Search Results

Dr. Robinson-Dukes is a Professor of English at the City Colleges of Chicago. She teaches African-American Literature, Women’s Literature, Introduction to Poetry, and all levels of English Composition. In addition, she is the editor of the annual poetry anthology Brownstone Barrio Bards. Finally, she has been published in The Carolina Quarterly, Atlanta Review, Meridian, Salamander, and other journals. I was raised with house music in the gay clubs of Chicago by Rochelle Robinson-Dukes On the north side, LaRay’s Disco hidden like a pimp in the shadows next to a Pepper’s Waterbeds that offered not one penny down to purchase a bed of buoyancy for your sex life. Those of us who had fucked standing up didn’t see the need for water or extra motion. We moved like a pride of pride dressed in neon and black, wearing suede bucks or leather penny loafers, which were better for dancing but horrible for snow, which lasted for three months, minimum. We sashayed through the doors after paying one whole dollar to dance to the melodies, melodies, melodies, to bring down the walls, to move as one big sexual wave of blackness and brownness, straight and gay because baby wants to rise for love, wants to be the godfather of house music while gyrating around sweat-drenched strangers and closeted friends who wore Wham’s Choose Life sweatshirts because gay men didn’t have children back then, couldn’t get married, but could dance and sweat and fuck in the bathrooms that security monitored sporadically like teenagers babysitting siblings. Then, at five am, before sunrise, between the clear line of black codes and white people, we filed out like exhausted zombies, felt the cold Chicago hawk hit us face first, reminding us that we were still black and queer and had to drive home quickly to our southside, to our barrios, to our ghettos, to the other places that taught us we were loved way before the music claimed us, we were loved in the marginalized silences of color and sex. 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.

The Torch Literary Arts board of directors unanimously voted to elect Dr. Sequoia Maner and Candace Lopez as its newest members. They begin their two-year terms in March 2022. Dr. Sequoia Maner is an Assistant Professor of English at Spelman College where she teaches classes about 20-21st century African American literature and culture. She is the 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 in summer 2022 (Bloomsbury). Candace Lopez is a non-profit professional with over 14 years of experience in Fundraising and Development. She is a Development Generalist with a specialization in individual giving, program development, and operational efficiency. She is humbled to have raised money for organizations in Austin, San Antonio, Los Angeles, and the San Francisco Bay Area. Her fundraising portfolio is diverse and spans various causes including civil liberties, the arts, higher education, domestic violence, and gender equity. She currently serves as the Chief Philanthropy Officer for Horizons Foundation in San Francisco, the first community foundation of, by, and for LGBTQ people. Read their full bios on our About page. 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 featured in Austin Woman Magazine's "Give Back" series. L-R: TORCH Amanda Johnston, Ebony Stewart, and ena granguly. Photo by Cindy Elizabeth Give Back: Torch Literary Arts — Visibility & Representation Matter by Jess Bugg What was your thought process when starting Torch Literary Arts? I started Torch Literary Arts in 2006 to reserve a virtual space for Black women writers. As a Black woman writer, I’ve experienced the challenges of race, class, and gender discrimination. I wanted to provide an outlet where other women like me could share their work unapologetically and celebrate each other. Our mission has always been to publish and promote Black women writers on our website. Over the years, we’ve grown to include programs like our Wildfire Reading Series which features authors at local independent bookstores and workshops for writers at all stages of their careers. Torch Literary Arts recently celebrated its 15th anniversary. Speak about the relaunch and the importance of this milestone. The relaunch has been amazing. The pandemic has been hard for everyone. Over the last two years, I had time to think and assess how Torch was serving our community. What was needed. Along with my board of directors, we decided to relaunch and build on our years of experience with a stronger foundation and enhanced programs. We applied for and received our 501(c)(3) nonprofit status, created a new publishing model to increase online [author]features to over 64 per year, continued our Wildfire Reading Series in-person and online, provided writing workshops and planned for a week-long retreat in Austin. We also pay all of our featured authors for publishing their work. Everyone should be paid for their work. But as artists, it is also an important sign of validation that will have a lasting impact on their writing careers. This relaunch is the groundwork to grow Torch Literary Arts into a destination online and in Austin for Black women writers and readers around the world. Read the full interview with TORCH founder/executive director, Amanda Johnston, online. ### 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.

Erica Nicole Griffin is a scholar and consultant. She holds a PhD in the sociological foundations of American system from Arizona State University where she won a writing year fellowship to support that research. Her academic background informs her ideas about love, revolution, retribution, eternity, and rest, and how those might show up in the Black imagination. Currently, she is building two collections. The first features short revenge fantasies and the second is a collection of love poems where the Black girl always wins. Erica Nicole was born and raised in Atlanta. She lives there with her two children. Visit her website and follow her on Twitter. As Cool As You Please by Erica Nicole Griffin Monday Self-care for Susan was coffee. Every morning. Step one: grab the door handle. Step two: enter the shop and quietly affirm what Susan hoped was ultimately true: I am worthy. I am loved. I am successful. Step three: feet square on the welcome mat, pause, assume a tadasana. Her feet were the base of the mountain, with her toes and heels acting as the four corners and her crown of blond curls pulled into a messy top knot - the apex. Step four: soften the spine and relax the jaw, the palms, and the brow. Take two breaths and release all thought, wonder, worry, and expectation. With that clarity and freedom, Susan was primed for step five: Kinesha. Kinesha was the favorite among the regular customers. She was attentive, memorized the nuances of their drink orders and nodded graciously at the broken mugs and puddles of vanilla milk that their dogs and toddlers left for her to clean. When Susan came into Coffee Shop six months ago, with her mascara in ribbons below wet, red eyes, Kinesha lit up. In a beat, she stepped away from the register and went to Susan. Kinesha clasped Susan’s hands in her own while she listened to Susan sputter on about her divorce, shitty friendships, and downslide at work. Since then, Kinesha was Susan’s lighthouse. And each morning this millennial, Black girl, with the endless braids would smile a smile that guided Susan safely to port. On the first Monday of the seventh month Susan spied a stranger. There were always two baristas at the registers. Susan recognized the skinny, ginger boy on the left with his fumbling fingers and wrinkled shirt; Patrick, or Pete or something. To his left was the stranger. She was a Kinesha-type for sure, but not. She didn’t have long braids. Instead, there were dreadlocks would have brushed her shoulders if they weren’t wrapped in a white cloth around her head. And she wasn’t smiling in Susan’s direction. She wasn’t unsure or frenzied in front of the busy line like Patrick-Pete and she wasn’t expecting Susan. She just was. Susan filled her belly with courage and breath and made her way over. On her exhale she a recognized a commonplace snobbery in affluent neighborhood stores. Customers who were in cue to order from the stranger were stepping out of her line and cueing up for Patrick-Pete. The upside of having regular customers was a fantastic tip rate. The downside was that they didn’t trust new baristas to perfect their orders. These people had been spoiled by Kinesha, and would rather order from Patrick-Pete than risk a bad coffee experience with the newbie. Pathetic. Susan judged her people. When it was Susan’s turn, she smugly slid up to the new barista’s register, met her name tag and then her eyes. “Hi, Maya. You’re a new face behind the counter!” “Welcome to the 16th Street Coffee Shop. Would you like to try the Pumpkin-spiced latte?” Maya’s boilerplate was forgivable. It was her first day, after all. She would learn soon enough that Susan would die before drinking anything pumpkin-spiced and that it was never necessary upsell to anyone here. In fact, the full tip jar depended upon making regulars feel like regulars. “Um, no! I don’t get how people can drink that stuff!” Susan smiled big and paused so that Maya could step into her clear opening for banter. Instead, Maya put her eyes into Susan’s and continued with the sell. “Okay. What can I get started for you today?” “A medium Earl Grey tea, with two packets of honey in the cup before it is prepared. Can you be sure to double cup?” Susan was now genuinely concerned about her order. “Yes, I will. That will be $2.69. If you have a chip on your card, feel free to insert ‘right there’.” Maya’s focus never left Susan’s face, but her expression seemed to not read Susan at all. Susan felt like she was talking to an AI panel on a vending machine. As she paid, Susan gazed at Maya. She certainly was a fresh, delicate thing. Her nose was dusted in freckles and there was just enough blush on her cheeks to match the pink gloss on her lips. She also had a tattoo tucked behind her ear. It was tough to make it out. Something like a circle with little bird-like feet. Maya’s voice interrupted Susan’s inspection. “Do you need a receipt?” “Nope. Thanks.” “Okay. Jude, down at the bar, will prepare your drink and have it ready for you momentarily.” Before Susan could step away, Maya called out “next” to emptiness. People were still avoiding her to order from Patrick-Pete. Tuesday Susan was late and took a millisecond to be a mountain. Then the sight of Maya soured the breath in her belly. She did notice, however that a few customers had chosen to give their orders to Maya. Mission accomplished, Susan thought. “Good morning. You want an Earl Grey, right? Honey. Double Cup?” Maya remembered Susan. “Yes, that is perfect. So, how is your second day here treating you?” “It’s fine.” Those eyes swiveled away from the Susan’s, to the screen, to the card reader and back. “That will be $2.69. Feel free to use the chip reader.” She gave the credit card machine a light tap. “So, are you at this store permanently? Have you replaced the other barista? Kinesha?” “Yes.” Maya then turned to Jude and called out the order. They exchanged smiles. Jude winked over his shoulder. Susan snatched her credit card from the reader and shoved it back in her wallet. _____________ “Yeah, she is the new register barista. She’s good on the bar, too though.” Jude was annoyed that Susan split his attention with messiness. After all she was just one pair of longing eyes in the bog of blondes pooling up against his bar. They thought he was cool. For some it was enough that his forearm flexed as he mixed drinks. Others would cut the angles of his jaw and the waves in his hair, stash them away and paste him back together in their sheets at night. Each one had laid next to her husband and still took her time thinking through the options with Jude. Some imagined climbing his spine and perching on his shoulders. Others wanted to come home and find him stranded on their stoops, hungry and in need of food and fresh clothes. Some delighted in an assault. His hands snatching up her skirt and so on. In reality, their breathy consumption every morning left Jude’s shirt dingy and his skin dry. “Well,” Susan was careful not to appear like a gossip, “What about Kinesha? Did she move away?” “Nah. She enrolled in State and sometimes picks up shifts at the campus Coffee Shop. But she doesn’t work here anymore.” Jude glanced toward the bog. “Oh, I knew she dreamed of graduate school. I just didn’t think she was enrolling this semester. I wonder why she didn’t tell me. We’re good friends.” Susan said more to herself than Jude. Jude chuckled. “Were you?” “Sure,” Susan was surprised by his snark. “You’ve seen us. We were thick as thieves.” “Nah, it’s cool.” Jude’s jaw flexed a bit as he devoted all of his focus back on the bar. Wednesday Susan spent her time in line evaluating Maya. Her dreadlocks were resting on her shoulders. She was objectively young. Her skin stretched along her cheekbones with a sheen. And those freckles. They dusted her nose and chin and even her lips. Her collarbone and jaw line were pronounced; she was thin. Ingenue thin. She also had several piercings with delicate studs and hoops rising up the ridges of both ears. She was beyond beautiful. She was elegant. It was a provocation just to look at her. The shop was in the middle of a rush and Maya’s line was now longer than Patrick-Pete’s. Her shoulders rose and fell as she handed each a customer a drink. Her head would glide to and fro when she called a new espresso order to Jude. Even her breathing seemed musical. Susan measured her inhales with the rise and fall of Maya’s bust. By the time they were face-to-face she had composed a hymn in her honor and was involuntarily swaying to the beat. “Welcome to Coffee Shop. Do you want your regular tea today?” “You’re very beautiful, you know that?” Susan instantly lowered her head in shame. It was a bid. A bad one. “I do.” Maya replied. Her barren intensity gutted Susan. “Well,” Susan began with a stutter, “That’s good. A woman like yourself should know it. You should be self-aware and confident.” “Will you be having your regular tea today?” Susan ignored procedure, “You know, you aren’t very friendly. Kinesha was friendly. And interested. She was kind!” This was an unplanned pivot. Susan hadn’t quite decided whether or not she would complain about Maya. But it certainly felt right. “This is my third day ordering from you, and you seem really annoyed or something.” Susan remained in place, staring back at Maya, fully aware that this manipulation was a gamble. What if this didn’t work? What if Maya lashed out in defense of her professionalism? Then again, it could all be worth it. And if the start of their relationship had to be Maya apologizing for poor customer service, Susan could live with that. She could work with that. “Would you like to speak to a manager?” “No.” Susan hissed and leaned forward for discretion. “I just- I just wondered if I had done something to offend you.” Maya had not even flinched at the idea of her manager getting involved. The gamble was a loss. Maya might never engage. Susan’s breath singed her lungs. “Here is your tea.” Maya connected with Susan’s watery eyes as she took eons to slide the cup of tea across the counter. “You cunt.” Susan whispered. This wasn’t a gamble. It was genuine. Here Susan was on the verge of tears Maya doubled down. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Maya was just a piece of shit person who refused to engage the kind human beings around her. As the first tear fell, there was the slightest jolt in one of Maya’s eyebrows. It wasn’t affection or contrition. It was offense. Maybe even anger. Ah yes! Susan could work with that. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” Susan gushed and brought a jittery hand to her mouth in shock. “I can’t believe I just said that. I am just so upset because, well, because of my own issues and I took it out on you. I’m just so sorry!” Said the eyebrow, “Do you want your receipt?” “No, no. Please hear me out. Please don’t be mad.” Susan shook her head furiously causing her yellow curls to bounce out of her top knot. It wasn’t working. She was losing and executed an utterly ridiculous strategy. She reached up to Maya’s cheek and caressed it like she would the face of a heartbroken child. When her fingers landed Susan was scandalized by texture. It was silken. Susan hadn’t realized it, but the freckles had given her the irrational impression that Maya’s skin was grainy and rough. It wasn’t. It was sublime; almost as if she had brushed her fingers against cold cream. Susan’s eyes were still closed in awe when she felt the weight of Maya’s hand swat her face so hard that she was knocked to the floor. Later After Maya hit her, the whole shop fell into chaos and the manager intervened on Susan’s behalf. He collected her off the floor and pleaded with her to forgive and forget. For a reward, Susan was given a year pass to any Coffee Shop in the world and a lifetime pass to the 16th Street Coffee Shop. In addition, she could expect a call from corporate to negotiate further restitution. And although the manager made a public spectacle of firing Maya, she left angry, but without complaint or ceremony. The dilemma persisted behind every moment of her day and greeted her in the morning. For the first Thursday in six months, Susan went straight to work. She drank tea from the break room and repeated her affirmations in a bathroom stall. Friday Susan pulled on the door of Coffee Shop and stepped over the welcome mat and passed the registers. Her heart was already racing and joy was rising once again. Kinesha was there. She wasn’t behind the counter. She was sitting at a table in plain clothes. She was bent over a book reading and taking notes. Her braids cascaded over bare shoulders that Susan had never seen. Susan hung back a bit to watch her friend for a moment. She was as perfect as ever. And not alone. While studying she was also chatting with others at the table. Eventually, Susan bounded over to the table and let out an eager: “Hi stranger!” Kinesha glanced up and caught her old friend’s eyes just long enough to reply, “Sorry, this seat is taken.” And back down to her notes she went. “Um, Kinesha?! Don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Susan from 16th Street! Jude told me you worked at the university Coffee Shop sometimes, so I figured I’d drop by.” Kinesha glanced back up. “I know who you are. Seat’s taken, though.” Those eyes. That face. It was Kinesha alright, but she wasn’t the bright light welcoming Susan to shore. Susan’s knees buckled. She might have heard a laugh or two. She wasn’t sure. She was sure, however, that she was not Kinesha’s friend. She wasn’t Maya’s friend. She wasn’t married. She wasn’t loved or worthy or successful. She wasn’t a mountain. She was something else. It was that something else that quickened Susan’s spine and stiffened her palms. She lifted up off her heels and pressed her toes down as she towered over Kinesha and locked her hands around Kinesha’s neck. The squeeze was extraordinary. Her cells luxuriated in seeing Kinesha’s face animate from shock to anger to terror. Susan squeezed tighter. Surely there was more Kinesha in there. And she was right. Kinesha’s mood shifted to desperation as she clutched Susan’s wrists, hopelessly wrenching them outward. Kinesha’s friends joined in. They mauled Susan from every angle. For Susan, each impact was a revelation. In the midst of the scrum, she took note of the shades of brown around her. The hair, the voices, and bodies. They were a Broadway company, and she was the principal. She could hear chaos and smell her own blood as it broke from her face, dripped down and mingled with the sweat on Kinesha’s terrified brow. The breeze of the melee whooshed up and through her blouse. It cooled her skin. With her thumbs barely gripping Kinesha’s throat and the friends overtaking her completely, Susan took two breaths and closed her eyes and was made whole. ### 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.

In celebration of Women's History Month, Torch Literary Arts is proud to share this heartfelt remembrance on the power of sisterhood - both blood and chosen - in honor of our dear friend and 2006 & 2008 TORCH feature, Kamilah Aisha Moon. Photo by Rachel Eliza Griffiths. L-R: Lakie, Aisha, and Niya Moon Everyday Sisters by Elizabeth de Souza I got to experience the storied magic of Hedgebrook, a residency for women writers, only because the dearly-missed poet Kamilah Aisha Moon urged me and urged me and urged me to apply. We'd met at MacDowell in 2019 and became close. At some point, Aisha proposed that we exchange new writing each week, if only a few sentences. She called it Fresh Flow Fridays. She always sent me hers. Me—sometimes. One frantic Friday I sent her a flash-nonfiction piece that was far from fresh. I’d composed ”The Color of Nana’s Wish" almost a decade earlier. Writing it helped me process something unthinkably painful that another sister-friend had endured years ago. Aisha's response was lightening-quick. “You HAVE to submit this,” she said. “So many places will want it. Let me know if you need suggestions where to send.” Her words were a balm. Catching the cross-rhythms of the piece had been tricky, and I wasn’t sure it was hitting the right notes. So when Aisha called it “a timeless portrait of humanity at its best and worst, simultaneously,” it gave me peace. I thought of her when I finally took her advice and began looking for a home for “The Color of Nana’s Wish,” just as I had thought of her a year earlier while crossing the Puget Sound by ferry, my face wet with sea-mist, headed to Whidbey Island to join the sisterhood of writers at Hedgebrook. I think of her all the time, still in disbelief that she left us so soon, not long after her 48th birthday this past September. After the piece was accepted at Torch Literary Arts as part of the publication’s rebirth, I was perusing their website and came across a photo of Aisha, smiling at me from across time. Smiling because unbeknownst to me, she'd contributed to TORCH’s original launch more than fifteen years ago. Smiling because that’s how she always showed up to support her writer-sisters; with joy and luminescence. “The Color of Nana’s Wish” was published in January. It ran under a section called Friday Features, which I now think of as Fresh Flow Fridays. Seeing it among other works for and by Black women caused me to reflect on the timelessness of sisterhood: how Aisha was born a few years after me, yet still counsels and guides me as an older sister would. How she shares a love with her two blood sisters, both of them younger, that is vast and expansive as the heavens above. How impossible it seems that a word we both used like currency now belongs to her: “ancestor.” And how the word “sister” carries a special meaning among Black people, managing to be at once broad, specific, historical and achingly current. As a sister who never had one growing up, I cherish those I find along with way. Which is why TORCH is the perfect place to find Aisha, along with other sisters yet unknown, again and again, as we celebrate our forever-bond; one that changes with time, but never disappears. ### Elizabeth de Souza is a writer and curator with a special focus on the arts emerging from the African diaspora. She is particularly interested in the mysterious link between artistic genius and mental health. Elizabeth earned her MFA in creative writing from George Mason University and has received awards, fellowships, and grants from MacDowell, Hedgebrook, Twelve Literary Arts, and Creative Capital, among others. Her essays have appeared in print and online publications such as Southern Indiana Review, Callaloo, Surface Design Journal, Solstice, and the Journal of Baha’i Studies. Her first book, Sleeping in the Fire: Reclaiming the Lost Legacy of M. Bunch Washington and Other Seminal Black Visual Artists in America, is forthcoming. She is the Director of the Bunch Washington Foundation, which she co-founded in 2021 with her brother, journalist and filmmaker, Jesse Washington, to support Black painters and sculptors. Elizabeth currently lives in the Pittsburgh area with her husband and two young children. Follow her online at her website and on Twitter and Instagram. 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.

Shop BookWoman in-store AND online March 16 & 17 and 10% goes to Torch Literary Arts. All items are eligible for a 10% donation to Torch Literary Arts. You can also purchase items online and have them shipped to you. Thank you for supporting independent bookstores, Torch Literary Arts, and Black women writers! ebookwoman.com 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.

Literary gangster/seasonal romanticist. Boloere Seibidor—B.S—is an African writer, her work featured on The Temz Review, Feral Journal, Neologism, and others. She is largely inspired by music and art and all things beautiful, unnamed. Say hi on Twitter @ BoloereSeibidor, where she fondly calls herself a black swan. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram. Obsessed by Boloere Seibidor 160 Irene snaked through the aisles in the mall, heading for the toiletries section. If she ran into anyone she knew—and the chances were always high—it would result in a minute of awkward hi's. And if the person was a woman old enough and blessed with the ancient northerly wisdom, she would take one look in her eyes and know. She picked up a packet of Cadbury as she reached grocery and stared at it dubiously, weighing the money she had on her, and weighing it on a scale of importance. One might have thought she was having a conversation with the sealed beverage. “Looking for something, miss? Can I help you?” The man was dressed in the mall’s official navy blue uniform with stripes of orange on the arm. A startled Irene let the Cadbury drop from her hand to the polished floors with a deep thump. Clumsy as always. She muttered profanities to herself, picked it up, and inspected for a tear. There was none. A relieved sigh. “Didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He adjusted his collar with hands that left a damp streak on his shirt. She nodded, trying to pick sensible words from the jumbled nonsense she was mumbling. It was her first time seeing him despite being a regular. Also, his chirpy, vivacious manner suggested that he was new. His smile was elegant for a salesman, illuminating strikingly dark eyes, as the light bouncing off his teeth braces gave to an effortless glitter. She smiled back. “You didn’t.” “Nene!” Gomezga called from the aisle facing hers with a glare that meant focus. The salesman shriveled away like a scolded dog as she resettled the scowl on him. The same scowl she gave every guy who so much as looked at her with a lingering gaze. Gomezga didn’t hate men, she claimed, but if she had to choose between living with one or becoming an owl, she hoped the animals would welcome her. “You didn’t have to be rude,” she said to her on their way out, slightly crossed. “I didn’t say a word to him.” Gomezga, so raven and stone-faced, had sweat tearing down the brawny edges of her face and shoulders. She was dressed in loose clothing and a floppy hat, else she would have been complaining about the Lagos sun and its murderous tendencies. Just before they exited the mall, Irene’s eyes caught on the thin pink box between a pack of Longrich tampons and toothpaste. Her heart beat twice in the same second and sank to the hollow pit of her stomach. After casting a surreptitious quick glance, Gomezga being ahead of her, she snatched it and tucked her hand underneath her shirt. The doorman was fond of her, so even though she acted a bit curious, he let her through. It was a short distance from the mall to their apartment and they arrived ten minutes later. She left her bag on the carpet and hurried into the room before Gomezga followed her. Her hands were sweaty, quivery, and her lips shuddered subconsciously in prayer. It’d been years since she’d spoken to the big guy. Irene took off her jewelry. For accuracy. Then she stood on the weight scale. Her heart pounded loudly, dampening the hope in her chest as she felt the machine's silent buzz underneath her feet, calculating, freezing on its final figure. She took a deep breath after a minute and looked down at the scale, her jaws clenched tight enough to hurt. 160 *** She stayed awake at night to read a copy of Ocean Vuong's novel but only made it to the second chapter. Gomezga snored too loud and it was impossible to sink in anything in the frustration, so she stepped out to the verandah. The air outside was welcoming, but the mosquitoes were wild and famished, so she didn’t stand a chance there either. She settled in the parlour, pinched by the two noises. Pulling her cheeks was all she could do to keep from sleeping, but even then she would doze off and hit her head against the lamp. When she dozed off this time, she slapped herself hard across the cheek. Then she opened the book once again. Gomezga had finished it in one seating. She had to, had to finish it tonight. Four hours ago before her roommate had woken her up for grocery shopping, she had been out like a light, saliva drooling over her favorite couch. That was five hours of sleep that day if she calculated the extra hours she had stolen after morning chores. It was barely midnight now and her eyelids felt like Atlas. It was true that she slept too much nowadays; too much sleep meant extra weight. How else did she move from 140lbs to 160lbs in less than two weeks? Where did the flabby skin and swollen cheeks come from? With a book slouched underneath her breasts and the candle flickering in the breeze, her eyes caught on a loaf of bread. It was beside the box-shaped LED television, on a small stool occupied by everything; make-up, CDs, blue pens, a black bra. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until then. *** The brazing sunlight wasn’t the first thing her eyes opened up to. It was Gomezga's hard, angry face staring at her through an empty bread nylon worn over her head. Irene squinted to be sure she was not dreaming, then she frizzled into laughter. It was always hilarious how Gomezga could be so mad, and yet, helplessly theatric. “It costs seven hundred naira, Nene. Break your piggy bank and give me back my money.” “So you think I have to pull out my life’s savings for seven hundred naira?” “Are you going to prove me wrong?” Gomezga stamped her hands on her waist, beneath a belly fold. She had the accent of an avid Ugandan, but was of deep Malawian descent. “I’ll get you your bread back . . . If you let me have a peaceful morning rest.” She scoffed and swapped a cotton wool, damp with rosewater facial cleanser over her face. “It’s almost noon. You sleep like a pile of bricks.” Irene jumped, cursing loudly and racing to the room. She pulled down the green linen which did little in terms of concealing and stripped out of her nightgown. She had an interview and could not be late. Screaming in fury at her dishevelment, she grabbed the ends of her golden-tinted afro. When she reached the bathroom, which was a small untiled corner in the narrow passageways, Gomezga was already in it, singing in a foreign language. “Oh, Gome! I’ll be late.” “You woke up a quarter to eleven—” “Never mind, I’ll join you. No wahala.” She didn’t like having to shower with Gomezga, even though it was the one time there was softness in her gaze, felinity in her poise. And sometimes, she felt it wasn’t a mistake when their bodies randomly grazed. *** Lagos traffic was the absolute worst. The cars were jammed like pieces of Lego, moving an inch through every five minutes. The sun flamed like a giant stove. Snack and drink vendors shoved their heads against the window, imploring your patronage, demanding it. And all you could do was sit there and try not to lose your mind. Irene, in frustration, gave the driver of the rickety taxi fifty naira and flagged down a bike. She was wearing a beautiful, moth grey gown that easily caught to sharp edges, but what choice did she have? If she didn’t get to the interview on time, she would lose her chance. That was something she could not afford — not after four years of trial. She held on to the biker's shoulder as he sped down the highway, her chest leaning to his back. His lips raised in a smile and he increased the speed. *** By the time she got to the hotel where the interview was being held, her hair was a mess from the ride. Brown petals from masquerade trees that straddled Lolade Abbey fell from her afro as she cushioned it into place. The interview room was on the fourth floor, in a coolly conditioned hallway with homely art and soft-skinned furniture. “Here for the interview?” A bald woman wearing retro-styled round glasses and a dress that looked more like an apron than an English-styled pinafore asked her. She halted, breathless in front of a number of girls like her, sharing the same smug look. Like her, they were pretty. Like her, they were here for a spot at Maiden Voyage. And while she had troubles in selecting the perfect dress for the interview, the other candidates were barely clad, flaunting long, shapely legs. “You’re late. What’s your number?” “022.” She scrolled down a tablet, then paused. “Past. You’ll be back next year.” “W-what?” Irene stuttered. Her knees weakened beneath her. The woman walked away. There were collective snickers from the girls; one lousy northerner—she could tell from her tribal indents—popped a bubble gum so loud and the girls laughed as it splattered across her face. “Candidate 052!” the woman called. A slender, light-skinned girl with large eyes strutted forward. She winked at Irene, who now was one less competition to worry about. *** 180 The scale read 180. “You should throw away that damn board if it’s going to give you a heart attack someday.” Irene didn’t hear Gomezga come in and was startled by her entrance. “I think you’re obsessing over your body, anyone would love and accept you the way you are!” She was shouting. “Anyone but Maiden Voyage.” It’d been three weeks since the interview and she still had not gotten over it. “For five years! Five fucking years!” Gomezga sighed and pulled off her heels, looking at her curves through the mirror. She had recently started to work out. “I left Malawi because it just wasn’t working for me. If modelling isn’t working for you, let it damned be.” She had come too far to quit. Years before she met Gomezga, she watched a video of a local girl who blew up to become an international model. The program was inspiring. She thought herself qualifiedly beautiful—spotless milky skin and tall height. Her stomach remained flat regardless of how much she ate. Her figure was effortless, curved in all the right places, in right proportions. The envy of girls her age as she grew and the attraction of men old enough to be fathers. At fifteen, she came across a modelling agency that was hiring. The manager was a middle-aged westerner, whose picture of his wife and daughter was the first thing you saw when you stepped into his office. It came as a shock when he politely asked her to pull off her bra when he was alone with her. Of course, she hadn’t. So he spread rumours of her coming into his office to bribe him, and upon his stern disapproval, seduce him. Mr. Gordon was the director of Sherry’s Palace. She met him when she was nineteen. He was handsome and richly exotic, so it had felt right. Late-night driving through the streets of the city, the ones with flashy colourful lights; visiting his mansion on the island and cooking for him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt; getting drunk and giving in to his touch. He was the first man she had ever allowed to own her so completely. They warned her that he was a playboy and would break her heart—every girl, no matter how beautiful she was, was only a passing phase in his life. She hadn't listened. Last Christmas Eve, he threw her things out on the subway over a small stupid fight. The next day, he renovated her room for his Sierra Leonean mistress. She had not been able to forgive him yet, nor had she been able to stop loving him. *** 195 She stared at the scale angrily as though it was fabricating the number, then she went out to smoke. She burnt a full pack of Benson & Hedges before Gomezga’s red Peugeot 308 pulled up in the driveway. Gomezga walked her in and gave her a hug. “You’ll be good,” she said. “You’re a very pretty woman.” Her accent was really cute when she said words like, “pretty” and “calm.” She held Gomezga’s cheeks and she flinched a bit. Then Gomezga pulled her in and kissed her on her lips. Irene’s lips were cracked from smoking, but Gomezga’s felt so soft and nice. How was she so soft? She opened her eyes and they were on Gomezga’s favourite couch, hands searching each other’s body. *** 212 “How long have you known?” Gomezga found the pregnancy tube test in the backyard where Irene had carelessly disposed of it. Irene was frying potatoes, turning the pan from side to side, making sure the heat was balanced. “A few weeks.” She didn’t turn away from the pan. “Why didn’t you do anything about it earlier?” Irene stopped. “You mean abort the baby?” She looked away. “I didn’t know I was pregnant. I bought the test tube sometime ago, but the result was negative, so I thought my period was just late.” “Hm. Do you know who the father is?” Irene felt heat around her arm and looked to see the edge of her blouse catching flame. She put off the fire hastily with water, which irritated the hot oil. “You know who the father is?” Gomezga asked again, dispassionately, her face lacking the warmth it had these previous nights. Irene let out a sigh that slouched her shoulders. She had sent him thirty-two mails with different addresses, applying for a place at Sherry’s Palace. She missed him. And once she found out she was pregnant, she knew she had to see him. He had to have known it was her, somehow. Why else hadn’t he responded to any? “Men,” Gomezga hissed, reading her mind. There was anger in her voice and the heat of betrayal. “If you knew about the pregnancy on time, would you have aborted it?” “No.” It was absurd. The child was his; was him. And just maybe, if it turned out to be a boy—who knew the possibilities? *** “Mr. Gordon was sick. Passed away two months ago,” a stoic employee said to her the day she finally plucked the courage to visit his office on Femi-Davis street. Irene shrunk, held on to the desk for support. “Ms. Hussain? He knew you would come. He asked me to give you this.” She didn’t need to open the brown envelope to know what lay beneath its sealed lips. “He p-passed away-away?” The lady placed her small, soft palm over hers and pushed the envelope towards her. Irene felt a small chuckle rise from her throat and the secretary stared at her oddly, pulling back her hands. “He wanted you to have it.” “No, no, thanks,” she said, struggling to control her breathing, which landed in short, quick, irregular spurts. Hyperventilation was next. “I just wanted to see him.” She ran out of the reception. But later, only a few minutes later, she was back, snot-covered nose, but clearer head. The envelope was waiting on the desk for her, almost like it knew she’d be back. ### 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.

Zoë Gadegbeku is a Ghanaian writer living in Boston. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College, where she worked in communications and taught first-year writing. She was a participant in the 2017 Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop at the University of the West Indies-Cave Hill, Barbados, a fellow at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in June 2019, and the 2021 writer-in-residence at Mother Mercy, an artist incubator in Boston. Her writing has appeared in Saraba Magazine, Afreada, Blackbird, and The Washington Post. Her essay “My Secondhand Lonely,” (Slice Magazine and Longreads) was included on the notable list in the 2018 edition of Best American Essays. Her work also appeared in The Best Small Fictions 2019 anthology and was selected for the 2020 City of Boston Mayor’s Poetry Program Contest. She currently works full-time as a copyeditor for a scientific publishing house. Visit Zoë's website and follow her on Twitter and Instagram. Some Collective Nouns for Black Girls/What We Call Our Selves When We Are Alone/What We Named Our Young Selves in the Grimy Club Bathroom Where We Became Sisters by Zoë Gadegbeku A riot of black girls. A harmony, a chorus, a Sunday school choir with blue and white ribbons pressed into wrinkle-less-ness. A glamouring. A dazzling. A gleaming of black girls and freshly oiled legs. A Dakaroise, have you seen those black girls? A Gentilly, a New Orleans. A Madina, have you seen those black girls? An Erzulie and her sister spirits. A coronation. A rebellion, a [Haitian] revolution. An uprising of black girls. A dancefloor. A shimmer. A hurricane, a storm system. A sorority but not the elitist kind. A group hug, an embrace of black girls, you are missing from us, how did we fail so profoundly to bring you back? A gathering together in the name of Toni Morrison and at the sound of her low voice. A romance of black girls, a Sula and Nel, yes, it really was what you thought about those black girls. A luxury. A softness. A ring shout. A ceremony. A masjid. An altar but not a pedestal. An anointing. A festival. A bacchanal. A celebration. A celestial body. A solar system. A conference but not the elitist kind. A Ramatoulaye and Aïssatou. A midnight. A golden hour. A call to prayer. A sunflower field. A horizon, an endless possibility of black girls. A future. A purpose. A skyline. An imagination. A cleansing. A healing. A lightning. A transcendence. A parade. An extravagance of black girls. A group chat. A blessing. An adornment. A sanctuary. An amazement of black girls. A reconciliation. A galaxy. A mischief∞. An abundance. A culture. An applause. An embodiment. An emergence. A vision. An utterance. A declaration. A tenderness of black girls. An escape. A wildness. A Saturday afternoon. A cosmos. A history. A holiness. A standard, thee standard. A globe. A force. A being. A gala. A subjectivity of black girls. A pleasure. A formation. A union. A wholeness. A ballroom, I bow down, you are the blueprint. A ferocity. A symphony. An echo. A scream∞. A clenched fist of black girls∞. A chaos. A blooming. A flourishing. An insistence. A persistence. A sharpening. A tomorrow. A redemption. A quilombo. A sublime. A glory. A miracle of black girls. An insurrection. An upheaval∞. An ecstatic experience. __________________________ ∞ A mischief of Black girls cast off their demons--toothy and still cackling--and sealed them in the walls of the houses from which they were forced to flee. On the sunny side of somebodies’ breakfast eggs, they sprinkled sandalwood incense ashes and cemetery dust from a great-great-grand’s resting place in a town that didn’t yet exist when these girls began to die. But all this was nothing like enough, so they knocked back one or four Molotov cocktails to render their palates anew and clinked their glasses before breaking them against the swine-pink and peeling foreheads of their enemies. ∞ Tonight at 8pm, reports of a clenched fist of Black girls descending on the crooked jaw of empire and pocketing the rotting teeth their blow knocked out of place. Sources state that this menacing presence also call themselves a rebellion, a [Haitian] revolution, an insurgence of Black girls—STATIC. STATIC. STATIC. ∞ We are an upheaval of Black girls ripping into the wreaths you have drawn around our heads, adornments that do us no good now that we have died once and again. We will stuff those sickly-sweet night blooming somethings as far into your nose as they will go and even further still so that you choke on the residual scent of all the life we will live through the Black girls who will avenge us. ∞Tonight at 8pm you won’t hear a scream, a sonic boom of Black girls because it is only accessible, only audible to: our loves, our sistren, and those among our mothers who have not glued their pride into the raw and dry inside of their mouths. A wailing of Black girls, but to the uninitiated like your selves, you will hear a child’s cry from next door’s backyard; one car’s bumper curling its metal around another post-collision; maybe just past midnight, a moan through a thin wall, a breath temporarily arrested in your own chest. ### 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.

The recipient of numerous awards and fellowships, Desiree S. Evans' work is deeply rooted in the south and imagines the many worlds of Southern Louisiana. Photo by Kathleen Conti Desiree S. Evans is an award-winning writer, scholar, and activist from South Louisiana. She was recently named the 2021-2022 Gulf South Writer in the Woods through a residency program of Tulane University’s New Orleans Center for the Gulf South and A Studio in the Woods. She is the 2020 winner of the Walter Dean Myers Grant for children’s fiction awarded by the nonprofit organization We Need Diverse Books. Desiree’s creative writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and has appeared in literary journals such as Gulf Coast, The Offing, Nimrod Journal, and other venues. Her work has received support from the Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation (VONA/Voices), Kimbilio Fiction, the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, the Hurston/Wright Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Desiree holds an MFA in creative writing from the Michener Center for Writers at The University of Texas at Austin, an MA in international policy from Columbia University’s School of International and Public Affairs, and a BA in journalism from Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism. Desiree currently lives in New Orleans where she is at work on her first novel. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. Tenderheaded by Desiree S. Evans Mamma like to say, hold yoself still chile, why you gotta be so tenderheaded? So tenderheaded in fact, the child became known for it. Tenderheaded Lilly of the crowfoot grass and the blue bottle trees, tenderheaded Lilly of the backatown projects. Tenderheaded Lilly of the bush-thick mane, woven through with night dangling cowrie shells. Mama like to say, sit quiet now, be still, stop ya fussing, gentle hands working the knots of Lilly’s hair, gentle hands sliding warm vaseline to dry scalp, gentle hands braiding sunbreath into holy nap. This ritual like a binding, this binding like a prayer. Everybody knew to watch out for mama’s crybaby gal with the soft, raw heart; she cast a two-step zydeco dance in the dark. * something in the earth, swelling in the ground. in the thick of the heat, with mouthfuls of longing. Tenderheaded Lilly growing under the singing oaks. Tenderheaded Lilly ascending from the glass-dark sea. a girl with black skin and a head full of sorrows. * Here in the retelling, in the backroom, across the way. Tenderheaded Lilly crying in the dark, all the names they call her settling like silt on the river’s bottom. The old women stir the pots and the old men spit tobacco, and the child emerges like fairy, like spirit, like heat. Mama like to say, stop ya squirming. Truth is, the child was tenderheaded even in the belly, even in the birthing. Wiggling and jiggling, she came out tap-dancing. In the town, everyone was watching that child weeping. But in the morning, a girl born to them, of soft scalp and nervous seasons. Mama like to say, chile, you be the warning. THE INTERVIEW Your writing has a strong sense of place rooted in the south. How does the region inform and inspire your writing? Growing up in the Deep South definitely shaped my writing. The South is a place where stories hold power—stories of renewal, resilience, of deep survivalism in the face of historic injustice. Into this container of turbulent history, I hope to write stories that honor my community’s past, as well as our current and future ways of living. In my writing, I want to reflect the world and respond to it. I hope to answer a call, and maybe even create a call. In the South, we tell stories in order to build community, to share truths, to survive the bad days. In many ways, I write to and from the Black South. I love taking readers into my Black Southern Louisiana landscapes through stories and characters that introduce them to our specific cultural traditions, foodways, languages, music, and way of life. Your writing is also grounded in the land directly. What’s your connection to the environment through your work? My childhood memories are made up of muddy bayous, flooding rainstorms, and dusty dirt roads. Pecan trees and sugar cane fields. I am really interested in the way the land itself informs character and plot. Through writing I am able to explore this connection — how do we relate to the land around us? How does it define our socio-economic lives and the culture itself? As a child of Black ancestors who worked in Louisiana’s cane fields, I think about the ways the land remembers us, how it can shed a light on our history. What stories can it yet tell us? “Tenderheaded” starts as a remembrance of a childhood memory many black girls share - sitting in the hands of a mother or elder working a comb and grease through a thick crown. But then the tone becomes ominous and that last line is a jolt. What does the warning foreshadow? I love writing about Black girlhood. There is so much magic, as well as danger, that exists for Black girls in our world. I am interested in that tightrope walk that represents coming of age in a world where you can be seen as a disruptor to the dominant culture, where you can be named a threat. In many ways, this prose poem foreshadows a young girl discovering and coming into her own power, and all the ways that moment can change everything. Your depiction of a mysterious, powerful child in this story is intriguing. What’s your approach to building complex characters, especially those of children? I love reading books and writing stories that give Black youth agency and power. A friend once told me that reading some of my work was like reading fairy tales about magical Southern Black girls. Hearing that, I realized just how much I centered children in my work, even work aimed at an adult audience. I love diving into the complex headspaces and intricate worlds of child characters, ones too often discounted and ignored and written off. I ask myself: what does it mean to center these children as protagonists and agents of change? I then ask: what are the ways these characters work to navigate and understand the world around them; how do they survive in it? I also ask: how can Black children live and belong and own their own truths? I seek to write stories that reflect the complexity of the communities I come from, and that can speak to the child that I was, and to the children today building their own lives in those communities. We know you are currently working on your first novel. Can you share a little bit about it? I am actually working on a couple different novel projects at the moment, but the novel I’ve been working on the longest is a fantasy novel about magical Black families in the Deep South. What does your writing process look like? Jotting down observations on scraps of paper while riding the bus home. Falling in love with snippets of speech from an overheard conversation. Seeing a person on the street, and thinking, “That’s my character!” And then getting home and trying to bring all of these things into a sentence, a scene, a world. Sometimes I outline, sometimes I don’t — but usually my process starts with a character or a scene or a sense of place/universe. I dive in often not knowing where I will end up, but I try to listen to the characters and let them tell me who they are, what they want, where they want to go, and why they want their story told. After the first draft, I edit and edit until I feel that the story has a clear arc, theme, and a sense of what it wants to do on the page. What advice would you give new writers? Write. Just write! I spent a long time not believing in myself and not writing because I thought it was impossible, out of reach for me. It took a long time for me to be okay with the fact that writing has to be a part of my life, because it gives me life. It took me a long time to give myself permission to write. So my advice is simple: give yourself permission, give yourself the entire page. For anyone coming to New Orleans, what’s the first thing you would recommend they do? Too often people come to the city and only visit the French Quarter, and they think that is the only version of New Orleans that exists. Oh, they are so wrong. So the first thing I tell anyone: get out of the Quarter. New Orleans is so much bigger that just its tourist areas. Go find that gas station in Midcity with the city’s best poboy. Go and sit on a levee in the Bywater and watch the mighty Mississippi river. Visit Congo Square Sunday afternoons and listen to the African drum circle. Take the ferry to the West Bank and visit the second oldest Black neighborhood after the Treme. Go listen to the singing oak trees in the magical moss-covered playground that is City Park. Go and take a picture by the sign of your favorite New Orleans street name. And don’t forget to visit all the independent bookstores in town and buy a book for a friend! How can people support you right now? Keep an eye out for my future projects. Publishing is a long road and things take a while to come into being, but I hope folks are willing to follow my journey and celebrate with me when good things happen. Keep track of me on my socials — I’m @literarydesiree on both Twitter and Instagram. Who is another Black woman writer people should read? I am going to recommend a Black women writer from my Friday Night Zoom Club (this is a weekly zoom call I’ve been doing with a couple of other Black women fiction writers since the pandemic started in order to cheer each other on with our writing projects and lives). So I want to shout out the wonderful science fiction writer Nicky Drayden. Check out her 2019 space opera Escaping Exodus for your next read. ### 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.

April Sojourner Truth Walker, PMP is a Dallas native, who studied at Emory University in Atlanta and Hollins University in Virginia prior to calling Oklahoma City home. Before starting her writing coaching company – A Little More Truth, LLC – in April of 2020, she worked for seven years as a Senior Project Manager at AT&T. April is also currently an Adjunct Professor at Oklahoma City Community College where she’s taught a myriad of classes in the Humanities since 2016. A perfect day for April is one spent in nature with her camera, a cup of tea, and nowhere to be. Her current manuscript, Fire Psalm, grapples with how the history of the black community in Dallas is covered up by the city’s constant need to revitalize its image. Follow April on her website and on Instagram. SOCIAL STUDIES by April Sojourner Truth Walker 1. Graduate School My mother hands me the latest version of Texas History textbooks. I’ve asked for it. And though she doesn’t know how it will help she’s taken a copy that can be spared. The book is heavier than I remember, its cover simplified—metallic star emblazoned on royal blue. I flip past chapter assessments, colored pages highlighted critical thinking prompts until I find what I need—the Civil War and Texas. But I don’t read the text. My eyes are drawn to the corner of a page where black children, women, men stand or stoop in rows of cotton—women with baskets balanced on scarf-wrapped heads, burlap sacks slung over men’s shoulders, children no more than six hugging their mothers’ thighs. The picture is not photo but cartoon. A colorful rendition of white fields dotted by black faces staring blankly. How many daguerreotypes of slaves did the artist study before creating the image my mother teaches to distracted nine-year-olds. 2. Middle School We have a visitor—Roland Warren’s mother— who apparently wrote a book about a great-grandfather or uncle. But I am busy watching my crush drop popcorn kernels into the heater in the back of the room. Before our class she stands, prattles on of her great so-and-so. See, she says, beaming, pointing to the man in sepia, cowboy hat cocked back, right hand on hip where a holstered pistol rests, he was a bit of a rebel. She passes the book. When it reaches me I look long into his eyes, relieved our paths will never cross. 3. Elementary School It is the first day of class and in the back room Mrs. Connor hands each of us a textbook and paper cover. At my desk I place the book’s spine in the center of the paper. But the book is new and I am distracted by the beautiful sand-colored binding the Texas borders enclosing scenes of oil rigs, longhorns, men on horseback gallantly waving hats in an unseen breeze. I consider leaving the book unprotected. But I know in May any damage will be my responsibility— so I follow instructions, cover. ### 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.

Join Torch Literary Arts for a virtual relaunch party on March 4th @ 7:00 p.m. Subscribe to receive a link to access the live stream. Due to Austin being at Covid Risk Stage 5, in-person attendance is limited and at capacity. Please subscribe to our newsletter to receive a link to join us virtually for a live stream. Our February Feature, Ebony Stewart, will share work from her new book, BLOODFRESH. Music provided by DJ Sample Vampire. Join us to celebrate 15 years of Torch Literary Arts and the future of Black women writers! Many thanks to our donors, sponsors, and friends for making this possible. Vuka, Future Front, The Steeping Room, Wine for the People, Bookwoman, and Cindy Elizabeth Photography. 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. 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.

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 workshops with the Cave Canem Foundation, Roots. Wounds. Words. Inc., Wing On Wo & Co., Winter Tangerine, and more. 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. When she isn't reading or writing, she tends to her plants. Kindall aspires to obtain her MFA, participate in more workshops and residencies. Though this is her first published piece, she hopes to share more of her work in the future. Follow Kindall on Instagram. Elegy for [Redacted] by Kindall Gant —after Zora Neale Hurston, Glenn Ligon, & Morgan Parker’s I Feel Most Colored When I Am Thrown Against A Sharp White Background (1928, 1990, & 2019) A foodgasm is problematic if it feels how it must have when America was discovered. Your tar tongue twists when you try to explain the confederate flag on your feed. Saying I can’t see color, won’t be your great escape from this conversation. I shouldn’t be surprised when you offer to read The White Card & never touch it. Yes, I’m angry, but I also challenge you to convince me I don’t have a reason to be. In my nightmares, you appear on the stage in blackface ready for the next minstrel. Aretha Franklin frowns & my ancestors shake their heads, in heaven, as I show my ass. We watch The Last Black Man in San Francisco & it ends with you calling me a gentrifier. We buy plants for the apartment. I name my cactus Spike Lee to remind myself I’m black. We argue the fault line between the cop who stopped you, your speeding ticket, & black lives. I get uninvited from your friend’s wedding. It would be uncomfortable because you’re black. I knew the truth when you asked what my feelings were on people rapping the n-word in songs. Jason, your one black friend, can’t spare you from the supremacy & neither can I. I feel most colored when I am thrown against [Redacted], so I pack my bags. I can’t be sorry enough. I grew up learning loving was uncomfortable. ### Torch Literary Arts is a nonprofit organization 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.