Boundaries & Borders

By OyaBisi Ideraabdullah

"Boundaries & Borders...captivates the reader with poems, fiction, and the personal journeys of women from across the Diaspora. Nigerian-American writer Iquo Essien offers a glimpse of her shifting identities and longing for home in her essay, 'On Leaving Nigeria,' while Palestinian writer Iman Hammad's... 'A Bullet and a Glass of W

• Language: English
• Publisher: WOC
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218381790

OyaBisi Ideraabdullah

When I returned to the U.S. from Liberia in 1997 after seven years of Liberia's brutal civil war, I needed to tell the story of the tragedy I experienced. However, I could not imagine myself as a valued writer or find a place where I fit in. I decided then that I would create one-a space where women of color could comfortably write and be ourselves. In 1999, I opened the doors of my nonprofit, Imani House, and WOC Writers (the first of its kind in NY) was born. WOC Writers provides in-person and virtual workshops, classes, readings, performances,and publications. We offer women a safe and supportive environment locally and globally, which is hosted from our Brooklyn Headquarters and other venues. Please visit WOCWriters.org.

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INTRODUCTION

An ancient Chinese proverb states, "Women Hold up Half the Sky." It speaks to the necessity of women’s participation in all aspects of human endeavors. But despite being almost fifty percent of the world’s population, women continue too often to be overlooked, undervalued, and unheard across the globe. When I searched the literary world for women of color writers who might inspire me, few were found. How do we prove our existence now and in the future if we do not write and document ourselves in history, into the literary spheres, and into the hearts, minds, and imaginations of the world?

I founded the Women of Color Writers Workshop (WOC) in 1999 to play a role in bringing visibility to women through writing. I believed I could help myself and other women amplify our voices through our written expressions and varied experiences—allowing us to promote ourselves and showcase who we are. 

WOC Writers embraces women’s eagerness to enhance their writing skills and move toward publishing. The WOC Writers Workshop® provides opportunities for women to be both seen and heard. Our community is made up of women from many different backgrounds and locations. It is a safe space that nurtures and supports women—that builds the courage it takes to bear our vulnerability, to speak our truths aloud, and to increase the literary documentation of who we are.

Believing in the unique voices and creative genius of WOCs worldwide is why and how we have become (and stayed) a distinct literary powerhouse. Starting over 25 years ago with its modest beginnings, meeting at the Imani House headquarters in Brooklyn, NY, we have provided creative writing workshops where women hone their writing skills, participate in reading performances, gain access to writing retreats, publishing opportunities, and specialized writing classes for women, regardless of their writing levels. While COVID signaled an end to many U.S.-based organizations and nonprofits, WOC Writers remained steadfast in its mission and extended its outreach virtually to include women worldwide. I am both surprised and beyond proud to see how much WOC Writers has grown, inspired, nurtured, and supported thousands of women in their writing journeys. What better introduction to this community and its tenets than the WOC Writers’ Community global anthology, Boundaries & Borders?

What You Hold in Your Hands:

With this publication comes the end of years of an enlightening publication sojourn. And as may be, every ending creates a new beginning. This statement, while a bit cliché, is true. We are done after over a decade of meetings, soliciting writing, selecting and curating submissions, editing, creating legal contracts, and powering through the paperwork. We thank those who worked alongside us, including the interns, volunteers, staff, legal advisors and others, who were just as determined and like-minded as I was. Boundaries & Borders is a labor of love, collaboration, and community, which will be shared with waiting hands far and wide.

I am honored by the collective voices of women I have had the pleasure of working and writing alongside.  "A Literary Exploration of Global Voices" isn’t just a byline. The women authors in this anthology hail from regions across the U.S. from New York to California; Africa, Haiti, Palestine, South Asia, Japan, India, Indonesia, and New Zealand, among others. As we put Boundaries & Borders together, we were stunned that although our backgrounds differed, women of color shared surprising common threads.  Gender, race, love, war, challenge, and strife leave their marks across multiple pieces in this anthology.

The motto of the WOC Writers Workshop® is to tell our stories and preserve our legacies. Our stories don’t ask for pity or sympathy; instead, they ask to be heard, seen, and for you to acknowledge what matters to us: that we are here, we exist, and that these are the many worlds and spaces we inhabit. Despite everything, the women that permeate this anthology refuse to be silent as we embrace both the risks and rewards inherent in the vital act of writing.

Have you considered that a conversation, no matter how valued, only lasts as long as the words remain in the air? But written words will remain a lasting documentation of who these women are now and whose intentional writing will survive well into the future.

Boundaries & Borders is a memorable anthology, an important collection of poems, fiction, and nonfiction pieces that will expose the reader to the passionate voices of the women in this book. It is the culmination of over twelve years of work and perseverance.

Therefore, with grace, we invite you to participate in the conversation. We believe you will enjoy reading this long-awaited collection as an assured symbol of resilience and creativity.

Who OyaBisi Ideraabdullah Is:

When I returned to the United States in 1997, after living in Liberia, West Africa for twelve years (seven of which were spent inside Liberia’s brutal Civil War), I wanted to tell the story of this personal tragedy. But like so many other women of color, I could not imagine myself as a writer or find a place to study where I fit in. 

I was told by many WOCs how difficult it was in MFA programs where they found themselves as the lone person of color in the group. They sometimes felt isolated, and their writing was often misunderstood.  I decided then that if I couldn’t find a place to be heard or seen, I would create one for myself and other female writers like me—a space where we could comfortably write creatively, share, and be ourselves.  I opened the doors of my nonprofit, Imani House, and the Women of Color Writers’ Workshop® (the first of its kind in N.Y. dedicated to WOC) was born. WOC Writers became that safe, nonjudgmental, supportive environment that we all craved.

For this, I will be forever grateful to Pat Schneider, who in 1981, founded Amherst Writers & Artists (AWA). This remarkable woman trained and mentored me and I earned advanced certifications in AWA’s methodologies. I apprenticed with Hilary Plattner (a Brooklyn-based AWA Workshop facilitator) for two years, where I gained the skill and confidence to lead writing workshops, work on my stories, and support other women writers. I also attended writing courses at City College and MFA classes at The New School, where I met William Zinsser, renowned author of several well-known books, including On Writing Well. He advised, coached, and encouraged me with my upcoming memoir, How Many Days Until Tomorrow.

We would be remiss without the mention of the Harlem Writers Guild, founded in 1950. It is the oldest African American Writers guild in New York still operating today. Once I learned about them, it reinforced the value of writers’ workshops for marginalized groups.

We invite you to dive straight into the heart of our unique stories.  Meet the mothers and movers determined to step through obstacles to persevere. These are the authors that make up this historical anthology: Boundaries & Borders: "A Literary Exploration of Global Voices."

So, read, be present, and welcome to the community.

WHEN A BLACK WOMAN IS BORN

Kim Brandon

(African American) - Poetry

Brown eyes wide open searching for her own reflection

Taking it all in

This journey from the cocoon

From mama’s cool dark red room

Caught by the rising hands of moist, rich black soil

She is the wild seed ready to open

She is the magic quenched by the rain

She is the wildflower budding

The tender roots catching morning dew

Her head following the rays of sun

She is the ever-expanding stems, the leaves, and the branches

She will know why she is here

She will know her place in the dirt with other growing things

She will know her place and her time

She becomes the tree—maybe a Sequoia 3000 years old

Kissing the amber purple sky at dusk

She will rest at night constantly growing requires

Replenishments from the

Weariness of pushing back interlopers

Like the slow poisons of spotted lantern flies

The small pesky dogs digging at her roots

And what of torrential winds, storm waters, and the draughts

She will gather up herself even in those sudden freeze-overs

She will not be torched, cut down, or evicted

She will drop new seeds—

When the seasons change

She will sprout and spread her Goddess-inspired wings

When a Black woman is born

She marries the planet in sickness and in health and it prospers

Like yellow and blue wildflowers

in a field as far as the eye can capture

She gives the world another soldier

to protect mother earth’s dowry

She becomes a safe place to nestle and dream

A bridge between today and tomorrow

If you are able to be still, be quiet and listen with your heart’s heart

You will hear a sweet saxophone playing a jazz loop

A serenade climbing up and into an unending love

and an everlasting freedom—unchained

She offers this. Her song, this song building into a movement,

a movement to save us

to save the planet from a deeper thaw

NOT A SILENT FILM

Aimee Suzara

(Filipina American) - Poetry

I want to watch a movie where the Asian characters are not silent. Where the Asian character does not have a high-pitched, tiny voice, or no voice, or an accent that does not match her supposed ethnicity. Where the entire joke is not how quiet she is, or all the white people make faces and stare at each other and say, shrugging to the other white people (as though she is not there): I hear nothing.

In the fourth grade, I went to the county fair with my white best friend and we wore cowboy hats with blue feathers tucked in.

I do not want to watch a movie where each Asian person represents her entire race. I do not want to have to feel so appreciative that at least the Filipino character is not a model minority but is, in fact, an idiot.

In the sixth grade, I stared in the mirror and pinched my nose and wanted blue contacts and blond bleached hair like the Vietnamese cheerleader who got into the popular crowd. In the sixth grade, I learned ching-chong and you stink and discovered I was pretty for an Asian girl.

I am tired of seeing a Korean actor have to use a Japanese accent to portray a Vietnamese character. I am tired of seeing the Filipino actor have to portray a Mexican character. I am tired of seeing the Filipina actress claim Hawaii but not her bloodline because it is more exotic. I am tired of the Filipina being the nanny.

In the eleventh grade, I brought my family to the Renaissance Faire and we tried on bodices and skirts and I felt something was wrong but did not quite realize: a Filipino would never wear this, nor be here, during the Renaissance (!)

I want to watch a TV series all the way through and not grimace when an Asian person is misrepresented, which is an inevitable non-intended plot twist that no one notices. I want to watch something where I am not fragmenting myself in order to relate to a part of a remotely similar character because I do not exist. Like sometimes, I can relate to a woman, a Latina, an immigrant, or a queer person.

I want to watch a character I relate to without breaking myself into pieces.

I want to watch a movie where the Filipina is the center of everything and beautiful and strong and has romances with men or women or whomever she would like, and has a well-rounded personality, a powerful voice, and flaws—none of them are that she is shy or cannot get friends due to her A+ work ethic.

I am afraid of disappearing.

I want to watch a movie and relax. Lean back and enjoy the show, knowing it is for me, for my laughter, my pleasure, not at my expense. I want to buy some popcorn and just laugh and laugh and order all the butter and an over-priced Diet Coke and gummy worms, just because I want to.

This movie will be so loud the walls will crack.

A BULLET AND A GLASS OF WATER

Iman Hammad

(Arab-Palestinian) - Fiction

The roar of tanks was filling the space with noise. Um Muhammad was tossing in her bed as she was overburdened with fear and the uneasiness of waiting. She rose from her bed and decided to wear her hijab before sleeping so that she would be ready for any night search that the soldiers might carry out. Since the incursion of Palestine, these undesired visits had become a hideous daily routine.

She was nodding, but her fear deprived her of sleep, fearing that if she fell asleep, she would have a nightmare—or even worse—a sudden night attack of soldiers. She rose again to check on her four children, who were soundly asleep. The minarets of the mosques were ready for the dawn prayers when she heard the treading of heavy steps on the stairs of the building. She nervously fixed her headscarf in place, carefully opened the door of the apartment, and placed her head on the railing of the stairs.

Yes. It is them, she muttered to herself. These are their boots marching towards us. She left her place quickly and woke up her husband to face their destiny. She had hardly finished her task when she heard brutal knocks on their door with boots and gun butts.

Open the door!

Open up! Soldiers.

She rushed towards the door while clutching the back of her husband, who ran towards the door lest it would be destroyed. The soldiers spread all over the place and turned the apartment upside-down. They threw everything on the floor and searched everything, even the bathroom. She was looking angrily at the soldiers, who spoiled all of her work in the house and crushed her memories under their heavy boots.

In the meantime, a sarcastic smile rose on her lips as she remembered that she had never paid any attention to politics or interfered with any political debate, even though she was in Palestine, where political discussions are an ever-present phenomenon.

She raised her head while she watched the soldiers handcuff her husband, blindfold him with a white band, and lead him to the unknown. The soldier kicked him till he was thrown like a bundle in front of the building along with the other neighbors.

The horrified eyes of the women were bulging towards the streets, while their men were being ruthlessly kicked and pushed into the military jeeps. Um Mohammad closed the door of her apartment with tears frozen in her eyes. Then, she threw herself over the pile that the soldiers formed while searching the house. She unleashed her wailing, as if putting all her disappointments in that sound emanating from the bottom of her throat.

After she was consumed by her hysterical fit, she looked around for her daughter, Fatima, who was missing from the scene. Like a crazy person, she ran from one room to another until she found her daughter roaming near the faucet while holding an empty glass in her hands. Fatima’s cheeks were as red as tomatoes. Um Mohammad rushed toward her and held her in her arms. While kissing the girl, she was terrified by the hot feel of the child’s cheeks. Her temperature was around 104.

She went in circles as she thought of a way to take her daughter to the nearest hospital while the entire area was under strict curfew. She rummaged through all the stuff in the house to find any type of paracetamol, but when she found one, it was expired, and this aggravated her misery.

Suddenly, in a moment which detached her from her reality, Um Mohammad held her daughter in her arms and ran unconsciously into the street where snipers were spreading on top of all buildings, searching for any moving target. To add to the horror of the scene, the nozzles of canons were occupying the bereaved space of Nablus.

It was not painful at all; a sniper’s bullet settled in her back in the early hours of dawn. When the candle of heaven rose high in the sky, Fatima was playing near her mother’s dead body. She was actually tampering childishly with the empty bullets while searching around her for a glass of water to quench the fire of her fever.

AND WHEN THEY SAY WE CAN’T BE MERMAIDS

Kay Hollins

(Black American) - Poetry

Remember, our ancestors jumped

from ships when shackled—

Holding on, tight, to the only

remnants of home they knew.

The oceans held the promises

white palms would not.

When those palms carried promises

of clenched fists and stealing—

Remember, the water whispered sweet nothings…

They say we can’t be mermaids…

Well, where did all those women go, then?

Whose tears added monsoons to the sea—

Black women who refused to die in vain.

I cry for my tsunami sisters—

Who leapt into uncharted waters

holding everything—each other,

and their dreams.

I raise hell for my hurricane women,

who decided death equated freedom

the more the boat rocked.

They say we are magic but we can’t be mermaids;

as if water had not turned us from slaves to angels,

as if water had not spoken more than once,

as if the depths of death had not called us home,

as if I don’t look in puddles