Behind the Facade

A Community Feature with Soul in Space

A hub for education and wellness, Soul in Space offers outreach to Black and Indigenous communities through workshops, wellness classes, and a literary magazine. Created in 2019 by CEO Sen Kathleen—writer, yoga instructor, and Reiki practitioner—their publication explores conversations surrounding decolonization, Black Liberation, and Indigenous Sovereignty and was created to cultivate community and carve out space for Black and Indigenous writers. The hope is, as this space expands, it becomes a safe space to grow, create, and share experiences. A place to encourage Black and Indigenous writers to break out of the box, the settler mindset, and heal. Because everyone deserves a space.

The Revolution Will Rhyme

by Jillian Hanesworth

The revolution will not be televised
The revolution will not be streamed live on Facebook, Twitter, or IG TV
You will not be able to start it over if you missed a part
And you won’t need to tap it twice to see its heart
The revolution will not be brought to you by Nike, the NFL, or Jay-Z
We will watch it succeed in HD without taking a knee
The revolution will not be televised
The revolution will be live
The revolution will thrive
And the revolution will rhyme
The revolution will be led by black women who are just tired enough to do it ourselves
It will be rhythmic enough for us to follow the beat
Using drums and tambourines focusing on the two and four beats
Like a secret language that comes naturally
It will get louder when it’s calling for the people’s attention
And quieter when it wants the people to listen
People listen
The revolution will be direct and unwavering without concern of being looked at as angry
It will be as big and natural as a Black Panther’s afro without worrying about opportunity
It will be as interwoven as locs but there will be nothing dreadful about it
And when light shines on the revolution it will create a halo around it
The revolution will rhyme
It will be syncopated
It will harmonize
It will be call and repeat
The revolution will rhyme
The revolution will leave no man behind
It will not be developed just to be displaced
Its focus will not be extracted and refocused or repurposed
And the burden of education and comfort will not be placed on the oppressed
While understanding and tolerance is gifted to the oppressor

You will not be able to binge watch the revolution
Rewinding the comfortable triumphs and fast forwarding through the hurt
You will not be able to DVR the revolution or avoid spoiler alerts
Or save it for a day that you choose to see its worth
You will not be able to mute the revolution for it will be loud
And you will not be able to shame the revolution for it will be proud
The revolution will rhyme
It will hold your attention and retain your momentum
It will float like a butterfly and sting like a bee
It will hit even harder than Muhammad Ali
It will stand on the shoulders of those who died on their knees
Screaming “You can take me from my freedom but you can’t take my freedom from me”
The revolution will hold this country accountable forcing it to keep its promises
Promises that guarantee life liberty and the pursuit of happiness
It will be something to behold
It will be so cinematic that Ava Duvernay will create a documentary about it
It will be a complete overhaul not just a quick fix
The revolution will rhyme
It will not always be politically correct and it will not be required to forgive and forget
The revolution will remember all those who cross its path
With a message fierce enough to make opposition fear its wrath
It will march through the valley of the shadow of death without regret of its path
And it’s coming for what it’s owed refusing to settle for half
The revolution will not be televised
The revolution will be live
The revolution will thrive
And the revolution will rhyme

Seeking Lost Tribes

by Julian Esteban Torres López

Foreign and familiar, there is sadness
in his eyes when he looks in the mirror.

There are no gods to save such a
beast of burden, such a
half human. A hybrid. Nor does he
care for their propaganda. Instead,
his sadness sighs before him because
he knows so little of his ancestors,
of the past that cultivated him.

He is from somewhere else.

He places his fingers on the craters of his face;
Searches for footprints left behind by his great
and not-so-great grandparents.

The Iberian,
the Brit,
the Italian,
who took to the seas for promise
of riches in the Americas.

The Africans from a continent impaled
and gutted by the very same men who searched
for El Dorado’s gold.

And the Amerindian women whose legs
were forced open, because with “savages,”
when the holy book did not civilize,
every kind of purifying means was justified.

His beard bites at his fingers, as if walking
on a sheet of nails. He’s careful to not apply
too much pressure. He fears what
he will discover in his blood if pricked
and the scars reopen.

Hunched, his Emberá Katío eyes
wander across the map of his face,
seeking lost tribes.

You Thought You Dreamt It

by Samantha Liana Williams

“They say the people could fly. Say that long ago in Africa, some of the people knew magic. 
And they would walk up on the air like climbin’ up on a gate. And they flew like blackbirds 
over the fields. Black, shiny wings flappin’ against the blue up there.” Virginia Hamilton

You gather gold like a magpie,
step off the back deck,
One hand open wide
the other closed tight as eyes
before a first kiss.
Smelling of cherry Icee, of Bubble Yum.
When you play Uno you keep all the reverse cards
tucked under your thigh.
When you speak,
you bucket orchid water.
You turn silver.
Blue-black.
Street lamp to call you home.
& when there is no home, when there is no place
but an empty rink,
You split.
Same way you used to hold peach pits you’d throw
aiming high as the Sears Tower.
& if angels are real you don’t wish for white wings.
You want them mahogany and wickered.
& if monsters are real you bless their heart
outfit them in a jersey #23 on their backs.
When you jump you want for wrinkled hands,
curved nails that held 40s & babies.
When the rain comes you don’t run.
You spit your own name in the air,
whisper it beneath steady breaths
between the double-double this that.
All you’ve learned of love is what
your mother refused to say.
All you’ve learned of angels is they never gather
the same shade of brown as you.

Diary Entry on Any Given Day in San Francisco

by Moriah Katz

Everything here has that Bay-Area smell: half washed and waiting.
The Sun only shines down in spots half the size of a narrow porch (of which
this house has two, one front, one back)—even that rectangle of gold is clammy
where it embraces me. It’s usually cloudy most of the year (although I write this
in the summer of February 2021). That means that everything—the air, the light,
little-kid screams from 23rd and Treat—arrives to us wet.

I am not used to this. I come from the bottom half of California, where things
stay parched well into April. My lungs suck in muddy air, and I wonder how a
strawberry accent managed to get lost here, reverberating through the streets of
Atlantis. I’m convinced this city sank in the reconstruction of ’89, when the first
Pomeranian yapped across the street from Somebody’s Uncle in the Fillmore.
I wasn’t even a thought then, as my mother would say. I’m but a visitor now.

Three-story houses shudder in damp glow, whispers of another one coming.
Are you ready? An only child in Superman pajamas considers flying, third
stoop on the right. My throat tickles. I wonder if I’ve caught my death
of cold, and if this city will ever get to be his.

An Ode to Mayor Pete

by Charles Payne

Welcome to South Bend, Indiana, our airport screams

A state that works and a presidential campaign
that didn’t
We hate unions but we are open
for business

Take for example
how Mayor Pete marched
at our Pride Parade as a proud
army veteran and still, we failed Jodie Henderson:
A Black Vet beaten in our streets to death, because he was gay
And still, we can’t get a hate crime law,
but we watch our Mayor slice into a rainbow cake

But we dance with the po-po in our schools
on redlines
of prevalent segregation

Our public natatorium made famous
for not letting Blacks swim
Don’t move to Indiana.

It will kill you...
                Like Jodie Henderson
                                               Like Thomas Shipp
                                                                          Like Abram Smith

Like that famous spectacle lynching photograph made famous here,
in the State of Indiana!