Chyann Hector is a Black Jamaican-American writer and educator based in the DMV. She has been writing ever since she could remember and wrote her first novel in a spiral notebook in the 5th grade. In her work, Chyann prioritizes the voices of Black women who are immigrants and descendants of immigrants. She also explores multi-generational relationships, mental health, and culture in her writing. You can find her on Instagram and TikTok: @chyiswriting.
Black Girlhood
Pt. 1 Chalk
We etch our names into concrete. Drag the solid dust over eroded dips and melded chewing gum. Sketch boxes of portals, worlds numbered. To travel, we must learn balance. We must learn how to build foundation on a single shaky leg. If you listen close enough, you can hear the sssch sssch your rubber soles make against the edges. Blurring chalk lines of ash pink and purple. Feet never stop moving as long as the map in the ground withstands the washing away.
Pt. 2 Pom Poms
Imagine gathered confetti of sharp silver and diamond white. Little stars in our hands as we shape and stomp and chant. Hear the rustling like a gentle earthquake shaking loose the leaves on an oak tree. Nothing stands still here. We noise this field. Glitter dancing in our palms.
Pt. 3. 25-cent chips and sunflower seeds
Bells chime over our heads when we enter this place. The man behind the counter smiles in a way that doesn’t make us want to shed skin. The lot of us, dancing in between the aisles. Swiveling hips trying to match the maracas and trumpets echoing. We make a feast with $3 each. Barbecue rap chips. Salt and vinegar. Flamin hot Cheetos. Ranch sunflower seeds. Foot-long icicles. The bags go pop pop pop. Air escaping into itself. We smile through sugared teeth.
Pt. 4 Double Dutch
Some of us know how to do both. The rest of us stick to one. Arms jerking back and forth. Testing to see if we could truly ride the air. Jump jump jump. The rope kisses ground over and over and this is its own song. We listen carefully to its rhythm. It will tell us if we are too eager and not eager enough. It will snap at our flesh if we interrupt its flow. It does not con real. It does not lie in the sounds it makes. It is like life that way.
Pt. 5 Sulfur 8 and Blue Magic
We sit in between our mothers like they did with theirs before us. The tail snakes its way through our scalp. Etching. We shiver as the vines are pulled from their entanglements and the plastic goes thwack against our craniums. We listen for the rhythm. Brace ourselves for the impact of the biting down. Combing through. We know this is not all that is. Not just the pain. The blue magic comes soon after. Like a calming wave. Washing against a lava shore. All we know is peace.
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Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats.
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