion. Do I carry the germs of where I germinated?
Patriarchy: a land uniformly unsafe for women, and the only one in the thralls of male ego!
Women and children: in need of emancipation, charity, donations and self-righteous saviours.
Gandhi: the bald, bespectacled man who can be quoted, and forgotten. Our pop icon before Slumdog’s Jai Ho!
Taj Mahal: for love, not the love that we have for tourists, no. For the love of photo ops and social media!
Languages: surely we all speak dialects, not distinctive languages. Similar sounding but proudly distinct languages are only for the Europeans, not for barbaric folk who squat down and eat with their hands.
The zenith, ‘Finding yourself in India’ , whatever that means.
You cannot bottle magic.
Your blindness cannot know me or my country.
Problems exist, here, there, everywhere.
Acknowledgment is not defeat, pride not a symptom of indoctrinated nationalism.
Change is needed but not just where you think it is.
Find yourself? What did you find out about the people you presume to know?
Prejudice? I thought so.
Bags packed, stereotyped bottles on your trip to a five star hotel in Mumbai?
Did you live long enough to let the chaos and calm soak into your skin?
Is beauty not more than the sum of blemishes, despite failings and flaws?
You spray on me a neocolonial, “copy-paste the West” solution.
Your wisdom won’t always work in a civilization older than you, your ancestors, your words.
If Europeans are not sorted “black and white” with no gray, why are we?
If you can have different languages that sound mighty similar, why is it so hard to comprehend Indians have more than 18 languages and hundreds of dialects and tongues?
We speak English, we have accents but we can speak your languages. Can your pink tongue pronounce mine?
Even your imagination, like your soul, shrinks when you turn to face the rising sun!
Your glories and victories forge a golden rainbow.
Ours? Strangled into necks of dusty bottles with neat labels.
When you dispossess, you gloss over nuances. My, our complexity.
Then again, your people have looted and destroyed for centuries.
Hapless bumbling brownfolk with no agency, in need of saviours from other lands.
Your tourism, the only currency you carry. Hollow supremacy of heartlessness!
Capitalists, mark my words: economics does not cure minds and hearts.
Wealth is not the answer, else the rich would be compassionate.
No, you’ve not been to India.
I’m not my country, but you made me its ambassador, so now listen.
Have you unearthed the song that flows under the soil ?
Can you hear the music in the hearts of those who don’t carry your privileged passports.
Perpetuating implicit and explicit biases, your warped narratives birthed from entitlement.
You do my culture a disservice.
Here I am, watching your eyes roam my dark skin, only surface phenomena interest you.
Not the core of my being.
You don’t care. You have your next holiday to plan. Lament the state of another degenerate culture.
Or accost another Other with words or thoughts:
“I know where you’re from!”
If only.
If only you knew where I’m really from.
I turn away, your ignorance like a splotch of spit on my dignity.
Ignorance of which too, I am not the maker.
Tejas Yadav is an Indian scientist and writer. He has lived in Mumbai, Oxford and New York. Tejas identifies gay, left-handed and vegetarian. Themes of immigration, race and mental health inspire him. Currently, Tejas lives in Paris, France. You can read more of his published work here.