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Shinelle L. Espaillat teaches writing at Westchester Community College in NY. She is a 2022 Kimbilo Fellow, and a Best of the Net 2021 nominee. She completed an M.A. in Fiction at Temple University in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, Minerva Rising, Ghost Parachute, The Westchester Review, Cleaver Magazine and Midway Journal, as well as in the collections Ghost Parachute: 105 Flash Fiction Stories, Shale: Extreme Fiction for Extreme Conditions, and How Higher Education Feels: Commentaries on Poems That Illuminate Emotions in Learning and Teaching. Follow her on her website, Twitter, and Instagram. But Did You Die? By Shinelle L. Espaillat Shreds of winter sliced the March morning as sunlight struggled to pierce the clouds. Mellen pushed herself to keep running up the hill, though each muscle fiber screamed and her breath came in hard, hitching explosions. Behind her, an angry rottweiler closed the distance, its owner barking toothless threats and commands. There was no tree to climb, no fence to jump. The houses lining the street were all in darkness, and she couldn’t even gather enough air to scream. A deer bounded into the road ahead. It paused, its hefty body a solid roadblock, and stared at her. She pictured herself bouncing off the brown flank, back into the foamy maw of the furious beast, or impaling herself on a whitened prong. It seemed unfair that this day was demanding her blood. She skirted around its back end and kept running, despite the sounds of a terrible bleating, a high-pitched howl of pain, and the shrieking cries of the rottweiler's owner. She picked a house and began pounding on the front door, pushing the Ring and waving her arms frantically at the camera even as she turned to see a flailing mass of species, propelled by its own violent momentum. “What the hell!” She snapped around to face the barrel of a rifle. She hit the paved walkway on all fours. The man in the doorway wore only flannel pajama pants. He glared at the chaos on the street, then down at her, lowering the rifle so that it pointed at the welcome mat. She pressed her palms flat to the stone and tried to find the strength to push herself up, but her shaking limbs would not comply. “Help.” Her voice trembled, weakened. He tilted his head and stared at the street, his face a contortion of confused disbelief. She shifted so that she was sitting instead of crawling, wrapped her arms around her knees and watched as he moved closer to the snarling mess. He didn’t seem too concerned about his own safety. She guessed the rifle helped. The men worked together to disentangle deer from dog. The red-splotched leash slithered along the asphalt as the men frowned, gesticulated, twisted and pulled. Finally, they managed to separate the animals. The deer bounded off immediately, and Rifleman pointed his gun in its direction. Mellen shut her eyes and tightened her palms against her ears, contracting herself into a tight circle as she waited for the sound of the shot. It didn’t come. When she opened her eyes, both men were standing in front of her. The dog lay panting in its owner’s arms. She pushed to her feet, managing to stay upright, though her legs wobbled. “Gotta get this dog to emergency. You coming?” Rifleman asked. The owner sniffled. “He’s a good dog. He’s just been having a bad time lately. He wouldn’t have hurt you.” She looked at his blood-streaked shirt, heard him make soothing, crooning noises as he cradled the dog as though it were a baby. Maybe she could reverse the energy of this day—this year—by extending the compassion she herself needed. Maybe all three of them were caught up in chaos and could use a little support. “Okay.” She followed Rifleman to his truck, climbed into the backseat next to the dog owner, and pressed the dirty t-shirt that Rifleman tossed to her against the dog’s seeping wounds. A vet met them at the entrance and quickly disappeared with the dog. The three of them sat in the green-tiled waiting room, and the owner broke into dry sobs. Mellen patted his leg. Rifleman shook his head and crossed his arms. “Hell of a way to start the day.” Mellen closed her eyes. She’d been trying to follow doctor’s orders, getting a little exercise to clear her mind, so that the copper coils of anxiety that bound her might loosen. She’d been huffing and puffing along, waiting for the calm to kick in, when the good-dog-having-a-bad-time had shimmered into being, like a hellhound behind her, she thought and shivered. She would have to work harder on finding that compassion. She peeked at her watch. She was meant to be at her desk in less than two hours, but her entire body revolted at the thought. She stepped into the hall to call her supervisor. Fred didn’t drip with sympathy. “But so, you’re alright?” She’d been chased by a possibly rabid dog, watched dog and deer mangle each other, and had a rifle pointed at her head. She still needed the tremors beneath her skin to cease. “I’m really—” “So, what time do you think you can come in? We need those reports today.” As far as Mellen could tell, nobody ever actually read the department’s reports. What would happen if the reports were a day late, or if she just didn’t do them at all? She lay the shaking fingers of her free hand over her eyes, pressing hard enough to make pops of light appear against the darkness of her lid backs. “Could I do them from home? I can access everything I’d need. Fred . . . I had a rough morning.” “Right, some dog chased you. But it sounds like you’re fine. And listen, it’s really better if you come in. That way, we can talk in real-time.” She pressed her thumb against a tear duct, like a dam against the rising tide. “Fred, —” “It’s, what, 7:30? I mean, you could still put in a full day, but whatever. Take a few hours to pull yourself together. So long as you get here by noon, you can charge it as a quarter sick day instead of half. Our little secret. See you then.” She heard a beep, and then Fred talking to someone else. “Yeah, that was Mellen. Some story about a dog and a hunter, or something. I’m like, ‘but did you die, though?’ You didn’t die, you can come to work, right?” Mellen pressed end and turned to find Rifleman standing behind her. “This could take hours, and I’m here no shirt, no shoes, no coffee. I need to throw something on, grab some food. You coming, or do you want to stay with Brad?” She shrugged, and he nodded. “I get it. You feel guilty. If you hadn’t run, the dog wouldn’t have chased you, wouldn’t have even seen that deer, probably, but look, I don’t blame you.” So, Brad did blame her? She’d thought his rambling about the dog not hurting her had been a sort of apology. And when did Brad and Rifleman exchange names? Did they know each other already? She pressed a hand against a sudden queasiness. “I’m supposed to go to work.” Rifleman shrugged. “Blow it off. I’m damn sure not going in.” Mellen considered: sit in this animal-scented waiting room with Brad and Rifleman or spend the day compiling data that nobody reviewed? She thought of the truck, likely still scented with blood and sweat, and the unused rifle sitting in the front. “I’ll just get an Uber.” She was going home. She’d had her fill of white privilege for the day. ### 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Emmy-nominated writer, comedian, and award-winning author, Jonterri Gadson has written for notable TV shows including A Black Lady Sketch Show on HBO, THE UPSHAWS on Netflix, and other projects for NBC and Adult Swim. Jonterri Gadson is a former creative writing professor who chose writing/directing/producing TV & Film over seeking tenure. She currently writes for the upcoming EVERYBODY STILL HATES CHRIS. She has also written for HBO’S A BLACK LADY SKETCH SHOW (for which she is Emmy-nominated), Netflix’s THE UPSHAWS (Season 2), NBC’s MAKING IT with Amy Poehler and Nick Offerman, The Kelly Clarkson Show, and Adult Swim’s half-hour comedy Bird Girl. Additionally, she was a Comedy Consulting Producer on 12 Dates of Christmas (HBO Max) writing comedic host copy for Natasha Rothwell. She won Kevin Hart’s LOL Film Fellowship for a short she wrote/directed and premiered at the American Black Film Festival. She’s an alum of the NBC Late Night Writers Workshop, New York Stage & Film Filmmakers Lab, Refinery29 & TBS Riot Comedy Writers Lab, and the IFP Project Forum. She’s published three poetry books, including the full-length poetry collection Blues Triumphant (YesYes Books). Visit Jonterri's website and follow her on Twitter and Instagram. BLISS HOUSE Written by Jonterri Gadson (click for PDF version) INT. BLISS HOUSE RECEPTION AREA - DAY STEVE holds open the door for ANGIE. He bows. She curtsies. They’re white. It’s cute. They approach DANIELLE, the receptionist. She’s black and her smile is beaming. DANIELLE Angie! Is this the infamous Steve? ANGIE Yes, I didn’t leave him at home to watch the kids while I luxuriate this time. STEVE I’m finally gonna see what all this luxuriating is about. DANIELLE I won’t let you wait a second longer. Angie, you know where to go. Steve, you’ll change across the hall. Danielle holds the door open for Steve. STEVE Ooh, I feel luxuriated already. DANIELLE You two are the best. Welcome to Bliss House. INT. FACIAL STUDIO Steve enters in his robe and slides into the chair next to Angie. She squeezes his hand. NAOMI, professional facial tech with flawless dark brown skin, leans Angie’s chair back. NAOMI The usual? Angie nods. Naomi massages Angie’s face with her fingertips. ANGIE Now do you see why I never miss an appointment? STEVE Looks like it feels amazing, Ang. ANGIE It does and you’re next. NAOMI Relax the muscles in your face. Inhale. Exhale. Say it. ANGIE Nig-aaaaaaaah.... Angie relaxes into the chair. Naomi places a hot towel over Angie’s face. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up and stay there. STEVE I have your back, Angie. If anyone wants to hit you, they have to come through me. Naomi SHUSHES Steve and points to a bronze plaque on the wall. It says: OFFICIAL PC REFUGE Bliss House is a certified refuge for people who feel oppressed by political correctness. Naomi hands Steve a services list and sits him down. He looks at the list. It says: Say “Retarded” $50 Say “Gay” but mean “Stupid” $50 Be Racist or Homophobic w/Good Intentions $100/$150 for both NAOMI It’s against the law to call anyone out for not being PC in here. Choose a service. STEVE No, I’m okay. I’ve gotten used to avoiding confrontation instead. NAOMI The walls are soundproof. We sign confidentiality agreements. Angie takes Steve by the hand. ANGIE Remember the rap concert? STEVE I’ll never forget. I knew the words to every song. I could say every word. But one. ANGIE Everyone watched your mouth to see if you would say it. STEVE I didn’t say it. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Angie hands Naomi $20. NAOMI Sing your song, Steve. Angie nods at Naomi. Naomi changes the soothing music to: SFX: GANGSTER RAP SONG Steve’s breathing quickens, until he bursts out with: STEVE (rapping) This is for my day one niggas/ those east side niggas/ those fuck a cop, snitches get dropped type niggas Angie hypes him up and hands Naomi another $20. INT. FACIAL STUDIO- LATER Steve reclines with cucumbers over his eyes. STEVE So this is kinda like a safe space? Angie SHUSHES Steve. NAOMI We don’t use the “SS” word here. REVEAL: Angie with her hands all up in Naomi’s hair. ANGIE So exotic! Angie puts $20 in Naomi’s hand. INT. MASSAGE STUDIO Steve lays on a massage table. STEVE You represent all black people, right? NAOMI That’s the massage you paid for, so, yes. STEVE So...I’m not racist, right? Naomi leans in toward Steve’s ear. NAOMI You’re not racist. Steve MOANS. STEVE A little to the left! Naomi switches to Steve’s left ear. NAOMI You’re not racist. Steve MOANS. STEVE Lower! Naomi thinks for a moment, then gets face to face with Steve: NAOMI (deep voice) You’re not racist. Steve MOANS louder and longer than before. STEVE Ah, that’s my spot. Steve hands Naomi a $20. INT. MUD BATHS Steve and Angie sit in mud baths next to each other. They look into each other’s eyes as one smears mud on the other’s face until they’re both in black face. They wave at Naomi and Danielle who are restocking towels. DANIELLE They paid $250 to be able to do that. INT. BODY WRAP STUDIO - MOMENTS LATER Naomi slathers cream on Steve, then wraps him in a steaming hot American flag. Steve MOANS then shouts: STEVE Not all white people! INT. BLISS HOUSE RECEPTION AREA Steve hands Naomi more $20s. Angie drags him away. STEVE Can I stay? I’m not ready to be held accountable again. You’re doing god’s work here! DANIELLE I’ll give the owner your feedback. REVEAL: Owner’s picture on the wall: A black woman with a huge smile, holding huge stacks of money. ANGIE See you in two weeks for the white history month special! DANIELLE We offer that deal every day. Steve spins around before he gets to the door. STEVE Wait! Steve inhales, then shouts: STEVE (CONT’D) I don’t see color! Witch hunt! All lives matter! Do black people get tan? I have a black friend! You’re racist for calling me racist. What about my feelings? Quit playing the race card! Not my flag! You’re so articulate! O.J.’s guilty! If you were nicer to cops, they wouldn’t shoot you! #MeToo, more like #MeBooHoo! Racism is in the past, except reverse racism, that’s called Affirmative action! Pull yourself up by the bootstraps. All it takes is hard work and determination. White Jesus is the only Jesus. If Oprah can get ahead, you all can. What about my freedom of speech!? He makes it rain on Danielle, clears his throat, tips a fake hat, then exits. DANIELLE Goodnight! Danielle locks the door. Naomi enters counting her tips. They look at the clock and their faces light up. NAOMI DANIELLE (CONT'D) Shift change! Shift change! Naomi and Danielle rush through a door on the opposite end of the spa labeled: THE OTHER SIDE OF BLISS. INT. OTHER SIDE OF BLISS LOUNGE AREA - NIGHT Danielle polishes a sign that reads: OFFICIAL PC REFUGE for those who must insist on political correctness. Rejuvenate! A WOMAN IN A HIJAB sips champagne with a BLACK BUSINESS WOMAN and a PERSON WITH A PHYSICAL DISABILITY. INT. MASSAGE STUDIO Business Woman enters in a robe and lays on Naomi’s massage table. She hands Naomi $20 and Naomi swats it away. Naomi pours hot oil on the woman’s back. The woman EXHALES as the oil rolls off. NAOMI This is what it would feel like if offensive things could just roll off your back. BLACK BUSINESS WOMAN Ahhhh. Must be nice. INT. BODY WRAP STUDIO - NIGHT Naomi unwraps a FOOTBALL PLAYER’s legs, then she turns on a soothing version of the “Star Spangled Banner”. The Football Player rises, then he takes a knee. He gives Naomi thumbs up. INT. FACIAL STUDIO - NIGHT Someone reclines in a facial chair with a white towel over their face. They hand the List of Services to an unseen spa tech who removes the towel to reveal it’s Naomi in the chair. NAOMI “Nigga” is ours! FADE TO BLACK. ### The Interview You’ve written for page, stage, and screen, and TORCH was honored to publish some of your early poetry in our 2009 issue. Did you always know you were a writer? When did you know you wanted to share your writing with the world? I’ve known since 3rd grade that I was a writer. That’s when my short stories for school got me pulled out of class to work with a private instructor. In 7th grade, I entered my first poetry contest, so I guess that’s when I felt ready to share my writing. You’ve published three incredible poetry collections, Interruptions (2014), Pepper Girl (2012), and Blues Triumphant (2016). Are you still writing poetry and do you think you’ll publish another collection in the future? Sometimes I accidentally write a poem when I’m trying to write something else when I want to show and not tell. Poetry was my go-to for that. But, no, I don’t think I’ll write another collection. I feel like I said what I needed poetry to be able to say. You were teaching creative writing when you started writing comedy and pursuing a career in screenwriting. What made you leave the classroom and move deeper into writing for television? Starting the year after my MFA, I would apply for post-grad fellowships and jobs and TV writing fellowships. I was going to follow wherever yes led me. I kept getting teaching jobs and fellowships and being rejected for TV writing programs, so my dream of becoming a Creative Writing professor came true. Once I’d made it, I felt lost. Now what? Devote my life to students after being my own lowest priority for a lifetime? Tenure terrified me because it felt like it meant those years of following the yes were over. Becoming a professor was the yes I needed to follow to get to my next yes, which was comedy/writing for TV. Your short “Bliss House” is hilarious and pulls back the layers of white fragility and politically incorrect desires. Do you see comedy as a tool to address challenging topics? Absolutely. I’m funny… for a reason. Meaning I don’t write comedy just to be silly, I write it to connect with people who can relate and make those who think they can’t relate realize they might be wrong. By putting funny first, it’s easy to slide in something important without hitting people over the head with a message. I love that. You’re also a stand-up comedian. Do you have any concerns about performing live with recent onstage attacks? Nah. I’m not saying anything that makes people want to jump me. I’d like to think attackers want their impact to have an impact. I’m 5 foot tall and unknown. No one’s making a statement by tackling me. Congratulations on your recent Emmy nomination for A Black Lady Sketch Show on HBO! What has your experience been like writing for the show? Has it been different from other writers’ rooms you’ve worked in? Thank you. It’s my first Emmy nomination! Writing for the show is like a comedy writing boot camp. It’s the writers' room where I’m most myself because my kind of weirdness is most appreciated and valuable there. A majority of the rooms I’ve been in have been great and I’ve felt like my contributions are welcome and matter. I’m just more free in a room full of Black women comedy writers. What suggestions do you have for others looking to build a career writing for television/film? The same advice I tell anyone who wants to write anything—READ. Read produced screenplays and TV episodes and figure out what works and what doesn’t, in your opinion. I love a good writing book. I recommend Joe Toplyn’s Comedy Writing for Late Night TV for joke, bit and sketch writing. Ellen Sandler’s TV Writers Workbook helped me understand the structure of a tv episode. You made a big move early in your career to leave New Jersey and live in California. Which coast is the best coast? West. Sorry! I loved New Jersey, New York, and the Midwest. But the weather in California is perfect almost all the time. And most of the type of writing I want to do is all done here. This is where I needed to be. So, for me, the West side is the best side. Hahaha. You have unlimited funds and access to create a dream cast for a project. Dead or alive, who are the top five you are bringing in? Ooh, great question. Let’s see… my two faves right now star on A Black Lady Sketch Show–Gabrielle Dennis and Skye Townsend. As Big Red from The Five Heartbeats said, “What do they don’t do?!” They’re super talented, especially with creating characters. Aisha Hinds because I will never forget how she portrayed Harriet Tubman on the TV show Underground (that should’ve never been canceled!). Michael Keaton, since his performance in Dopesick made me say he was acting his ass off every week. Zendaya. No explanation needed. Euphoria. You’ve got one full day to treat yourself. What are you eating, where are you going, what’s your big indulgence? I’m eating a Raising Cane’s Caniac Combo with no slaw, extra bread, extra sauce. I’m going anywhere my generation of cousins can heal together. My big indulgence is treating myself to whatever the most luxurious suite is at an EDITION hotel somewhere in the world because the chain holds sentimental value for me since I was put up there when I premiered a short and I put myself up there when I went to the Emmy’s. I know you are working on many exciting projects. Can you share anything we can look forward to seeing? I’m working on a feature that I call my “heart movie” because it’s the story I most want to tell and it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. I’m working on an extremely fun reboot now that I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say I’m on, but it’s a dream project with some great people heading it up. I shared nothing and I’m sorry. hahaha. How can people support you now? When you see me post links to anything I’ve worked on, please watch, like, follow, and/or share! I’m on twitter @jaytothetee and IG @jonterrig. Help me spread the word. Projects die without viewer support! Who is another Black woman writer people should read? Michaela Coel. Read her everything. In all genres and formats. ### 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. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

For 55 years, Resist has resourced and supported people's movements for justice and liberation. Resist redistributes resources back to frontline communities at the forefront of change while amplifying their stories of building a better world. TORCH is grateful for this gift of general support to help fulfill our mission to create advancement opportunities for Black women writers. Funding will support our programs and operational expenses. 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. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Written by TORCH's August 2022 Feature, Sharon Dennis Wyeth, Evette: The River and Me is the story of a young environmentalist on a mission to protect the Anacostia River and heal the wounds of her divided biracial family. Photos provided by American Girl and Larry Choyce Photography In support of Torch Literary Arts' mission to amplify the voices of Black women writers and to celebrate the release of Evette: The River and Me by TORCH feature Sharon Dennise Wyeth, American Girl has graciously donated copies of the book to TORCH for Central Texas families. To maximize the reach of this inspiring story, TORCH will donate the books to local Austin libraries to be enjoyed by all. Meet Evette Peeters A nature-lover, Evette is full of crafty ideas for upcycling and taking care of the planet, especially the Anacostia River near her home. When she discovers a cute vintage swimsuit buried deep in her grandmother’s closet, she uncovers a secret from the past. Evette wants to know why her mother’s side of the family, which is Black, and her father’s side of the family, which is White, don’t get along. Evette works hard to heal her world—family, friends, river, and all. Learn more about Evette at AmericanGirl.com. Sharon Dennis Wyeth is an African American writer with a multi-generational mixed-race legacy–the descendant of enslaved West Africans. free people of color, European colonists and indentured servants. Born and raised in Washington, D.C., she is the author of numerous award-winning books for children and young adults. Ms. Wyeth attended public schools and graduated from Anacostia High School in Washington, D.C.. She received an A.B. with honors in a combined discipline of sociology, psychology and anthropology from Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Hunter College in New York, New York. American Girl is a premium brand for girls and a wholly-owned subsidiary of Mattel, Inc. (NASDAQ:MAT, www.mattel.com), a leading global children's entertainment company that specializes in the design and production of quality toys and consumer products. Headquartered in Middleton, WI, American Girl offers an inspiring world of dolls, content, and experiences that nourish a girl’s spirit and help develop her strength of character. Best-selling lines include Truly Me™, Girl of the Year™, Bitty Baby®, WellieWishers™, and American Girl’s classic historical characters. The company sells products through its award-winning catalogue, on americangirl.com, in its proprietary U.S. experiential retail stores, as well as at specialty retailers nationwide. By inspiring girls to be their best, American Girl has earned the loyalty of millions and the praise and trust of parents and educators. 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. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

We're back! Save the date for our readings, panels, workshops, and more. Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to announce our Fall 2022 season! Join us for the return of our Wildfire Reading Series featuring LaToya Watkins and Jasminne Mendez. Register for virtual and in person workshops with Faylita Hicks, Erin Roberts, and Anastacia-Reneé. Join TORCH at the Texas Book Festival for a panel discussion, reading, and reception with Remica L. Bingham-Risher and Destiny O. Birdsong. All events are provided at no cost to participants. TORCH programs are made possible with support from the following sponsors and foundations: The Burdine Johnson Foundation, Amazon Literary Partnership, Resist, Vuka, Texas Book Festival, Central Market H.E.B., Tito's Handmade Vodka, Bookwoman, and others. Be sure to subscribe to our newsletter for updates and announcements. 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. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Award-winning author, Sharon Dennis Wyeth has been honored by the Children's Book Council, New York Public Library, Newark Public Library, the City of Philadelphia, and Reading Rainbow. Sharon Dennis Wyeth is the African American author of over fifty children's books. Her critically acclaimed work has been honored by the Children's Book Council, New York Public Library, Newark Public Library, the City of Philadelphia and Reading Rainbow. Her American Girl World by Us book Evette, The River and Me was a recipient of the 2021 Good Housekeeping Best Toy Award and was featured in Smithsonian Magazine, The Washington Post and in segments on CNN, Fox News DC, and other platforms. Her 2022 non-fiction early reader Juneteenth Our Day of Freedom, also an Author Audiobook, was commended by School Library Journal. In 2023, her picture book Something Beautiful, a Parents Magazine Best Book of the Year, and an Author Audiobook, will celebrate its 25th anniversary in print. Sharon Dennis Wyeth is also a poet and memoirist. Black Eye her chapbook published by Finishing Line Press, chronicles a child's account of domestic violence and search for identity. Her recent memoir piece "I'm a Dancer," a testament to joy as a form of resistance, was included in The Talk: Conversations about Race, Love and Truth, winner of the 2021 Black Caucus of the American Library Association Non-fiction Literary Award, edited by Wade and Cheryl Hudson. Ms. Wyeth is a cum laude graduate of Harvard University and received her MFA in Creative Writing from Hunter College, where she received the prestigious Shuster Award. She is a recipient of an NAACP Education Award and a member of the Cave Canem fellowship of African American poets. She is an Associate Visiting Professor of Creative Writing at Hollins University. Ms. Wyeth has been a guest speaker at countless public and private schools, libraries, universities and other settings throughout the US and abroad. Follow Sharon on her website sharondenniswyeth.com. Black Cottonwood (for Monica Hand) You'd written a poem about our Walk But by the time I found your note, you were gone and I grew desperate Then the magazine arrived and there we were inside-- 5 a.m. on a day when time no longer mattered two poets on a beach on Serifos To answer your question: home did follow me-- my mom never got to Europe--yet, here I am, making footprints in damp sand at dawn with you To meet at dawn was my idea-- an early riser dogged by vigilance-- yet, when we met at the bedtime of owls there was nothing in the world to fear, my soles searching hard comfort in crushed shells, wondering who'd earlier walked their dog While you, Monica, sit serene, sketching our impressions in your notebook searching for the name of the tree that oozes healing salve *Italicized words are quotes from "Walk with Sharon: at the bedtime of owls" by Monica Hand published in "Bone Bouquet" Volume 6 Issue 2 Fall 2015 My Panther This afternoon I had a visit from a panther Floated into my study, settled near the bridge of my nose, all of a piece, black and glistening, stretched like taffy in a reclining pose--a decorative, reclining panther “Remember me?” I was petrified She ushered in the memory of changeling childhood when my face and arms and legs turned to fur, my round brown eyes to slits, my entire self dissolved into the body of an animal Today was different Two of us were in the room, coexisting "May I ask what brought you here?" putting on a front “You sent for me." “Never! You're not real! You’re glass!" “Ceramic.” She proceeded to expand, crowding me off the chaise “What have you got against me?” “That you made me crazy! Only crazy people turn into panthers.” “Are you crazy now?” “No, and you can’t make me. I’m a person, you’re a figment!” “Are you so sure?” She vanished in a stream of light and I felt myself possessed like in the old days “Oh, God, I’m stressed. Here I am middle age, feeling a childhood fright.” Then a voice inside me whispered: Don’t fight See what it’s like Well, a panther is slim thighed, unthreatened, claws sharp as razors, don't take nothing off nobody But do panthers sit at desks? Do panthers write? Well, this one does Oh my! not so bad writing as a panther, unafraid of critics, undetected in my silence, confident with the ability to pounce and vanish into the night As a child, I was the panther when I heard my parents fight A statue on the mantle Out of reach, out of sight The Love Knot an excerpt Ella filled a dipper from a water bucket sitting by the door. “Here you are,” she said, handing the dipper to Creed. He nodded his thanks and drank the water down. “If Mother was here, she’d offer you a slice of cake,” Ella said, taking the dipper back. “Water’s fine,” Creed said. “I believe I’ll be having cake this evening,” he added with a wink. “Mama hinted at it.” “Is it your birthday?” Ella exclaimed. Creed nodded. “It went out of my mind,” Ella apologized, taking her seat in the rocker. “Wish I’d remembered.” “That’s all right,” said Creed. “You’re remembering it now. Yours was in April, wasn’t it?” “April 19th,” she said. “Just before Mother left for the sanitarium.” “How is your mother?” Creed asked, politely. Ella swallowed. “Papa says she’s fine. Everything is brand new there,” she added hopefully. “That’s good,” Creed said. “Did you go visit her?” “Papa hasn’t let me yet,” Ella replied. “The place is far away.” Creed glanced at Ella’s face. She looked sad. “Did you hear from Millie?” he asked, changing the subject. “I got one letter,” Ella said, perking up. “Did you hear from Stevie?” Creed shook his head. “How’s Millie doing up North?” he asked, curiously. “The way Millie went on, you’d think she’d gone to Heaven,” Ella said, with a knowing smile. “She went to a real movie.” “Wow!” Creed exclaimed. “Millie went to a movie?” “It got me jealous,” Ella admitted. “I’ve been wanting to see a movie all my life.” “I’d like to see one, too,” Creed said. “The movie theater in Culpeper should have seats for Colored people,” Ella complained. “What’s the reason for keeping us out?” “Those kinds of rules don’t have reason behind them,” Creed declared. “Somebody ought to change them.” “But how?” Ella asked. Creed pulled his chair in closer. “My brother Charley wrote an anonymous letter to the newspaper,” he confided. “What newspaper?” she asked. “Was it ‘The Richmond Planet?’” “No, it was an Army newspaper,” Creed told her, “out at Camp Dodge in Iowa.” “What was the letter about?” Ella asked. “Was it about going to the movies?” “That’s how it started,” Creed reported. “A Sergeant in Charley’s Division tried to go to a White movie theater and he got arrested.” “What a shame,” Ella murmured. “It’s worse than that,” Creed informed her. “When the Commander of Charley’s Division got wind of it, he made a strict rule for all his Negro soldiers.” “What was it?” she asked. “If a soldier in the 92nd Division of the Army does anything at all to displease a White business owner, that soldier will get arrested!” Creed pronounced. Ella’s jaw dropped. “Anything at all? That’s ridiculous!” “Charley thought so, too,” said Creed. “Charley said that his Commander’s new rule was ‘outrageous’. ‘An insult to all Negro troops’--that’s what Charley wrote in his letter.” Ella winced. “That must have made the Commander angry. Did Charley get into trouble?” “Like I told you, the letter was anonymous,” Creed whispered. “Charley signed it ‘from a Negro soldier.’ That’s why we need to keep it a secret.” “You can trust me,” Ella promised. “I can’t believe that all that ruckus began because a Negro Sergeant wanted to go to the movies,” she declared, mulling over Creed’s story. “If I were the manager of a movie theater, I would invite that Sergeant in for free. Everyone should see a movie at least once in their lifetime.” . “There’s a Negro movie theater in Richmond,” Creed offered. Ella’s eyes lit up. “How do you know that?” “Charley saw a movie there when he was at college,” Creed explained. “What was the movie called?” Ella asked. Creed made a face and growled. “’Tiger Man’!” Ella let out a belly laugh. At the sound of her sister’s laughter, Gale turned around. “Did you see Creed make that funny face?” Ella said, crossing to give Gale a hug. “He was pretending to be a tiger!” Creed watched them. Ella’s sister favored their White father, but they were still two peas in a pod. Both of them were pretty, especially Ella. “Maybe we can see a movie together,” he blurted out. “My parents could take us to Richmond.” Heat rose to Ella’s face. “Fine with me. I like theatrical things.” Creed grinned sheepishly. “Want to play horseshoes?” she asked, abruptly. Creed stood up. “Why not?” Leaving Gale with her doll on the porch, Ella and Creed crossed to a stake stuck in the ground, next to a stack of horseshoes. Lined up not far away, there was a second stake, stuck in the ground as well. “Does Trot wear these?” Creed asked. He picked up a horseshoe, and Ella picked one up, too. “These aren’t Trot’s shoes,” Ella said, preparing to toss. “Trot goes barefoot.” Ella’s horseshoe clanged against the stake across the yard. “Perfect shot,” said Creed. Creed’s first pitch was good as well, but not as close. As they kept on with their game, they began to talk. “How’d you like ‘Julius Caesar’?” Creed asked. “Hated it,” Ella pronounced, pitching another horseshoe. “Don’t see how you can criticize a play by Shakespeare!” Creed exclaimed. He sized up Ella’s shot. It wasn’t as good this time. Ella handed him a horseshoe. “Just because ‘Julius Caesar” is a great play, doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she argued. “Caesar didn’t deserve to be stabbed to death.” “Caesar was strutting around like a rooster,” Creed lectured, squandering his shot. “That’s not a crime,” Ella said, making her case. “But those Roman men in the play stabbed Caesar over and over again. I don’t like it when bad things happen to people,” she added, wistfully. They finished the game in silence and put away the horseshoes. “Tell your mother I said ‘hi’ when you see her,” Creed said, preparing to leave. “If I ever get to visit,” Ella said. He glanced at her face. She looked worried. “Everything will be all right,” he said, trying to reassure her. Ella gave him a little smile. “If you and Gale get lonely, come over to the schoolhouse,” Creed offered, walking out of the yard. He turned to wave at Ella’s baby sister. “We might do that,” Ella said, perking up. “Tell your mother and Angie that we thank them for the green beans.” “I will,” Creed said. He took a few steps down the road, but then turned back. “Did you hear my echo today?” he called out. “I heard somebody’s echo,” she answered. “I didn’t know it was yours.” “I was up on the schoolhouse roof, practicing my Shakespeare,” Creed shouted. “You wouldn’t have liked it. It was a speech from ‘Julius Caesar!’” Ella ran a few steps toward him. “I might have liked it. You’re good at Oratory.” “I shouted your name out, too,” Creed said, beaming. “How come?” Ella asked. “Just wondering if you were home,” Creed explained. “Gale and I are always here,” she told him. As Creed hurried away, Ella kept her eyes on him. Creed had always been spindly, but now he looked as strong as his brother Charley. Yet, Creed was still a bookworm. Ella was a bookworm, too, so she liked that about him. So, it was perfectly natural that they both had their opinions when it came to “Julius Caesar.” Two hours later, Ella heard her father’s Model “T” rumbling up the road. He was earlier than expected. Leaving Gale on the porch to play with some wooden blocks, Ella met Papa in front of his car. “Did they change your hours this week down at the prison?” she greeted her father, cheerfully. “They let me leave early,” Worth Tutt replied. “I drove here as fast as I could.” Ella swallowed. “Did something happen to Mother?” “Your mother’s fine,” he said, looking out at the road nervously. “Has anyone been here?” “Only Creed St. James,” she answered. “I got here in time then,” he said. “Where’s your sister?” Ella pointed to the porch. “Go get her,” Papa instructed. “I need you to take her up on the roof.” “But why?” Ella asked in amazement. “Do as I say,” he snapped. He rushed to the shed and came back with a ladder. Dumbfounded by her father’s request, Ella hadn’t moved. “Do as I say,” he yelled at her. “Tell me why,” she begged. Worth Tutt caught his breath. “Somebody’s coming to get you and Gale.” “Who?” Ella exclaimed. “Some woman from a Society,” her father explained hurriedly. Ella’s heart fluttered. “What sort of Society?” “The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children,” her father announced, sarcastically. “Seems they believe I’m being cruel to you and Gale.” “Where’d they get such an idea?” Ella protested. “Some people think that when a father leaves his children alone, he’s being cruel,” Worth Tutt said in a biting tone. “Never mind that the children’s mother is sick and their father has to work out of town.” “Are you sure about this, Papa?” Ella asked. “There must be some kind of mistake.” Ella’s father shook his head. “This lawyer, Mr. Bruce, who I met down at the prison, heard it through the grapevine. You see, his wife’s mother lives over in Madison-- I can’t go into it all now--we’re just lucky that Mr. Bruce warned me. So, unless you don’t mind ending up with your sister in a Negro orphanage,” he threatened, “you’ll get Gale and hide up on that roof!” Ella ran to the porch and swooped Gale up. Holding her sister tight, she ran back to where her father was waiting. “Please don’t let them take us, Papa,” she pleaded. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But you have to trust me.” Ella looked into his light blue eyes. Next to Mother, there was no one in the world she trusted more than her father. As Worth Tutt steadied the ladder, Ella climbed up, with Gale in her arms. “Hide behind the chimney,” Papa called up to her. “Try to keep your sister quiet.” Ella did what she was told, while down below, her father tossed aside the ladder. Tucked behind the chimney, Ella kissed Gale’s cheek. As if sensing the danger, the little girl clung to Ella’s neck, dead silent. “I’ll walk out to the road to meet the woman,” Worth Tutt whispered hoarsely. “What will you tell her?” Ella whispered back. Papa glanced up at her. “I’ll think of something,” he promised. A few moments later, Ella heard voices. Holding tight to Gale, she peeked over the side of the roof. A woman in a feathered hat stood in the yard, talking to her father. “Where are the children?” she asked shrilly. “I’ve sent them down South,” Papa declared, “to be with their dear mother’s people.” Ella drew back from the edge. Gale had started to whimper. “Hush, Baby,” she whispered, kissing her sister’s cheek. The woman in the feathered hat turned abruptly. “Is someone here?” she asked, glancing up at the roof. “I heard something.” Lying stiff as a board, Ella held her breath. “Only a few robins,” Papa said in a charming voice, “pecking around up there for something to build their nest. Robins are pretty little things, aren’t they? But not as pretty as the feathers you’re wearing.” The woman touched her hat and giggled. “All right then, Mr. Tutt. But if your daughters should come back,” she warned, “they can’t be left alone while you run off to work in Richmond.” “Yes, ma’am,” said Papa, agreeably. “Now, may I walk you to your buggy?” When Ella heard them walk away, she relaxed a bit. “Everything will be all right, Little One,” she whispered sweetly to Gale. But Ella wasn’t so sure of that. Papa had told the woman that she and Gale had gone down South to be with “their mother’s people.” Yet Ella knew for a fact that her mother didn’t have a family down South. The only family Mother had was Papa, Ella and Gale, which meant that her father had lied! What would happen if the woman from the Society came back one day and found out the truth? As Ella climbed down the ladder with Gale in her arms, Papa was walking toward them. Ella let her sister go, and Gale ran to their father’s arms. Papa caught Gale up and gave her a bounce. “We fooled that Society lady, didn’t we?” Worth quipped, turning to Ella. “Wonder how many birds she shot in order to make that hat.” Ella smiled weakly. “What are we going to do now?” “I’ll figure something out,” Papa said. “Whatever happens, I’ll be the one to decide what becomes of my children—not some do-gooder Society.” ### The Interview Your literary career has earned you awards and recognition across genres. When did you first know you were a writer and what guides your work today? I was an early talker who reveled in the acquisition of "my words.” At the age of one and a half, I ran around my parents’ apartment in my underwear shouting out my vocabulary. It’s true! At the same age, I was already boasting about my memory. Before I started school, my father taught me to write my name and my mother took me to the library to get my own card. Good thing, since books were to become my refuge during a tempestuous childhood. As for becoming a “writer,” writing was just something I knew I could do. It certainly helped me get the attention of the teachers in the eight public schools I attended as my mother moved my brothers and me from place to place, trying to get out of her marriage. BUT did I think I could BECOME A WRITER? Certainly not! Writers were the ones who wrote my precious “library” books. So powerful they might as well have lived on another planet! Even when I got a summer job at the age of 16 writing newspaper articles (very lucky!), I didn’t dare think of myself as a “writer.” But that particular job taught me that writing was something I could do to make money–absolutely essential where I came from! But for ten years after college, I made income working at other things, while continuing to dedicate myself to writing on weekends and evenings. Once I’d written three plays based on personal history and gotten paid for nine paperback romances based on soap opera plots, I felt it was okay to say, “I’m a writer.” Your work reaches across the entire emotional arc and invites the reader into intimate and sometimes violent worlds. How do you decide what, and what not, to share in your writing? What I share depends very much on my particular readership. Most of my publications have been for younger readers and I’m extremely mindful not only of the language I choose but the depiction of settings, characters and outcomes. When I write, I’m also doing a lot of listening–to the characters I create and the insistent voice I carry around inside me. No matter what the age, my message to readers is that it’s okay to feel; that there’s no shame in feeling sadness or terror, loneliness or heartbreaking love. It’s okay to notice when things don’t feel quite right in your family or the world you live in. I want to send the message that there’s nothing weak about innocence. It’s not stupid to maintain hope and try to make changes in your circumstances and your world if necessary. I want readers to feel that when a moment of joy presents itself, the coolest thing to do is to enjoy that moment, no matter how fleeting. The only way I can begin to achieve this is by creating characters I not only love but respect. In writing “Ghost Gossip” a persona poem in my mother’s voice, I felt extraordinary empathy for the character who, as a young mother trapped with an abusive partner, found the courage to escape, while acknowledging an attraction to her abuser. In Something Beautiful, my picture book for young readers, I was extremely mindful of not falling into the trap of painting the kind of bleak setting some might associate with poverty. Imagine how kids who live in an under resourced neighborhood would have felt, if I’d fallen into that trap. Nobody wants to be depicted as a victim. In your poem “My Panther,” a childhood trauma resurfaces in the image of a panther and is at once terrifying for the speaker and a symbol of protection. How do you return to private and public traumatic events in a way that doesn’t reopen the wound? It’s taken me almost my whole life to fully recover from some of the trauma I experienced growing up. In a novel I wrote years ago, The World of Daughter McGuire, there's a scene where the main character is hit by rocks walking home from school. Well, that happened to me more than once. And when I was writing that scene, I literally felt my legs stinging, as if I was being hit by rocks! When I was writing a recent non-fiction book Juneteenth Our Day of Freedom, I was sobbing as I envisioned my enslaved ancestors. When I wrote the section in the book about Emancipation, I sobbed again for joy. But I have gotten better at distancing myself. And by examining my memories and family history and my reactions to them, I’ve gained empathy for my young parents and grandparents and the social challenges they endured. My writing has also been healing for me. As I try to comfort my characters and my readers, I'm also comforting myself. As for “My Panther,” it wasn’t until I wrote the poem that I remembered the statue on the mantle in my childhood apartment and was able to make a connection to the dissociative response I describe in the poem which, as a child, I found terrifying. Glad to report that when I wrote about that experience, I didn't feel terrified at all. So, I guess I've made progress. “Black Cottonwood” is a beautiful tribute to the poet and scholar, Monica Hand. Why did you feel moved to capture this moment in verse? Thanks to Cave Canem, Cornelius Eady and the University of Missouri Writing Program, Monica Hand and I had writing fellowships simultaneously on Serifos. There aren’t words to describe the freedom I experienced and the joy during that period. Monica was part of that. I admired her as a person and loved her work. Somehow in those brief weeks we spent together, a lasting connection was forged for me. I never got to tell Monica what I thought about the poem she wrote about our time together in Serifos. I think she would have enjoyed reading my response in TORCH. Your prose reaches back into history and narrates the lives of Black families who navigated Black Codes, the Jim Crow laws, and overt racism. What do you hope your readers take away when encountering these subjects in your work? The historical fiction excerpt from The Love Knot is deeply inspired by my family stories. I wrote it because I needed to remember my ancestors’ history as if I’d lived it and writing was my way of re-remembering. After reading hundreds of books about past lives different my family’s, I need my ancestors to become visible and to be felt. I need to reveal their complexity and vulnerability, their courage and interiority, their humor and love of nature, their pride and grief and their capacity to love in spite of it all. There was also a lot of anger in my family and I wanted to know where it came from. What's the point of writing, if you don't write something that needs to be written? What's the point of having a big vocabulary, if you don't use it to unearth the truth? You’ve also had an award-winning career writing children’s books. What draws you to the page to write for children and families specifically? I needed books when I was a child–for comfort and to gain understanding. Books enabled me to feel when I was numb with terror. Books provided friendship when I had few friends. There’s no surprise that I write for younger readers. One of your recent projects, Evette: The River and Me, was a collaboration with American Girl. Tell us about this project and how you developed the character’s incredible story of a young environmentalist who grappled with identity and racism within her family. Writing Evette: The River and Me was a great joy. I had lots of support from my editor and the rest of the American Girl team, including fellow writers in the same World by Us line of books. AG requested the themes of environmentalism and mixed-race identity. The story was up to me. I was able to mine some of my own childhood, in some instances through contrast. For example, both of my parents identified as Black but my father had very light skin and I took after him, which meant that I really stuck out in the Black neighborhoods where we lived and was constantly trying to explain my appearance. All of which was a gigantic pain. Writing The River and Me, I turned that discomfort around by creating a well-adjusted character like Evette who felt at home with her identity within a diverse environment! But Evette has two grandmothers one White and one Black--two ladies raised in a very different environment and who're carrying around old baggage. It was empowering to depict Evette as a girl who wasn't afraid to ask what's up in her family--why her White and Black grandmothers have stopped speaking. In the story, Evette manages to force her family’s history to the surface, so that the older generation has a chance to own up to a racist past and begin to heal. There's no such thing as leaving the past behind without an acknowledgment of what the past was! Nor can we keep on pretending that the pollutants disposed of in our waters will simply vanish on their own beneath the surface. Uniting the themes of racism and environmentalism in the same book seemed like a challenge when AG presented it to me. But it turns out that the themes are quite compatible. Nurturing healthy relationships among ourselves as well as with the environment, requires acknowledging the truth and taking responsibility. What impact do you hope the book will make on young readers and families? I hope Evettte: The River and Me brings greater attention to the environment. If there’s a river in your town, a body of water that gives you solace, learn more about it and consider giving something back. It's also nice to think that the book might pave the way for family conversations about difficult subjects. When I was a child, a lot was hidden from me in the name of protection. I believe it would have been less harmful to have an explanation for some of things I wondered about. I also hope that readers recognize that Evette isn’t perfect--because none of us are. There's a moment in the book when Evette harshly judges a friend and has to come to terms with her own behavior. Luckily, her mom is there to advise her. Evette lives and thrives in D.C. What’s your connection to D.C. and why did you choose it as the setting for the book? Lucky for me, AG had chosen D.C. as the location for the World by Us line of books. So, I placed Evette in two neighborhoods I knew well, Anacostia in S.E. and Takoma Park in N.W. I chose the Anacostia River as the site for her environmentalism, because the Anacostia was the river I grew up with. If someone is coming to D.C. for the first time, what are the top three things you would tell them to do? Visit the National Museum of African American History and Culture. If you visit the Frederick Douglass Museum, you'll be in my old neighborhood! I might suggest the Carter Barron Amphitheater where I saw "La Boheme" with my mom and Ella Fitzgerald with a date, but right now it's closed for renovations. How about a boat tour, followed by dinner on the waterfront? What does your writing space look like? What must-haves are on your desk? I write in an attic filled with books and magazines everywhere! I have boxes of drafts stacked up next to my desk. It’s somewhat of a nightmare. On my desk, I must have a lamp and my computer, a pen, and a journal. I also need my “date book” where I attempt to prioritize stuff and remind myself what time I have to be somewhere. I have a lovely box that I received from a school where I spoke years ago! (It did have paperclips in it, but now it's just looking pretty). I have a stack of family photographs dating from 1890, waiting to be put in an album. There are numerous flash drives hidden in undisclosed places. But when I’m writing, I see none of this! When I’m writing, I enter another world. When you’re not writing, what are you doing that brings you joy? Lots of stuff: picking my own flowers and arranging them; listening to music and dancing! Singing! Cooking (every day). I take piano lessons and I garden. I read scholarly works and also poetry. I listen to French tapes. I love taking my dog for a walk! Best of all, being with family and friends, of course--I enjoy giving dinner parties, even the part about setting the table. Frankly, I enjoy doing my laundry, because I wait so long to do it, that it's a major relief when I finally get it done. How can people support you right now? I would like to see my historical novel The Love Knot published. It would also make a great television series. I have to say, I’m grateful for the support I have already. Name another Black woman writer people should read. If you haven’t already, Annette Gordon-Reed. 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. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Torch Literary Arts joins Future Front to offer this exciting community club in Central Texas. Do you enjoy reading but don't have time to commit to a book club? Torch Literary Arts joins Future Front to present This is Not a Book Club - a gathering for readers to support local independent bookstores in Central Texas, discuss current writing featured on TORCH and other literary news and events. All lovers of creative writing are welcome. We'll have light refreshments and book giveaways, too! When: Saturday, August 27th, 1:00 p.m. at Austin Public Library, Downtown Central Branch! Email ajohnston @ torchliteraryarts.org to join 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

TORCH presents a virtual panel and reading at the [margins] Conference, August 5-7, 2022. Torch Literary Arts is proud to present at the [margins] Conference and Festival, August 5-7, 2022. TORCH features, Saida Agostini and Kindall Gant, join TORCH founder/executive director, Amanda Johnston, and TORCH board member, Dr. Sequoia Maner, for a virtual panel and reading. Visit [margins] to view the conference schedule and register. PANEL- DATE: 8/6/2022 START TIME: 3:30 PM MT Reserving a Seat at the Table We’ve Made: a roundtable discussion with Torch Literary Arts Torch Literary Arts (TORCH) was founded in 2006 by Amanda Johnston to provide a space to publish and promote Black women writers. For over 15 years, TORCH has featured established and emerging writers online at TorchLiteryArts.org. This roundtable discussion brings together TORCH’s founder, features, and board members to discuss the needs, challenges, and joy of sustaining a space dedicated to Black women writers. READING - DATE: 8/7/2022 START TIME: 1:00 PM MT Presenters Dr. Sequoia Maner (moderator) is an Assistant Professor of English at Spelman College where she teaches classes about 20-21st century African American literature and culture. She is author of the prize-winning poetry chapbook Little Girl Blue (2021, Host Publications) and co-editor of the book Revisiting the Elegy in the Black Lives Matter Era (2020, Routledge). Sequoia’s 33 1/3 book about Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly debuts summer 2022 (Bloomsbury). Her poem “upon reading the autopsy of Sandra Bland” was a finalist for the 2017 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize and her essays, poems, and reviews can be found in venues such as Meridians, Obsidian, The Langston Hughes Review, The Feminist Wire, Auburn Avenue, and elsewhere. She is at work on a poetic memoir about the foster care system in Los Angeles. Saida Agostini is a queer Afro-Guyanese poet whose work explores the ways Black folks harness mythology to enter the fantastic. Her work is featured in Plume, Hobart Pulp, Barrelhouse, Auburn Avenue, amongst others. Saida’s work can be found in several anthologies, including Not Without Our Laughter: Poems of Humor, Sexuality and Joy, The Future of Black, and Plume Poetry 9. She is the author of STUNT (Neon Hemlock, October 2020), a chapbook reimagining the life of Nellie Jackson, a Black madam and FBI spy from Natchez Mississippi. Her first full-length collection, let the dead in (Alan Squire Publishing) was released in Spring 2022. A Cave Canem Graduate Fellow, and member of the Black Ladies Brunch Collective, Saida is a two-time Pushcart Prize Nominee and Best of the Net Finalist. Her work has received support from the Ruby Artist Grants, and the Blue Mountain Center, amongst others. She lives online at www.saidaagostini.com Kindall Gant is a poet and New Orleans, Louisiana native based in Brooklyn, New York. She holds a BA from Sarah Lawrence College where she received the Lucy Grealy Prize for Poetry. Kindall finds herself in evolution through lyrical storytelling and her main inspirations are rooted in relationships, home, and heritage. She has participated in literary offerings with The Poetry Foundation, Cave Canem Foundation, Roots. Wounds. Words. Inc., Obsidian Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, and more. With upcoming residencies at the Writer's Colony at Dairy Hollow and MASS MoCA, Kindall is excited to continue her writing journey and pursue an MFA. She currently serves as the founder and Editor-in-Chief for Arcanum Magazine, a newly established literary magazine featuring the visual art and writing of Black creatives. In her free time, she volunteers reading poetry manuscripts for the Tenth Gate Prize and binding chapbooks at Ugly Duckling Presse. Amanda Johnston earned a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of Southern Maine. She is the author of two chapbooks, GUAP and Lock & Key, and the full-length collection Another Way to Say Enter. Her work has appeared in numerous online and print publications, among them, Callaloo, Poetry Magazine, Puerto del Sol, Muzzle, and the anthologies, Furious Flower: Seeding the Future of African American Poetry and Women of Resistance: Poems for a New Feminism. She has received fellowships, grants, and awards from Cave Canem Foundation, Hedgebrook, the Kentucky Foundation for Women, The Watermill Center, Tasajillo, and the Austin International Poetry Festival. Named one of Blavity’s "13 Black Poets You Should Know," Amanda has been featured on BillMoyers.com, The Moth Mainstage, the Poetry Society of America’s series In Their Own Words, and the Academy of American Poets. She is a member of the Affrilachian Poets, cofounder of Black Poets Speak Out, and founder/executive director of Torch Literary Arts. 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Dana Tenille Weekes is a curious creature of voice and its relationship to everything human beings do or don't do, particularly what they’re afraid to say and why. For 20 years, she weaved the worlds of politics, policy, and law in Washington, DC as an advocate who mobilized voices in various forms. Currently, she is on a one-year journey of rest—learning how to unlearn and be—a space she yearns to cultivate for Black women, especially advocates, who are held up as “strong” at the sacrifice of themselves. As part of this journey of rest, Dana is exploring her newly found voice in poetry. Her first published poems, “Where Do We Bleed?” and “Found in Prayer,” have a home at A Gathering of the Tribes. Dana is the first in her family to be born in the United States and is the daughter of Bajan immigrants. Follow her on Instagram. swole by Dana Tenille Weekes i am right here, on this damn couch. not knowing if even momma knows whereabouts of my wherewithal—shelled out a month’s mortgage, for me and it to be in the epicenter of this dammed, bayou-ing city. stench spoiling the signature chocolate. whatever’s left. “pleasing,” the designer said. “neutrals can anchor any room, any space.” yeah? complicit crap. but then again, here i am. anchored to the anchor … on repeat & repeat & repeat & these commentators. binge-watching daddy. and my cousins i speak to barely. one’s in canada, though. and the big brother i blew out trick candles for year after year. and my godsons. one just born. the other is seven. eight? and their dad, his dad, and brothers too. and the back-in-the-day beat boxing boys rapping ‘bout my big ass lips and double-stuffed oreo. and my homies i randomly text “i love you”—cause their joy is … and the boyfriend who stuck his tongue in me first. and the others. even the assholes. and my favorite teacher, mr. james. he’s retired now. and the mailman sloshing in these bogs. and the concierge collecting his coins for that puppy for his princess. a saint charles? and mo, vernon, keron, preston et al. at the firm playing clark kents to most—luke cages to me. and my partner and my son if i had a … on repeat & repeat & repeat & repeat & my ass is swole. anchored to these cushions. and it swoles and swoles and swoles. sttrrreeeettttttcccccchhhhhhh marked. grade 8 USDA branding, patriotic tatting. my heart too has plummeted into these swoles. this point, a bastion. or basin? either way, seems glacierized. but this is the dead of summer. so, no ice. no calving mountains. just swole ass. costco-ed cocoa-ed syrup, ssslluuurrrrppppp—momma’s sharded notes on repeat & momma! but momma … just—just let me. just let—just—just let me awaken to babbles and coos again. let these babbles stretch for me— lapsing at my feet. taking me to daddy kissing my wetted cheeks in thousands. taking me to momma knowing. her hands scooping me up underneath her humming chin of high apple pie hopes far up in the ssskkkkkyyyyyyyyyyyyy on repeat & repeat & ### 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Austin, TX (July 19, 2022) --- The Amazon Literary Partnership today announced that Torch Literary Arts, an Austin-based nonprofit dedicated to elevating the voices of Black women writers, received a grant to support its program and operations. Torch Literary Arts is among the list of 74 Amazon Literary Partnership Grant Recipients this year. In 2022, the Amazon Literary Partnership awarded more than $1M in funding to literary nonprofit organizations. Since 2006, Torch Literary Arts has published Black women writers at all stages of their careers online at TorchLiteraryArts.org, featured notable authors with the TORCH Wildfire Readings Series, and curated special events with industry partners in Central Texas and beyond. In addition to publishing and promoting authors through community events, Torch Literary Arts supports those who are interested in developing their writing by offering creative and professional development workshops at no cost to participants. “We are thrilled to receive this financial support to help TORCH amplify Black women writers,” said Amanda Johnston, Founder/Executive Director of Torch Literary Arts. “This is the time to invest in literary organizations like TORCH to ensure the poems and stories we write today represent our diverse community and are available for generations of readers to come.” The Amazon Literary Partnership supports writers to help tell their stories and find their readers, empowering writers to create, publish, learn, teach, experiment, and thrive. Since 2009, the Amazon Literary Partnership has been committed to uplifting and amplifying the voices of overlooked or marginalized writers by supporting the literary community through grants to writing programs and nonprofit literary organizations, including groups like Torch Literary Arts whose mission is to promote the work of Black women by publishing contemporary creative writing by experienced and emerging writers alike and provide resources and opportunities for the advancement of Black women through literary arts. “It’s an honor to fund these vital institutions that not only provide writers the support they need to create, but offer the opportunity to connect with their readers,” said Al Woodworth, Manager of the Amazon Literary Partnership. “Literature is expansive, entertaining, and advances our empathy and our world. We are grateful for the incredible work that these organizations do, today and every day.” About Torch Literary Arts Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike online at TorchLiteraryArts.org. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. To learn more about Torch Literary Arts, please visit TorchLiteraryArts.org About The Amazon Literary Partnership Since 2009, the Amazon Literary Partnership has provided more than $15 million in grant funding to more than 160 literary organizations, assisting many thousands of writers. Among the organizations Amazon has supported over the years include the Asian American Writers Workshop, National Book Foundation, PEN America, Poets & Writers, Girls Write Now, Graywolf Press, Lambda Literary, Loft Literary Center, National Novel Writing Month, Words Without Borders, Yaddo, WriteGirl, and many more. Through Amazon’s annual grants, Amazon supports literary centers, writing workshops, residencies, fellowships, literary magazines, independent publishers, and poetry and translation programs. Writers supported by some of these organizations have gone on to become best-selling and award-winning authors. To learn more about the Amazon Literary Partnership, please visit www.amazonliterarypartnership.com

L-R: Lori Moses, Leah Tyus Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to announce our new Administrative Fellows, Lori Moses - Development Fellow, and Leah Tyus - Creative Content Fellow. During their fellowships, Lori and Leah will support research and outreach efforts as well as create content for TORCH's website and social media accounts. Additionally, they will learn about nonprofit management, digital marketing, and community engagement. Lori Moses majors in Psychology and Communication at the City College of New York. She has many interests, including creative writing, psychology, and nonprofit management. During her free time, Lori likes to read books on professional growth, cook for her family, and take care of her two cats. Lori states that one of her main goals as a Torch fellow is to “grow and become a sponge to understand what it’s like to help promote equity and come up with simple solutions. “ She would also like to expand her collaborative skills and marketing skills. Leah Tyus is a writer and VONA/Voices alum based in California. She received her bachelor’s degree from UC Berkeley in English Literature. Currently, she is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing from San José State University, where she is developing a novel-length project for her thesis. Her creative work has been published in the Berkeley Fiction Review and Orion Magazine. At SJSU, she works as the graduate assistant for the Center for Literary Arts assisting with internal and external communications as well as digital marketing; she is the Treasurer for the Diasporic Peoples Writing a collective; and lastly, she works as a freelance content writer for Grammarly and writing consultant at a local community college. 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Ambata Kazi-Nance is a writer, editor, and teacher born and raised in New Orleans, LA, and currently residing in the California Bay Area with her family. She holds an MA and MFA from the University of New Orleans. She is the Arts and Culture Editor at Sapelo Square. Her writing has been featured in Muslim American Writers at Home, midnight & indigo, CRAFT, Peauxdunque Review, Cordella, Mixed Company, and Love Insh’Allah (online). Currently, she is writing a novel. Visit Ambata's website and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. The Midwives by Ambata Kazi-Nance Stage brightens to reveal three Black women varying in ages from late 50’s to 70’s. They sit on throne-like chairs, wearing the clothes of regal African women. They are midwives, representing the Black American midwife tradition, known commonly as the granny midwives. The youngest is Candy Lynn. Like the sweetness her name implies, she wears a wax print blouse and skirt in a bright shade of pink. She clutches a hand-knit doll, also wearing pink, in her lap. The next is Jane. She carries a more aristocratic air. Her clothes are sapphire. The last is Ora, the oldest of the three. Gone is the gray dress and simple chignon. Now she wears a gown of emerald green, the color of wisdom. A high golden headwrap covers her hair. They look out boldly and assuredly at the audience. Candy Lynn is the first to speak. CANDY LYNN: The elder women, the midwives, they were always just…there in our community. Like the mailman or the store clerk, just an everyday fact of life. I never thought I’d be one, never saw myself doing that work. (Smiles and touches the doll in her lap) I only ever wanted to be a mother. From as young as I could remember, that’s all I wanted to be. (Primps the doll) Every year for Christmas, my mother made me a new doll. I had a little crib in my room just for them. Had them all laid up next to each other, nice and neat. I played with them too, picked them up one by one (she picks up the doll in her lap and holds it up lovingly, then snuggles it into her arms), talked to them, even got up in the night to tend to them. Had a little plastic milk bottle and cloth diapers and everything. Loved them like they were the real thing. (laughs lightly) Met James when I was sixteen. A blacksmith and a darn good-looking man, but it was the kindness in his eyes that won me. (smiles wistfully) Got married and set up house quickly, and got ready for the babies to come. (pauses, her voice turns sad) But the babies…they just…wouldn’t come. It was the strangest thing. I kept waiting and praying, praying and waiting…(shakes her head) nothing. Every month, watching the blood bloom, trying to read something in its scentless petals. Every month, cycling through hope, sadness, then grief. Over and over. When I reached thirty years of age, and still my womb was cold, I knew I needed to imagine something else, something different. It was during that time that a friend of mine, a sweet sister friend, asked me to sit with her during her labor. Said she saw it in a dream, clear as day, that I was supposed to be there. (looks matter-of-factly at the audience) You don’t argue with dreams. So I said yes. I was there with her for the whole thing. The midwife came and went, checking on her, but I stayed. Went on for days with hardly any rest. Fed her, walked with her, rubbed her back, gave her water. A cool cloth for her head and neck when she needed it. She rocked, I rocked. She swayed, I swayed along with her. Soon enough I was huffing and puffing and grunting along with her. (laughs) Her time came to let go. I don’t know how to explain it, it was just a shift in the air, a sudden stillness. Then the midwife pulled me over. She took my hands and pulled them down low where the head was coming out. Didn’t say anything, just thrust my hands down there like it was the most natural thing in the world for me to do. And the baby, he came out in a whoosh and I caught him (demonstrates with the doll). I caught him, just like that. (clutches the doll to her chest) And the feeling. The rush that spread through my body. It felt...it felt like I had given birth, just for a brief moment before I handed him off to his mother. I was crying. We were all crying. Mama, midwife, baby, and me. (laughs and wipes her eyes) Oh. (she shakes her head with nostalgia) (Sighs with satisfaction, then speaks starkly) Couple of things were born that day. A baby, a mother…and a midwife. (Looks directly at the audience) I never had a child of my own, no. But as a midwife, I became a mother of thousands. Pause. Spotlight moves to Jane. JANE: ‘Witches,’ they called them. ‘Conjure women.’ Never to their faces though. See, we had a little more than most folks at that time. Not a whole lot, but enough to make ourselves prideful. Enough to stuff some in our backbones to make ourselves taller, so we could look down on everybody else. Had no choice but to call on the midwives when their time came though, albeit grudgingly. Nobody else was coming out to deliver our babies. Or take care of the other things no one dared mention. They helped bring life into this world, but sometimes, maybe, they used ways to take it away too. Not every baby is joy, you see, depending on how it came to be. But we don’t like to talk about those things. For that reason, that suspicion, they were kept at arm’s length. Despite the names they called them, or maybe because of them, I was fascinated. They could look at the night sky and read the moon, and know who was about to give birth, and whose blood was coming. Often, they knew a woman was pregnant before she even knew. They could name all the plants, down to the littlest stubborn shrub bush, and tell you what each one was good for, and bad for too. ‘Magic’ the others called it. The word sizzled as it came out of their mouths. The heat pricked my ears and turned my eyes, carefully hooded, towards the midwives. I witnessed my first birth when I was twelve years old. By that point I was sneaking off whenever I saw the women walking determinedly through town with their black satchels firm at their side. They were always walking. I followed them as much as I could, except sometimes they walked so far I got tired or scared I’d get caught, and turned back. I followed one of them one day, an old woman, out to a little busted up shack, nothing but a few scrawny chickens pecking the dusty earth. I squatted down behind a tree a few feet away and waited, for what I don’t know. Must of fell asleep at some point. The bellows coming from the shack stirred me. The sun was going to bed and I knew I was going to get it when I got home, so I figured I’d make it worth my while and take a look-see. A fire was going at the hearth. The only light in the room. The birthing mother was on her knees clutching the back of a chair; the midwife hunched on a low stool behind her, kneading her lower back with her fists. I figured her arms had to be real strong to do that like that. Then she spoke. (her voice turns low and gravelly) “Girl, fetch some more water.” Couldn’t figure out who she was talking to since it wasn’t but the two of them. “If you’re gonna stand there in the shadows like that, you might as well do something useful.” She had seen me, but not with her eyes it seemed, for they never looked my way. I could’ve run, but I had no desire to. So I went and got a bucket of water. “And toss some more wood on that fire.” Soon enough she had me working. Setting up all the little pots that held different tools, little scissors and brushes, gathering freshly washed linens. Made me wash my hands real good before I could touch anything. Then the baby started making its way out into the world, bottom first, like it didn’t want to let go. Some might have been scared or turned sick, but not me. I didn’t flinch nor blink. I watched this woman open herself in a way that didn’t seem humanly possible and I knew then, women were magical beings. When my own blood came I took strength in it and told my mother I was going to train with the midwives. She had always accused me of being too womanish anyway, so what could she do? I certainly didn’t care what any uppity folks thought. I went with the midwives and I watched and learned the things they could do with just their hands. How they could reach into a woman and unwrap a caught cord without the mother knowing or feeling a thing. Use those same hands to mold and shape a newborn’s head and rub the life into them to free their cries. Caught my first baby when I was eighteen years old. By the time I was twenty, I was the one walking around town clutching my satchel. I could name all the plants and read God’s messages to the mothers in the night sky. (pause, she looks up to the invisible sky, then to the audience) Not everybody loved the midwives, you see, but they did respect them because, like me, they recognized their power. Pause. Spotlight turns to Ora. ORA: I was called to do this work when I was still in the womb myself. It was pressed into my soul by The Creator of All Things. Our ancestors that crossed the waters in chains carried nothing but their traditions. I am a descendent of the first Black midwives who stepped on these treacherous shores. I had to take our traditions and keep them alive. In a new world that didn’t love us, didn’t care for us, didn’t give a damn beyond the backbreaking work we did, we had to take care of each other. I learned the ways of the midwife from my mother. All us girls had a basic knowledge, but I was the only one who took to it, found myself within it. It was natural for me, foraging for herbs and roots with the women—chamomile and mint to calm the nerves, ginger to soothe the stomach, raspberry leaf to strengthen the uterus and prime it for birth. May apple and hot pepper to get the contractions going, black haw to ease pain. Sitting up with the mothers for long hours while they labored, it was where I felt most useful, most at home. (Gestures with her hands) My mother showed me how to use my hands to feel the baby inside the womb, how to turn the baby if it wasn’t in the right position. She could tell, just by looking at a woman, how she would give birth, and I learned, too. Twin babies, breech babies, feet first, we saw it all. We lost some babies, sure, some mothers, too. But it was rare. Midwife, partera, qabila (shrugs dismissively)…back home, we were simply called, healers. It doesn’t matter what you call us, really, for we have always been, and always will be, ‘with women.’ Ours was a time when we were everything: mother, nurse, doctor, and doula. These women weren’t strangers to us, and neither us to them. We knew them long before seeds were planted in their wombs. You do this work long enough and your hands are the first to touch two and sometimes three generations in one family. Our work is more than just catching babies though. Our work starts long before and continues long after the baby cracks the sky with that first cry. We have to be with the women every step of the way, making sure they are eating well and taking care of themselves. Give them a little gentle chiding when they aren’t. Mind the children and cook up a little something so she can rest. And make her feel good, too, pamper her a little. Comb her hair, massage her feet, rub a little rosewater into her temples, make her feel sweet. A mother needs to feel loved so she can give love. So we nurture them, and help them build up their strength for the hard work they have to do. And it is hard. Hardest thing a body will ever have to do. And maybe a fearful thing, too, but not so fearful that we can’t do it. Our history tells us we can and we have, from the very beginnings of time. CANDY LYNN: From Hawa, Eve, our first mother, we learned how to birth ourselves into this world. JANE: When Pharaoh called for the slaughter of the Israelite babies, it was the women, those blessed with the healing touch, who protected them. It was their chain of protection that shielded Moses from the slaughter, so that he could bring forth the divine message and save his people. The midwives feared no pharaoh because they answered to God, not man. CANDY LYNN: Maryam, alone and afraid, shook by pains that threatened to split her open, sought shelter and guidance, some means of comfort and assurance. The angel Gabriel brought her to a tree with leaves to shade her, and a trunk for her to rest her burden. From it dropped dates to strengthen her in her time of need. Sacred fruit to fortify her womb and her courage to birth the Messiah. She called to God and He answered, soothing her with the reminder that she had been chosen above all women to carry this gift to the world. Even the Creator is a midwife. ORA: Throughout time, through all traumas, we have been here, bringing the next generation into the light. The pulse of history sings an ancient, familiar song. Look within, and find your strength. Stage darkens. Note: The Midwives is an excerpt from the play M Power: A (Re)Birth Story by Ambata Kazi-Nance. ### 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.