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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.

Saida Agostini, author of Stunt and let the dead in, is a queer Afro-Guyanese poet whose work explores the ways Black folks harness mythology to enter the fantastic. Her work has been celebrated in numerous publications and supported by the Blue Mountain Center and others. Photo by Kafi D'Ambrosi 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. Visit Saida's website and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. notes on archiving erasure by Saida Agostini love does not begin and end the way we think it does. love is a battle; love is a war; love is a growing up - James Baldwin when I say I love my family what I mean is I worship the battle; you can’t wish away creation or re-order blood. childishly I thought we could re-tell story(ies) I mean to say, I can’t lie. in truth there are wretched days I call my sister and ask was this real? did this happen? she says nothing part of love can be called refusing to answer. my mother says let things lie she means murder it let our shame be a suffocating vine: we were made to believe that everything we bore was ugly: a family of shell shocked gods fleeing their own clay - yet, I will come back to the door of our own home sit at its steps, and fall in love with the slow order of our creation, the seasons it took to urge kindness into our natures. how we won glory even as the city fell. 2 fat black women are making love by Saida Agostini and the joke is right there, ready, shuddering and alive - rife with promise. there are so many paths that have been out worn out for a quick easy laugh: tyler perry strutting with a gun and wig, screaming rotund and loud like a madea would, martin calling out yo mama on television, or the meme of a young woman shot underhand her belly in love with a tight skirt, hands moving towards an open mouth, look at everything she devours imagine it: does it make you hungry too? 2 fat black women are making love, on a bed, on the floor, and they are weeping for joy - they are crying great folds of flesh flushing and shaking, one cannot look in the mirror save for thinking of her daddy - all this ugly and skin together, counts the men who say they hate her body as they do bitter cops and dead black boys. 2 fat black women are making love - and they touch each other like they can hold it. honeyed, profane, bawdy- like patriots, like their bodies have never been folded into freezers, screamed at on streets, coaxed or threatened sweet, like they have names, like we will know them. The Interview Your writing is rich with images of desire and love but also leans into the realities of pain and injustice. How do these subjects influence your work? Our bodies were built for pleasure. What a miracle of atoms. I think one of the prevailing tragedies of misogynoir and capitalism is that we as Black folks are constantly pushed to be divorced from our physicality and pleasure. Audre Lorde defines the erotic as a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. We have a right to our etiology, our chaos, our power. I want us to know the full scope of our power, and the history of it, what it took, what it continues to take to survive this beast called America. My work seeks to recount these histories, and offer a full-throated vision of Black freedom where our pleasure is never denied. Your poem “2 fat black women are making love” is a pixelated view of the ugliness hurled at Black women and the idea that they could be desirable. You even reference Tyler Perry’s character Madea as an example. Can you speak on the importance of art as a counter to negative stereotypes in media? I grew up hating my body. That’s not surprising. I’m a fat Black queer woman. A lot of my work is about asserting narratives that explore the wonder and beauty of fat Blackness. I have to admit I’ve stopped thinking about my art as a counter to mainstream media simply because I am tired of working day and night to prove I am worthy of the same humanity as whiteness. Rather, my aim simply is to celebrate and name what I know now to be an irrefutable and undeniable truth: I exist and so do my stories. In “notes on archiving erasure” there is a moment when a traumatic memory rises through the text - “there were wretched/ days I call my sister / and ask was this / real?” The response of silence is seen as a kind of love. The poem expertly demonstrates the lasting impact of trauma without naming the traumatic event. How do you prepare yourself to write through difficult subjects? Love. You know, trauma is a funny thing. I spent a lot of time running from it. I always wanted to be a strong woman, but I kept finding that these ghosts, the stories, and body memory of trauma kept haunting me. We talk a lot about possession and exorcism in Black religions, I remember my mother constantly worrying about the evil eye when I was younger, and how others might be seeking to harm us. I think she’s right in the sense that evil is always with us. How else could we explain centuries of state-sanctioned rape, enslavement, and family separation? We know evil like it's our kin. Truth-telling for me has been a practice of exorcism, laying hands. It’s been a way of building my own country where I am no longer at fault for the evil done to me, and the generations that have come before me, but a practice of honoring the great love it took for my people to survive here, on this land. It’s a glorious thing, to know and feel intimately that I am freer because my mother and her mother loved me. It’s a spell. Thinking of trauma as an evil that can be cast out has been a healing ritual. One that I keep coming back to right now, as we see so much evil wrought across our country. It helps me remember that we have lived through apocalypses before, and survived with joy. We have everything we need to be free. Both of these poems are from your latest collection let the dead in. What do you hope readers take away from the book? I hope folks take away a mandate to tell their stories. Silence is corrosive. We’ve got to find ways to name and rejoice in the complicated, weird, painful, and lovely histories that make us. It’s my hope that Black queer folks, survivors, and others navigating painful legacies find their way to this book, and remember that they are never alone. What is your must-have/do self-care practice? I always try to take time to just breathe each morning. It helps me come back to my body, connect to myself and remember that every great action starts with a breath. If you have $20, how are you treating yourself? Putting it towards a fabulous outfit! I love a good gown. You can travel anywhere in the world, where are you going and what are you doing first? I’m going to Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. I’d bring all my people - my wife, parents, sister, and best friends, and we’d rent a fabulous house right on the water, cook good food, go swimming, and dance to house music all day long. It’s a chill afternoon at home. What music is playing and what’s cooking? It will always be chicken curry, roti, and a roast mango custard pie on deck. I’m playing Try by Madison McFerrin, followed by the king, Luther Vandross’ Wait for Love and A House Is Not a Home. How can people support you? Buy my books, let the dead in, and STUNT. Follow me on IG and check out my website. If you’re in Philadelphia on August 6th, catch me and Teri Ellen Cross Davis for our reading at the African American Museum in Philadelphia Who is another Black woman writer people should be reading? Diamond Forde!!!! Her work is transcendent. If you haven’t bought a copy of her book, Mother Body, what are you doing with your life??? 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 is thrilled to announce that The Burdine Johnson Foundation has awarded TORCH a 2022 grant. These funds will support our fall 2022 programs including the Wildfire Reading Series, workshops, and artist fees for Monthly and Friday Features. We are grateful to receive their generous support that helps us fulfill our mission to create advancement opportunities for Black women writers. Every bit helps! If you or someone you know would like to invest in TORCH and the Black women writers we serve, email contact @ torchliteraryarts.org or click the button to donate. Motivated by the desire to enhance the quality of life for those in Hays County and Central Texas, the Burdine Johnson Foundation awards grants to local charitable organizations involving the arts, education, health and human services, the environment and historic preservation. 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.

Photo by Rebecca Bernstein Kameryn Alexa Carter is a black poet and assemblagist from Chicago. She is a founding co-editor of Emergent Literary, a journal for black and brown artists, and has an MA from the University of Chicago. Her work has appeared in 68to05, Bennington Review, Letters Journal, Puerto del Sol, Voicemail Poems, and elsewhere. Follow Kameryn on her website and on Instagram and Twitter. Self Portrait as Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy in the Style of Gentileschi by Kameryn Alexa Carter I retired the Mary Magdalene around my neck to a quaint embroidered box. The pressure of her devotion was too much to carry. I have trouble leveling and require a soft reminder of the double pole inside me. Seeking a refuge for my soul, where do I go but to the State Street preacher, who proclaims the word into a rattling portable microphone, flanked by Macy’s mothers shoving along their Dyson strollers. My phone is dead, so I ask if by chance he has the time, to which he replies now. Jesus is coming, been came, come back! Supposedly, the Son knows me by name. Supposedly if I call, he’ll answer. In the morning, having pushed on through the acute trouble, I acknowledge how far my mind has come from turning against and against itself. It’s too hot for anything but gazpacho. The trick is day old bread. Trouble don’t last. Not always. ### 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 and former Seattle Civic Poet, Anastacia-Reneé has received residencies from Cave Canem, Hedgebrook, VONA, Ragdale, Mineral School, and The New Orleans Writers Residency. Anastacia-Reneé (She/They)is a queer writer, educator, interdisciplinary artist, speaker, and podcaster. She is the author of(v.)(Black Ocean) and Forget It (Black Radish), Here in the (Middle) of Nowhere, and Side Notes from the Archivist forthcoming from Amistad (an imprint of HarperCollins). They were selected by NBC News as part of the list of "Queer Artist of Color Dominate 2021's Must-See LGBTQ Art Shows." Anastacia-Reneé was a former Seattle Civic Poet (2017-2019), Hugo House Poet-in-Residence (2015-2017), Arc Artist Fellow (2020), and Jack Straw Curator (2020). Her work has been anthologized in: Teaching Black: The Craft of Teaching on Black Life and Literature, Home is Where You Queer Your Heart, Furious Flower Seeding the Future of African American Poetry, Afrofuturism, Black Comics, And Superhero Poetry, Joy Has a Sound, Spirited Stone: Lessons from Kubota’s Garden, and Seismic: Seattle City of Literature. Her work has appeared in, Hobart, Foglifter, Auburn Avenue, Catapult, Alta, Torch, Poetry Northwest, A-Line, Cascadia Magazine, Hennepin Review, Ms. Magazine, and others. Renee has received fellowships and residencies from Cave Canem, Hedgebrook, VONA, Ragdale, Mineral School, and The New Orleans Writers Residency. Follow Anastacia-Reneé on anastacia-renee.com and on Instagram. Mothering by Anastacia-Reneé i. i never did think of motherhood as an act of rebellion (but) i wanted so desperately to be a rebel to throw my children across my breast & run with arrows in my cheeks picking off any dead thing trying to take my kids to hell piercing any rotting hand wrapping round their dangling ankles rubbing salt around all their edges circling every patchy part of kin ii. if i had known the body i spit out of my vagina was not big enough to hold your dreams i certainly would have stolen pieces of the sky & melted them down as gold to give you the blinging life your little heart beat for what a gracious shooting star you've become to let me see you born again your lipstick writing "do you see me" all over the fucking town iii. you took the talk so well we made eye to eye contact over macaroni & cheese all your anxiety curdling up around your elbows all my cheesy words melting around your hot brain we heavily analyzed a song from my 1988 teen mixed tape & sang like a made up rugged 80’s b-ban fuck the police but you were barely an 8th grader & i was mom so instead we said “eff the police” & we laughed so hard you said your neck hurt & when you got to a point where you laughed so hard you said mama, mama i can’t breathe what fun times they were how good it felt to send you off into the magical darkness of your safe bedroom to know that you’d be both happy & sleepy all in one shot & no residue of pain Look What I Made For You by Anastacia-Reneé i recall inside my little me how many times with loving child hands i made dandelion necklaces & matching bracelets for my mother i presented them with sweat & as an announcement me yelling tall though shorter than the blades of grass mommy look what i made for you look what i made for you look what i made for you look what i made for you & she took them so lovingly & never hesitated to put them on & if they didn't fit she'd take them apart remake them so that they would i recall inside my little me my third grade teacher lip pursing so matter-of-factly the words blowing out of her lipstick-ed mouth like a skinny cigarette dandelions are not flowers dandelions are weeds & they destroy all the good flowers yank them up whenever you see them so the rest of the flowers can really grow & just like that inside my little me i thought i had cursed my mother after learning the word curse from a walt disney character & then i wondered how many times i cursed my mother how many times did i put the noose around her neck & the shackle around her feet look look look how many times how many times how many times do we suffer even when the innocent are not to blame Videos of Anastacia-Reneé's Exhibition, (Don't be Absurd) Alice in Parts at FRYE Art Museum. Shared with the artist's permission. The Interview Your work as a multidisciplinary artist is deeply rooted in text. Do you build a performance or exhibition from the page out? Describe your process. Thank you. No one has ever asked me this question! I pour myself into the writing. When I notice that I am gravitating towards lengthier pieces of work, suites, or series and revisiting similar themes extensively, that’s when I say to myself “Perhaps this needs more attention and should live as a mixed-media installation or play,” then I ask the piece what it wants. The text then becomes an inhabitant of a stage or art space that I build my work in. Your exhibition and performance (Don’t be Absurd) Alice in Parts, is an explosive immersion into the interior and exterior life of Black women existing in everyday oppressive systems and experiencing the physical consequences of that experience. It’s tangible and unavoidable. What do you hope your audience will take away from the work? Alice is me. Alice is you. Alice is the put together and seemingly perfect woman “slaying it” in the boardroom or academia. Alice is the nonbinary person trying to get out of dark places using Audre Lorde and other writing ancestors as light. Alice is someone's preteen. Alice is the next door neighbor you never verbally speak to but throw a hand up at. Alice is the critical but fun auntie. Alice is your ex-best friend. Alice is a member of your sacred sister circle. That is the first thing I hope audience members take from (Don’t Be Absurd) Alice in Parts. I also want audience members who are not from the BIPOC community to “see” firsthand what many black women are moving through in the world on a daily, and hourly basis. I want to give statistics, social media posts and book club conversations an up close and in-person essence to experience. I also wanted Black women to feel seen, heard and understood though Alice does not represent all Black, her life experiences are shared by other Black women. Speaking for myself, I have been in very few spaces which center the multilayered experiences of Black women. I want deeper exploration as it relates to the systemic gentrification of black bodies. I understand you’ll be moving to New York soon. You’ve lived in Seattle for many years as a fixture in the arts and literary community. Why the transition now? It’s true, after living in Seattle Washington for the last 16 years, my wife and I are geographically relocating to New York! My wife was born and raised in Mount Vernon New York and their family is there. I have been a frequent visitor to New York and many literary community engagements have allowed me to be semi-bicoastal; however, in addition to those reasons I’ve been sitting with “knowing” that I need to expand my creative practices and visions to include an alternative energy. It’s been an “in process” thought for years but only recently have I decided to make the leap. I will miss lush-green-coffee-seen Seattle, and my child and my friends very much. In New York, I hope to build stronger community ties and make new connections that will push me to create, excavate and interrogate new multi-genre writing, art, and theater. I want more freedom to “play” and experiment as a mid-career writer and a somewhat late-stage emerging installation artist. I grew up watching “Fame” and I am a late bloomer. I am ready to dance on a few taxis and direct a flash mob. You have two new projects forthcoming from Amistad (an imprint of HarperCollins), Here in the (Middle) of Nowhere, and Side Notes from the Archivist. Can you give us a sneak peek into these projects? Sneak peek indeed! First of all, I am thrilled! I am so honored that Jennifer Baker (Senior Editor Amistad Books–HarperCollins) invested her time, energy, and expertise in me. I feel so honored to be a part of the Amistad team and she and Francesca Walker (Editorial Assistant–HarperCollins) have given my new work a safe and exciting place to live and grow. Side Notes from the Archivist (HarperCollins March 2023)is a poetry heavy book with emphasis on memoir, nostalgia, the body, and patriarchy from the archivist's point of view. Here in the Middle of Nowhere (HarperCollins 2024) is experimental prose with heavy emphasis on a “world” with vibrant characters and overlapping stories that all converge “(Here).” What advice would you give to those interested in building a diverse literary/performance career? Ten Things: You are on your own path so don’t compare yourself to others and their careers or paths. You may not always have a mentor-type, to “show you the way” but don’t be afraid to ask peers, colleagues, or folks/x you admire questions about aspects of your literary career. Embrace doubt. Self-doubt is part of the process. When you doubt that you are good enough, face it and say, “Hello doubt. I hear you but I’ve got work to do.” Don’t be afraid to edit and create new work while letting go of old work. If this is your career, of course you will write! You don’t need to hoard your own work. Make room for new ideas and new work. Know the difference between admiring and being positively influenced by someone's work and absorbing their work or style as your own work. Become a keen observer and frequent participant of all things creative: Read tons of books. Watch documentaries, Go to art museums. Travel. Learn a new language. Color. Paint. Listen to different types of music. Play an instrument. Dance. Cook. Less talking about writing and more writing. Know that some days thinking about what you’ll write, making lists or outlines counts as writing too. Stop waiting until you think you know it all and have done all the work before participating in “writerly” things. You are a writer whether you’ve completed a book or not. Participate or submit! Practice spiritual and earthly self-care and rest often. 10.5 Find an accountability buddy. If you find yourself in a creative rut, what do you do to get out of it? Every week I allow myself to become “obsessed” with topics. Preferably random subjects. For example: How mulch is made, the life cycle of dragonflies, or the most recent new creatures discovered in the ocean. These “obsessions” are kept in a journal full of vivid details, sometimes sketches and copious notes regarding my research “detours”. This way when I feel stuck or stagnant I have a whole world to turn to and I can pick and choose my topic and even use the material in new work I create. When you hear “joy” what do you think of? When I hear the word “joy” I think of my own steady heartbeat because for me I always have joy. No one can give it to me or take it away from me. What I work on is creating more moments of happiness, peace, and fun. In addition to your forthcoming publications, are there any other projects you’re working on? I’m writing a new play (think A Christmas Carol meets Butler, Simone and Lorde) , a series of photography and art around the subject of “chosen” family and “chosen” enemies, season four of The Deep End With Friends Podcast with co-star Reagan Jackson, and always, a book of hybrid work clearing its throat in my ear. How can people support you right now? Thank you for asking this question. People can support me by investing in other Black women and queer black women who are working hard! Buy their books, attend their plays, listen to their podcasts, collect their art, and fund their grants. They can email me if they are interested in taking one of my virtual classes, manuscript consultation or $30/30 monthly writing prompts @ anastaciarwriter@gmail.com Name another Black woman writer people should read? How much time do I have for this question? :) Just one? Lorraine Hansberry (playwright). I feel her work as a writer is often understated or overlooked. All which I feel I must write has become obsessive. So many truths seem to be rushing at me as the result of things felt and seen and lived through. Oh, what I think I must tell this world. -Lorraine Hansberry ### 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.

Summer 2022 Administrative Fellows Creative Content Fellow Through this role, the Creative Content Fellow will learn social media management, brand development, and digital content writing. You can expect to gain experience working on: ​ • social media content - from design to post - across TORCH accounts • writing content for TORCH’s website and print materials • researching marketing and advertising trends in publishing ​ Development Fellow Through this role, the Development Fellow will learn donor management systems, support community outreach efforts, and research government and foundation grants. You can expect to work on: ​ • updating TORCH’s contact database • creating surveys and compiling results • researching grants and nonprofit fundraising trends The average time commitment for these positions is 4 to 5 hours per week and runs from July 11 to August 5. Each fellowship is provided a stipend of $500 (the equivalent of $25 per hour). These positions work remotely. ​ Qualifications: You must be a college student and/or an emerging nonprofit professional to apply. Preferred candidates should demonstrate an investment in our values and mission statement, as well as an interest in literature, arts and culture, and/or nonprofit management through previous internship roles, projects, or experience. ​ How to apply: Send an email with a cover letter and resume to contact@torchliteraryarts.org. Deadline May 27, 2022