It can get really stuffy with all those writers in one place...
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The Baroque Dreamers: Photography by Aitor Frías & Cecilia Jiménez.
Inherited Trauma & Memories That Are Not Our Own
BY CARMEN MISÉ
When we first got to this country I was too young to really understand everything that was happening before my eyes. My memories were patched together like pieces of broken glass, glued with stories I would hear my mom and dad recount. I don’t remember the plane ride, or have no memory of my first day in the US. I do remember starting school. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Izquierdo, my bus driver, Manolo, and Yaime, a girl who immigrated the same year we did, and who is still my best friend close to twenty years later. Memory. Isn’t it a funny and mysterious thing? How much of it is it really ours?
Memories, I mean. I feel as though there are people walking around with memories that belong to me. I once heard my best friend recount something that happened on the school bus. She turns to me in utter disbelief that I didn’t remember and proceeds to recount all I said on that bus ride. A memory I clearly did not possess any more, but should have.
Within this complex structure of memory work, I also believe there are memories that have become ingrained in me, not because I lived then, but because they are memories I have inherited. Scientists in Mount Sinai Hospital in New York have noted “the first demonstration of transmission of preconception stress effects resulting in epigenetic changes.” They are calling it “transmission of trauma to a child via what is called “epigenetic inheritance” - the idea that environmental influences such as smoking, diet and stress can affect the genes of your children and possibly even grandchildren.”
This study looked at Holocaust survivors, and while controversial, it is true that genes are modified by our environment all the time. So if it is possible to inherit “a memory” through DNA, then you most certainly can inherit a memory of trauma in other ways, I thought.
It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that I had the words to verbalize what I would later recognize as inherited trauma. In fact, not only the words but the scholarly research of literary professionals who were all saying the same thing, just in different words, regardless of whether they were looking at social injustices in India, Latin America, or Europe. I came to so many realizations as a graduate student, that it’s a wonder I am able to function at all. One realization is this concept of inherited trauma and my memory of soap. Yes. Soap.
For many years my mom would collect the last remnants of bars of soap. The small, semi oval, pieces of soap that once were nutrient rich Dove, Caress or Camey bars. God forbid you threw one out, or let it dissolve and disappear if it fell on the shower floor, by the drain, because you were too lazy to pick it up. This “collecting” was a slow process. Over time, gallon zip lock bags or once I remember a ten pound empty sack of rice, would be filled. Over a period of months, we, my dad and I, but mostly me and my mom, would dutifully fill the container with bits of soap. So much dedication. And with each bit of soap added, a small sense of accomplishment, and a renewed determination to fill it up would drive our drive.
At first I did not quite get it, I just helped. It felt good to help my mom who seemed so determined to collect bits of soap. The colorful array of colors in the see-through bag made it like art project I was only too happy to help reach completion. This went on, without question, for a few years. One day, a day very much like all the others, mundane and ordinary, but special in that it’s on those days when we have our biggest breakthroughs, I asked my mom why she collected bits of soap. She looked at me, and down at the colorful, soap filled bag, after a few moments of silence she said that the soap we saved was going to be sent back to our country. “For what?” I asked. “Para lavar,” she replied. As she explained, I imagined a big tin barrel filled with scalding water, laundry, and the bits of soap I helped collect all this time, and a thick, brown woman, covered in a layer of sweat, standing over the barrel. Detergent does not exist where she comes from. Neither do washers and dryers. Too expensive.
I finally had an answer for something I was doing without question for a few years now. Although I learned to be more careful of the questions I ask, the answers are never satisfying. Surely, she could just buy detergent and sent it over? Or those big detergent soap bars I had seen at la bodega. She could send money too. That’s always an option, I thought. We could walk to the Western Union and while she sent the money I could get a gumball from the gumball machine. I hoped it was a blue one.
Of course, I didn’t understand then that she could not simply buy detergent and sent it over, or just send money. In her mind, what my mom was doing was a continuation of what she had always done, save bits of soap. Just on a grander scale, now that she was in the US and had me to help. When she stopped, I don’t really remember. It wasn't abruptly, but one day, when I realized that I didn’t see bags with soap any more, I knew this had come to an end. Well, at least in that form and at least for her. I, on the other hand, inherited the trauma of not having enough. The trauma of caution. A repugnant feeling in the pit of my stomach when I throw away perfectly good things. I know I am doing wrong and I feel it.
The other day I ran a few errands. I went to the store and I bought a few groceries, along with “un palo de mapear” and you guessed it, soap. As I sat at the kitchen table, emptying out the last quarter of liquid soap into the new bottle, I felt the same feeling of determination and accomplishment I felt collecting bits of soap from wasted bars. And we wonder why we drag with us the history of our ancestors? Why it weighs us down? Why we repeat the same fate over and over? I giggled at myself while I sat there saving the last bit of soap. Had this come full circle? And why was I laughing? Perhaps I was anxious or nervous that I had caught myself repeating this act of trauma. The act of saving the last bit of soap, or detergent, Lysol, olive oil and lotion…. Por si acaso.
Carmen Mise graduated from Florida International University with a Bachelor's in English in 2010 and a Master's in English in 2015. She is currently a professor of composition and literature at Miami Dade College North campus' English and Communication's Department. Carmen was recently invited by the Miami-Dade Public Library System to kick off their Art and Sculpture Lecture Series, where she lectured on the topic of Counter-Monuments. A theory she explored in her master's thesis, and a topic she is still exploring in her writings.
NYC Student Art Show Is the Rally Cry Against Trump That Art Needs
In times of crisis, we rely on art to be bolder, to express how we feel and think. This is why I'm grateful that 17 artists, currently students at Parsons The New School for Design, have come together to express the concept of identity. This exhibit is called “id: ME,” and is currently being shown at the Undercurrent Gallery in the East Village. Yesterday, the exhibit opened, and it's a key exploration in discovering the boundaries between between real and fake identities.
Read MoreThat's So Gay
BY TANMOY DAS
Tanmoy Das lives with their partner Eric and a pea plant in New York City. Their poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several online journals.
Britt Gorman
Stop Romanticizing Mental Illness — by #InsideOutChallenge's Britt Gorman
BY BRITT GORMAN
Editor's Note: Britt Gorman is a 30-year-old artist (see her site here) who took part in Yasaman Gheidi's Inside Out Challenge, which calls to destigmatize mental illness by showcasing it. Artists would use makeup to show how they feel inside ... on the outside. This essay, by Britt Gorman, explores the perception of mental illness. — Lisa Marie Basile
I write this to lessen the appeal of mental illness for people like myself. That sounds backwards, but bear with me.
Depression, as I knew it as a teen, was somehow fashionable and romanticized. It was like a forbidden lover: elusive, tall, dark and sexy. It was rarely talked about, and even then only in whispers. In film and literature the brooding, troubled characters always had such allure. How tantalizing! I thought, how could anyone find me boring if I was — as some people make synonymous with depression — dark and poetic? Why would I be "basic" when I could be melancholy and complex? I would be a modern vampire, living in a state of mourning even though no one had died. I was depressed, and I loved it. I found satisfaction in scarring my skin and filling notebooks in dark corners before crying myself to sleep at night. I picked my symptoms as if from a menu. I was on a personality diet, trimming away the bits that didn't fit my brooding cliche.
Years later, after some mandatory family therapy and jump-starting a normal life in the real world, I had nearly forgotten about that life chapter. It was then that I met real Depression for the first time. Not my fashion statement, but the chemical imbalance. My ability to just "snap out of it" was no longer there. I couldn't explain it. I didn't want it.
I became the girl who cried wolf.
I used to try depression on like a pair of shoes, but it was really there. Under my skin. Depression re-introduced me to Anxiety, an old childhood friend, who set up permanent residence in my brain. That voice is always there, with endless commentary about every conversation I have and decision I make. It's loudest when I meet new people, and jerks at my heart like it's a puppet on strings.
Not wanting to be a cliche (again), I didn't talk about it. Instead of saying "I can't tonight, I had a panic attack and need to rest." I would feign getting a cold. Or financial troubles. Or needing to work late. If no one knew, I could pretend it wasn't there.
As I approached 30, I either became brave or tired. I stopped fabricating normalized reasons for my extreme moods or needs, and the consequence that I had feared was overwhelming. I was loved, so if my friends or family thought less of me for it, they didn't say so. They encouraged me. They cut me slack. They told me they were there for me if I needed them. I met with a doctor and am currently exploring my options with therapy and medication. There isn't anything poetic or elegant anymore. It's my new normal, and just about everyone knows about it.
I was 100% responsible for my choices, and I won't blame anyone else for my mental mess. (I know that I am luckier than most, and privileged to have the friends and family that I do.) However, I wonder how different my teen years would have been if depression wasn't such a performance, a dark mystery. And if the general population was open about mental illness, I might not have been attracted to something I didn't actually understand.
My challenge to everyone without a mental disorder: learn about them, and talk about them. Teach your kids about anxiety and depression the way we teach them about the flu or chicken pox. Acknowledge that they are difficult, but they are also very common.
My challenge to everyone with a mental disorder: Don't treat these disorders like they should be everyone's deepest darkest secret. If you have one, be brave and start to open up to your loved ones. If people meet you with fear, counter that fear with information.
I have a lot of faith in the human race. We have made incredible progress in awareness and treatments in a relatively short period of time. Let's keep that progress moving in small ways, every day. Speak up.
Find Britt Gorman at www.seventhskin.etsy.com
HIDDEN: Coming out About Domestic Violence in LGBTIQ Relationships
In late 2014 Australian-based photographer Maya Sugiharto and her partner Aviva Minc began to notice the lack of mainstream media attention dedicated to domestic and family violence within the LGBTIQ community.
"There has been a huge amount of imagery and campaigns over recent years depicting heterosexual relationships where the man is the abuser," Sugiharto says, "however there was no representation of this happening within my own community, and I began to question why".
It was this curiosity that inspired Sugiharto to probe further, and the result is HIDDEN – a stirring conceptual photography project of poignant images that captures participants re-enacting situations perceived to emanate real-life scenarios of violence in LGBTIQ relationships.
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Via Instagram/LisaMarieBasile
7 Next Steps to Keep the Women's March Momentum Going
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
When I marched January 21, it was clear to me that this was a day of strength. Strength from grief, strength from exhaustion, strength from ignorance. We'd poured all our pain into that day, and we'd marched for women, immigrants and minorities. But it was also clear that the energy I witnessed must be sustained lest it become a memory, an example of our power at its best. We need now, more than ever, longevity. We can't afford to get tired and normalize Trump's regime and his cabinet's racist, sexist and xenophobic ideologies. January 21 has to be a beginning.
Gloria Steinem told Cosmo, "I have never, in my long life, seen so many people marching and demonstrating and saying, this is our government, we’re going to take it back." That says something.
See this Instagram photo by @lisamariebasile * 76 likes
But there were some problems, as we spoke of. And those problems do need to be addressed. And that's all part of the next steps. Because the Women's Marches were just the beginning. A glimpse of the power President Trump thinks he's "given" to the people. Well, We are the people. And we will have the power.
The next four years will require serious energy and activism. As Audre Lorde said, "Your silence will not protect you." Remember that.
It shouldn't need to be said, but you should always be practicing self-care (and encouraging others to do so) at times like this, as it will enable you to stay active and alert. That means...if you are burnt out, angered by social media, done dealing with energy vampires who do not understand the basic principles of human decency or sick of watching the fake news battle the real news battle Trump's media silencing...take a break. Come back when you can. But come back.
Here are 7 next steps to take:
1. Recognize that inclusivity and understanding is a necessity — and put energy into educating yourself and others.
Because I benefit from white privilege and am able-bodied, I have to realize and work on knowing when to shut up and when to speak out. Because many other people, people of color, people who have disabilities, trans people, are marginalized and silenced. It is imperative now to listen to make space for those voices so that we can all unite in solidarity, as friends and allies, to fight against oppression. I would suggest reading as much as you can. I recommend reading this piece — How to survive in intersectional feminist spaces 101— and sharing. And I'd suggest examining how race intersects with the Women's March.
See this Instagram photo by @lisamariebasile * 45 likes
2. Call congress — every single day.
Call 202-224-3121. This line can connect you to senators and representatives. Having names handy will help. Also: here's how to find your local representatives and here's more on contacting elected officials. Here is the Senate phone list and the House phone list. Know what you want to say, and have details handy about the issues you're calling about. Know that you will likely speak to someone in the office, not the person themselves.
3. Make art. Keep making art. Host political poetry readings. Collaborate.
Now is the time to use your words and your art and your vision. Whatever that means to you, do it. Do it because it is an expression. Do it because it forges community. Host a poetry night that explores politics, invite friends to make art. Seriously, get together.
4. Learn to spot fake news.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's 2017 and "fake news" is a legitimate term. Even worse, there's a difference between what normal, smart humans know as "fake news" and the real news that President Trump is calling "fake news." So, thank you, post-apocalyptic Twilight zone.
See this Instagram video by @lisamariebasile * 69 likes
5. Join Next Steps Salon
.This organization allows people to create meet-ups that will plan and organize for the road ahead. Sign up here. According to their site, you can make outreach plans and actions plans: "Our gatherings will focus on how we can start this process so that ultimately, we can increase the number of people willing to go to bat for social justice issues....We'll support each other in outlining concrete action plans to push forward the issues we care about as individuals."
6. Run for office, seriously.
Through She Should Run, women learn how to run for office. The organization demystifies the process and provide resources so women can run. From their site: "She Should Run’s robust Ask a Woman to Run program provides a community that encourages women to run and then connects women with resources, people and organizations who can help start their path towards public service. The She Should Run Incubator is our online program to help more women envision themselves in public leadership, and our way of providing thoughtful guidance and support for women considering a future run."
7. Join March's March 10 Actions 100 Days
Everything you need to do is clearly and easily listed out — so there's no reason not to. We'll see you over there. Let's do this.
Today, millions of people gathered in cities and towns across the world, to stand together for human rights. pic.twitter.com/aXKht13N9I
— Women's March (@womensmarch) January 22, 2017
Lisa Marie Basile is the founding editor-in-chief of Luna Luna Magazine and moderator of its digital community. Her work has appeared in The Establishment, Bustle, Greatest, Bust, Hello Giggles, Marie Claire, Good Housekeeping, and The Huffington Post, among other sites.
How the Women's March Is Awesome & How It Can Do Better
BY JOANNA C. VALENTE
On Saturday, I went to the Women's March in NYC, where I live. Overall, it was a truly amazing and groundbreaking experience for me, as it was one of the first real beacons of hope for me post-election and inauguration. It was inspirational to see so many people come together to fight for a cause; it's necessary if we want to create positive change, to exercise our own political power. Because, no, we don't have to take it or accept it.
That being said, of course, there were definitely problematic things about some of the language being used during the protest, largely transphobic and dismissive of people with disabilities and special needs. This, of course, was highly disappointing and upsetting to me, because we don't want use our language to isolate, or to marginalize the same people we are trying to fight for.
For instance, using language to talk about Trump's "tiny hands," however funny, defeats the purpose. There are so many reasons to dislike Trump, but using his physical appearance is a form of bullying that he himself does, and we should be better than that. It's also making assertions based on gender, which is problematic, because it plays into the same ultra-masculine rhetoric we should be stepping away from.
In addition, we need to be careful about excluding people who do not have vaginas or uteruses from feeling as if they aren't women, since not all women have uteruses and being a woman is more just because of the genitals you have. In general, gender is extremely nuanced and there are many people who don't neatly fit into the "man or woman" binary (like myself), and we need to be cognizant of that, and use our language to reflect that. I know I'm not saying anything new here, but I do think this is a necessary reminder. We need to do better. We can do better.
That being said, I am extremely proud of all of the people who protested yesterday, in their hearts, minds, and bodies. I'm proud of the cities who held rallies and marches, which is why I rounded up a few of my favorite photos on Instagram from the Marches. Because in the words of Malcolm X, "the future belongs to those who prepare for it today."
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Photography by the incredible Ana Luísa Pinto
Incantation Poetry to Conquer the Darkness — The Luminous Project
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
The below poems are samples of what's to come from our Luminous e-book, which will be available in the coming days. It will available for a $1 and 100% the proceeds will go toward Planned Parenthood. When donations are made, receipts will be available publicly on this website.
I solicited for The Luminous project this past fall as a way to combat darkness. It, in all honesty, felt like the right thing to do — to give voice, to make a space for beauty. But I will be honest: part of it felt futile. I was in such pain (as we all were) and everything felt pointless, misdirected, weak. How could poetry enact change or fight against immorality? How could we find magic? I struggled with the idea that, in the face of such absolute disarray, the arts even had a place. But this is the United States and art, poetry, song has always had a renaissance in times of fear and oppression and hatred. It always will, and in many ways, that is what's remembered long after the battles and the wars and the infighting and the opposing sides.
Things have always been painful. But there is so much at stake, for so many people here and around the world. Which is why power is in the small things — saying hello to a stranger, listening up when we need to, sharing a poem, doing a kindness. And in the more specific: marching, protesting, organizing, signing up to learn more about conflict resolution. Nothing is too big or too small, I realized, especially when reading these poems. That we were flooded with statements — spell-poems — that called to inner power and resolution (although all different in nature) said something to me. It said that we unite when we need to. And just knowing that makes a vast difference. You're not alone. We're not alone.
Dianca London
Anthony Michael Morena
Emily Rose Cole
Paakhi Bhatnagar
Raquel Vasquez Gilliland
Yi Wu
Kailey Tedesco
Lisa Marie Basile is the author of APOCRYPHAL and the chapbooks Andalucia and war/lock. She is the editor-in-chief of Luna Luna Magazine, and her work has appeared in PANK, The Atlas Review, Tin House, Coldfront, The Rumpus Best American Poetry, PEN American Center, Dusie, The Ampersand Review, and many other publications. She’s an essayist and journalist as well. She holds an MFA from The New School.
Watching Disney as a Millennial Brown Girl
I could see the difference in our skin colors. I couldn’t pretend anymore.
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PHOTO CREDIT: She's Beautiful When She's Angry
W.I.T.C.H: The 1960s Women's Liberation Group & Why We Need a New Witch
The witch has always been important. The witch has also been altered since the writing of the W.I.T.C.H manifesto. She must be fluid. She must evolve. I wonder at how the witch as feminist icon and political battle cry has changed since the 60s? Where has the witch become more intersectional? Where do we need to challenge the witch more? In what ways as the witch not been altered as a political statement that is begging for revision?
Who do we need the witch to be in 2017?
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Emma Hall
Poetry by Rosalie Morales Kearns
Rosalie Morales Kearns (@ShadeMountainPr), a writer of Puerto Rican and Pennsylvania Dutch descent, is the founder of Shade Mountain Press, author of the magic-realist story collection Virgins & Tricksters, and editor of the short story anthology The Female Complaint: Tales of Unruly Women. She has an MFA from the University of Illinois and has stories, poems, essays, and book reviews published in Witness, Drunken Boat, Fiction Writers Review, the Nervous Breakdown, and other journals.
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Interview with Kallie Van Tassel, the Lead Singer of Punk Band Gland
If you don't know who Gland is, you should. They're an awesome punk band from New Orleans, and they're music is about to make you care EVEN MORE about the state of the world right now. and that’s all I know about them. Their music rages against structural racism, sexism, and capitalism in a way I haven't seen lately.
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Marcelles Murdock
Photo Essay: Harvesting Moonlight from Our Bodies
When my father took the bet and became a fulltime artist, my brother and I were teenagers. From the window of our comfortable luxury car he pointed towards a broken down truck; I remember him saying, "Well kids, if I do this, that’s the car we’ll be driving." Rather naïvely my brother and I chanted, "We don’t care dad—follow your dreams," and other mindless prat one says when they don’t know any better. The truth is, this world devours dreamers and breakdowns don’t end with our cars—uncertainty bleeds into every aspect of life. The road of an artist is wild and rough; even worse, when that road begins to narrow and show signs of an ending, that initial excitement of the unknown turns to fear. My father faces a future without the comforts of stability; he doesn’t always bare this burden well. It doesn’t help that there is a roar of voices ready "to tell him so" and accuse him of choosing his troubles—but my dad didn’t choose poverty, not really. He acknowledged the possibility of being broke, but he thought he could out craft disaster—he embraced the uncertainty of the road before him with every intention of making his way as an artist. It isn’t his fault that while the world appreciates art, it rarely values it.
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The Snapshots of an Eyebrow
Those brows, like a prayer on her face. I’ll become a tiny thing; I'll walk her brows like a bridge.
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