Friday Feature: Jasmine Harris
- 1 hour ago
- 4 min read
Jasmine Harris is a multi-genre writer and educational specialist featured in the Hidden Sussex Anthology, Prometheus Dreaming, Syndrome Magazine, and several others. She most recently was the recipient of the Mid-America Arts Alliance Catalyze Grant 2024 and served as the 2023 Arts and Science Center of Southeast Arkansas Arts in Education Artist in Residence. Harris focuses her writing on celebrating Black culture and community, intersectional identities, speculative and visionary futures, and the evaluation of popular culture. As a teaching artist, she has extensive practice in facilitating creative writing through critical analysis of emoting one’s epistemologies. Harris frequently quotes her inspirations as Maya Angelou, Ntozake Shange, Nikki Giovanni, and southern rap. Stay updated with her work and projects through her website or by following her on Instagram @ dr_harris.
Valleys
When people discuss sibling rivalry, I hold a bubble in my mouth. My brother and I have always loved each other, clinging to one another for hope. Living with our stepfather was like riding a wooden roller coaster, rough and raggedy, ever-changing. And we were like customer service agents; stone smiles plastered on our faces, ready to accept the infrequent, peaceful greeting or braise an endless list of our incompetencies. When he got home from work, there was no limit to the cruelty, so our shared hope became makeshift shields. We didn’t know what would become of us, but we had each other, always choosing love.
Finding solace in hobbies, I’d collect literature like the lord’s rings while my brother found a way to fix anything that was broken. I remember when we both realized that resources available to my parents were not our own; our pockets were empty. Yet as we grew, so did our needs, and like the broken knick-knacks, he fixed that too, without question. I had the luxury of asking, and he would provide, always choosing to love me.
***
My clammy palms rubbed the sides of the taupe, airport-like seat attached by bars to a row of others. When I entered the room, the guard dressed in military-like garb, with a poker face to match, had us line up according to last name and seated us in equal distance from one another, with firm points of his finger. I’d changed my clothes only twice for this visit as requested at the entrance of the barbed-wire facility. The first having a shirt too green, the second looking a bit too much like loungewear, and the third resembling the attire of a medical professional, thankfully found at a local general store, was accepted. I’d driven thirteen hours and had a few quarters to lock up my keys and those of anyone who may have forgotten. I retrieved the reloadable card from my pocket, glancing at the vending machine in the cafeteria-like room.
I wasn’t sure what he wanted this time, but I scanned the machines for Sour Patch Kids. Like the unexpected gifts he’d sent to hotels for my birthday trips or walking in the snow so my son wouldn’t spend his first birthday without a cake, I wanted my consideration to match his. We held in our hearts an unspoken agreement between us, a dedication to be a shoulder we all needed in this life to lean on or an anchor as our ships swayed in life’s storms.
I took the Styrofoam tray from the guard’s station and began emptying the package in front of them. When I was finished, and they were sure I hadn’t smuggled in an unauthorized snack, I returned to my seat hoping the wait wouldn’t be much longer. Tears filled my eyes as they scanned the room full of people, crouched over, hoping to enjoy our shared, timed intimacy. I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn. For the conspicuous door, seemingly a part of the wall, to open and my brother to emerge dressed in a Dickies suit matching my chair and every other inmate in the room. I couldn’t wait to actually be able to hug him, hear the pitch of his laugh rather than muffled voices on a recorded line, and see the indentations around his eyes wrinkle as we both grinned, planning our lives after this.
***
When I was little, I can remember playing in front of our small apartment complex with my brother, wondering just who we would become. While tracking the journey of the roly-poly bugs, I wondered how we would navigate a world so extensive. So many beings going in varying directions like a traffic-filled Hot Wheels track. As the bugs navigated the obstacles we’d set up throughout the yard, my mind drifted further. I'd watched an episode of 60 Minutes with my grandmother earlier that week since we were out of school for spring break. Grandma said we’d be better off watching stories with her than being maids for our grumpy new guardian. This episode was about how some people got so lonely it was as bad for their health as chain smoking. The thought of being in a smoke-filled room or lonely enough to die made me dizzy. I began to take deep breaths over and over again until my grandma told me to lie down. I can remember squeezing my eyes tightly as I lay there, hoping God would show us all a little bit more mercy as we traveled on our own highways. Even then, I knew I’d never have to live a life without love, without you.
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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.