1 ElizabethTHE LEGACY City State University • STUDENT EDITION • Spring 2023
2 I don’t think about ar t When I’m working I think about life. Jean-Michael Basquiat
3 Letter from Editor Greetings Fellow Vikings, I am so extremely proud to present the fourth edition of The Legacy! I remember when this was just a concept and we are now releasing another edition. Much like our previous releases, this one is full of the talents of our fellow Vikings. With each release, we are firmly re-establishing our presence as versatile creatives and showcasing the talent that our campus possesses. This edition and those that follow are a testament to the beauty that lies in the words and artistry of our students and it is amazing to watch. This issue includes pieces from a wide swath of majors. As we work to build a lasting imprint as a literary magazine, we want to reflect the strength of all Vikings. If you are remotely interested in writing or art, then we encourage you to showcase your talents on campus and to share them with us. Our goal is to display the work of artists, poets and writers who are developing strong voices and confidence in their ability. We’ve recently been inspired by seeing exactly how other universities have built and shaped their literary imprint so we’re planning to make some revisions but we’re committed to bringing you the same quality product as usual. As always, there are many hardworking artisans behind the scenes who play a part in creating visuals, formatting and formulating the final product of The Legacy and I want to thank them for all of their hard work. We have an amazing team who continually gives of themselves; which is the Viking way. With Viking Pride, Brande N. McCleese, Editor
4 03 C ontents 07 08 10 12 14 15 Letter from the Editor Yesterday’s World by Hameed Nelson Unworthy by 5.sinces Brown Floor by MinnieAynaj I Love You Black Woman by Devon Riddick imy by @5.sinces Longing by Ceanna Kinney TableOF
5 16 20 21 22 25 26 27 28 30 32 34 36 45 47 51 54 57 Those Eyes by Devon Riddick Infinty by Ceanna Kinney Lint BLocs by MinnieAynaj Twilight & Eclipse by Ceanna Kinney Water by Ceanna Kinney The Beginnings by Ceanna Kinney Some Things Can’t Be Cleaned by Makayla Childs Within the Wolf by Jada Strome Grief by Hameed Nelson The Culture by R.C Rotten by Jada Strome A Songbird on a Windowsill by Jada Strome Fabric by Hameed Nelson Choice by Tracie Jordan Hohn Seminar by MinnieAynaj Not Just Today but Forever by Hameed Nelson Mauve by Amanda Williams
6 Serenity Shipp
7 Yesterday’s Word By Hameed Nelson I’m frozen lying next to you the fire in my lungs gone cold I mutter my softest verse but that’s just yesterday’s forgotten words we talk like buildings fall the first time I apologized jumping over broken bridges in my mind you say the fire’s getting low my love’s a million lies ago we fought the tears back together but that’s for yesterday’s forgotten words Can we laugh? we’re both broken and forgotten in yesterday’s words I want to see us together were both part of something far beyond yesterday’s words Poetry
8 im self destructive and good at self sabotaging. im not good at the things i want to be. im not good at being loved or accepting what im not used to. i may be pretty but im not worthy. i like to be spontaneous and do whatever i want. i miss the days i were a kid, cause i dont remember growing up i hate the life ive grown to live, i keep on fucking up i feel i am unworthy of this, unworthy to be loved. i see your side of things, it seems, more often than you see mine. they say once you stop looking, what you want youll surely find i dont know why you love me, and its not your fault its mine. im filled with rage, and healing the little girl inside i dont think i can fill your cup, way up to the brim i have so many intrusive thoughts that my heart cant seem to swim through the dreadful waters that we refer to as love baby, i love you dearly, but im just not worthy enough. Unworthy By 5.sinces Poetry
Serenity Shipp 9
10 Although she understood Her place in the world It was hard to understand why Strength was founded in agony Mother left children Cooking and cleaning But reminded them they were not resilient enough to withstand her beatings When it came to people not understanding inevitable You decided to change the path of emotions That were hidden in the pits of black holes The cries each night struggling of wanting more but knowing less Was not resilient Withering on the floor as she absorbs The generational affection While acknowledging the infection That has consumed her well being Knowing mother is stuck in the middle Knowing and comforting What can this child who is seven but eighteen presenting do? Brown Floor By MinnieAynaj Poetry
11 Brown Floor Poetry It wasn’t mopping the tears off the floor so She wouldn’t smell like mildew slipping in her own sorrow Resilient Mother wasn’t there No one to teach this resilience Just standing in the middle of uncertainty Walks through picking up lessons Because sadness was finally welcomed after years of suffering she finally was in resilience presence grief is human Emotion is human The breath of peppermint as she Walks to her therapist appointment And leaves with her eyes tearing and heart heavy She watched her cartoons While twisting down her curls Content with her sadness For she knew yes life was always going to push her down It was resilient to find beauty in the ground as she admired the way she watched herself get up
12 I Love You Black Woman By Devon Riddick I love you Black Woman, Your existence created us all Creating the meaning and the purpose Instilling in us and nurturing each second Dependable more than any Without you, there isn’t me Your aesthetic completes every fantasy Your love isn’t a hoax Your feelings aren’t minuscule The knowledge she possesses is absolute Knowing little bounds A creature made with perfection A fossil of love and tenderness You complete me Black Woman Delivering life in the Men who talk Creating love in the animals who walk She gives me the will to see To view the World in fluidity Every second of life is dedicated to you… Black Woman
Donovan Mullen 13
14 imy By @5.sinces right now im looking back, feeling like maybe i made a mistake. not sure if i did the right thing when i put you in your place.... did i say that wrong? maybe i am the perpetrator but thats how you want me to feelnow im doing you a favor. let me snap back, let me rewind it was a mess back then, a dark, confusing time. and i dont think im healed, let alone over it, though im not the person who needs closure, whats not helping is withholding it maybe i shouldn't have been so rude but im sure you could see where im coming from then again maybe you can't, i know the life that you were running from. in love, you claimed to be in love you claimed with me. in love with every person i set my heart on, see. so maybe i wasnt wrong, but to hell with it now because you guys are happy, while im missing you being around. Poetry
15 What is life without you? What is the ocean without the tides? What are the stars if not in your eyes? What is the world if not you? What is the sun Without your light? What is love Without your heart? What is passion Without your kiss? What is obsession Without your touch? Like the moon without the sun I am nothing Without you Longing By Ceanna Kinney Poetry
16 Those eyes. Ruling the world with power in each pupil The Waves doing their regular 9-5 With every glance, Another gets hooked… An another… Infinite beauty is what I call it It never runs out… She becomes angelic by the day But those eyes… Appearing in every dream Every other thought Every moment involves those eyes Dictating her Nation Overpowering the classes Destroying the poverty Bringing peace from heaven, To the Motherland The World keeps spinning Because of those eyes.. Those eyes. By Devon Riddick Poetry
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Jamie Parker 19
20 Infinity By Ceanna Kinney Fall into me Let my touch Leave a galaxy behind Shadows of infinity A time that never ends Yet exists only now An unending plane of existence With only two souls Glittered with stars Planets and worlds encapsulating what Only we can hold Like the limits of the cosmos My love for you Knows no end Poetry
Maleah Lassiter 21
22 I never liked the sight of me For I knew the mirror was filled with what I thought was beautiful The little old me Was someone who saw beauty in everything But reality took over my nine year old mind I can look in the mirror Pretend that I imagine what she sees Someone confident Who is so bold She keeps my mouth folded I never realized how much I grew to like how she sees me This is confusing because for me it’s all an illusion She seems to believe in this reality I’m pretty Hopefully when I fall into my pity of curiosity of what I think beauty mean’s hopefully she is there wiping off my illusion feeding my soul with the words I whispered to The person above me I think the universe gave me her after they saw They way our souls talked to each other on the way to find our salvation to love Lint BLocs By MinnieAynaj Poetry
23 As the moon dies The sun cries Hot tears Pierce through A shroud of thick fog She is burnt out In its death, The moon has taken All the light she has left Twilight By Ceanna Kinney Fall into me Consume my golden sun Let my shadow Be where you shine brightest In deep infinity The finites of celestial love Only for you In a galaxy of emotions Filled to endless brim With stars The only light I hold Is for you Eclipse me Engulf my light So you My Sweet Moon May shine Eclipse By Ceanna Kinney Poetry
24 Mariah Thompson
25 In the way that the tides crawl upon the shore I am drawn to you The moon is my soul Pulling Every wave within me Into you I will crash I will sink I will soak Into you And like the waves My love for you Will swell And grow So I can crash Into you again Water By Ceanna Kinney Poetry
26 The thoughts are constantly storming inside my head A titanium cell made only for me I can’t escape from this prison running away won’t help putting up barriers to stop the overflow I can’t make it out the time always runs out before I run out the door feeling so trapped in a looping time warp I feel so drained watching time pass not being able to blink my eyes I stare in the distance praying for an opening how could I escape this madness I built up these walls from a young age NOW I WANT TO ESCAPE HAVE I GONE MAD? HOW DO I MAKE SENSE OF THESE BARRIERS? I built these walls now i must break them running in full speed only to return to my mother’s womb The Beginning By Makayla Childs Poetry
27 Some Things Can’t Be Cleaned By Makayla Childs Try understanding what it’s like to be human A breathing individual with so much life I mean we are HUMANS but we start off as rocks wanting to become more we work day and night for currency ninety hours only equal so much still a slave to dirt not enough to buy the expensive things not enough for cars or apartments but I can make a rock rocks take 18 years to mature when I was a rock it took me 12 cooking and cleaning scrubbing and more scrubbing the white floors never came clean the dirt remaining in the cracks I keep scrubbing with hope BUT hope is lost. Poetry
28 Within the Wolf By Jada Strome Slithering and sliding Little Red made her way down Depositing in the belly of the beast She wore his pancreas like a crown The walls were closing in They squeezed her body tight Had her poor grandma been alive This would have given her a fright She felt wet and sticky chunks Half-digested bits of flesh clinging to her skin She tried to keep her mouth closed For consuming her own grandmother was a sin. Acid burned her eyes and mouth It forced its way up her nose It ate away at skin so violently That her own bile eventually rose She swallowed it down And she let out a bleating cry But when no one answered her pleas She knew then that she would soon die The sour scent of gastric juices Traveled through her nostrils and tickled her brain For a moment she envied her expired grandmother For at least she could not feel pain She gasped and she struggled Her vision was beginning to waver No hunter ever did come knocking Or attempt to be her savior. Poetry
Mariah Thompson29
30 Grief By Hameed Nelson Poetry Grief begins in the mind then sinks lower, heavy Into my eyes Am I a man if I cry grief’s tears? Too late, it moved along A runny nose A itch in my lungs Lower, my heart pumps it through my blood Sharp pain breaks my fists apart, I surrender My chest clenches tight Heavy breaths short on their leash still grief sinks itself lower The guts trusts me Wrenched and twisted They refuse to scorn me with betrayal Though they felt it in every form Grief strays into clenched thighs they bear the burden each day They move me along it defiantly My knees shout and wince twins of suffering I bring them close To my heart And in warmth it sings rhythm in circles. A lost sense of time I sat idle under shower head reveling in grief’s sorrow his all swells back to my mind Then spilling From my pen Ink leaks out onto the page Killing its original form Swapping grief for tangible memories I suppose I should bury it there
Robert Houseknecht 31
32 The Culture By RC One left one right, worn through the day sometimes at night Some high some low, even some mids but those are a no Most are respected and treated as a prize, others look at them like they aren’t worth a dime All different types of brands, even designer, too but those there cost a few. I figured by now you would catch on, those that don’t know I’m talking about a pair of shoes. Nikes, Jordans, designer you name it, most importantly don’t forget Ye is branded. Poetry
Brianna Cole 33
34 Her mother said her teeth would rot So handfuls of sweets to eat she could not She would beg and plead and dance all around Until Mother would snap and tell her not to make a sound The days went on and as the girl grew Convincing her mother was not something she could do She would beg and plead and dance all around Again Mother told her not to make a sound Over the years she tried to sway others Since she knew there was no way to trick mothers She would beg and plead and dance all around But those around her told her not to make a sound When the time came and the girl was nearly grown She still could not reach the sweets on her own She begged and pleaded and danced all around But this time her mother was the one who made no sound The poison with which mother’s coffee had been laced Had left the strict woman rather blue in the face The girl did not have to beg or plead or dance all around She simply stood on her mother once she had fallen to the ground For a long while she used the body as a stool Eating candy and sweets until she bloated like a fool She finally decided to dance all around This time from joy instead of a plea to make a sound She gave a big and toothy grin after one last sweet Her eyes shining brightly as rotten teeth clattered at her feet Rotten By Jada Strome Poetry
Donovan Mullen 35
36 A Songbird on a Windowsill By Jada Strome Short Story
37 Margaret Thimble was a woman of the ripe, old age of 33. This meant that she was much too young to really be respected by the snooty, matured women of her Southampton country club; however, she was much too old to get the same attention she’d received from her husband in the beginning of their marriage, which began nearly eight years prior. Harold was a businessman who worked in all the hustle and bustle of Wall Street, but Margaret didn’t know exactly what he did, and she’d never really asked. All she knew was that it brought in the money that afforded them their comfortable lifestyle, and that was all that mattered. The one time she did ask him a question about his work, Harold had pulled his cigarette from between his lips, pressing the butt into the ashtray on the end table. “Now,” he’d started, giving her a quizzical look. “When did you start worrying about things like that? My work’s not something for you to worry your pretty little head about. Besides, it’s not really something a woman’d understand, anyhow.” Margaret didn’t really bother to ask him much about anything after that, even if it wasn’t related to his work. Her days typically weren’t spent doing much of anything besides going to the country club. The town car would drop her off there first thing in the morning as soon as the nanny arrived to take care of the children, then pick her up again mid-afternoon so that she’d get home before Harold did in the evening. She didn’t know how to play golf, and she didn’t have any interest in learning. The country club was just a place where she could drink wine and smoke cigarettes all day— but of course, it was perfectly acceptable and ladylike to do it since it was in a fancy-shmancy place that probably cost Harold the same as
38 the down payment on their penthouse in order for them to get their membership. Of course, that was just a guess; it wasn’t like Margaret had asked how much it cost because Harold wouldn’t have told her, anyway. When she arrived home in the afternoons, the nanny, Mariam, was usually getting Oscar ready to head to the elementary school to pick up his two older siblings, Harry Jr., and Abigail. If 5 you asked Margaret what she thought of naming their oldest after her husband, she’d have said it was the most idiotic thing she’d ever heard of. But just as she never really asked Harold about much of anything, he didn’t bother to ask her about anything, either. Not even how she felt about their son’s name. He’d let her name Abigail because he hadn’t had a name in mind for a girl, considering he’d never wanted one. Truthfully, Margaret had just picked the first name that had come to mind. She hadn’t wanted a girl, either…or even a second child for that matter. In fact, she’d never even really wanted the first. When she got home on a particular Friday, Mariam and Oscar were already gone. She was grateful for that, considering Oscar was walking and babbling more and more often now, and it seemed like no matter where she was in the house, he’d come straight to find her so he could grab at her pearls, her hair, her breasts— even though she’d switched to bottle feeding him as soon as she was able to. It was all rather annoying, but she hoped that soon enough, he’d be quieter like the older ones were. She sat down in front of the dining room window, cracking it open before placing a cigarette in her goldwired cigarette holder, striking a match to light it. She blew the smoke out from between her red lips and peered down at the bustling city below her, but before she could fall into
39 the deep, hypnotic spell watching such a thing often brought her, something else caught her eye. A fluttering in the corner of the window until it moved down, a tiny little Song Sparrow perching itself on the windowsill, staring up at her. It was a tiny, round thing with a white belly and a brown freckled back. It wasn’t pretty like a robin or a hummingbird, but even so, it’d do for some company. “Hello,” Margaret said softly, leaning in to get a closer look at the little bird. She’d half expected it to fly away the moment she did so, but it didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by her presence. “You’re a brave little thing,” she commended, taking a puff of her cigarette, and it seemed like the bird was watching her do it. “What are you up to? You don’t have any worms to eat, or something lol the sort?” She didn’t know why she was talking to a bird, of all things. Even talking to herself probably seemed a little less crazy at this point, but it wasn’t like people didn’t already think she had a few screws loose— what was a few more, if one of her neighbors 6 heard her chatting with a bird through their open windows? God only knew the nosy bastards heard worse whenever Harold drank too much. The sound of the front door startled Margaret, so much so that the little bird immediately took flight, flapping its feathered wings furiously until it could glide out of sight. Margaret sighed, plucking her cigarette from its holder to flick it out the window, slamming the window shut more harshly than she’d originally intended as the sound of little footsteps filled the room. She turned as Harry and Abigail dropped their school bags and coats on the floor, prompting Mariam to immediately pick them up to put them in their proper places as soon as she’d set Oscar down. “Good afternoon, Ms. Margaret,” Mariam greeted her, and Margaret did manage a small smile, feeling some of the
40 tension leave her shoulders. Mariam was always kind to her. That tension, however, returned to her as soon as two sets of arms wrapped around her waist. Her smile turned tight and she gave a small pat to Harry’s shoulder, then Abigail’s before gently pulling herself out of the embrace. Oscar toddled over to her, holding his arms up toward her to be held. She looked down at him in silence before she reached to give a hesitant pat to the top of his head, but he still didn’t put his arms down. Margaret walked away from him, and eventually Mariam picked him up instead. “Did you have a good day, my loves?” Margaret asked her two older children, but she didn’t exactly wait for their reply before heading towards the kitchen. Of course, they followed at her heels, staring up at the back of her head until she stopped at the nearest counter to pretend to tidy things. “Yes, Mama,” Harry Jr. answered his mother, and Abigail rounded her mother in order to be in her field of view, holding up a slightly crumpled piece of paper with a drawing of six stick figures, a sun, some clouds, something that might be a tree— Margaret didn’t exactly try her hardest to discern what exactly it was. 7 “I drew this for you, Mama,” Abigail explained to her mother, her little voice tight with anticipation as she held the drawing up higher, expecting her mother to take it. Of course, her mother did no such thing. “It’s me, and then—, then you, then Daddy, Harry, Oscar, Mariam. I drew the grass, the clouds—“ she explained breathlessly, but Margaret cut her off before she could finish. “That’s very nice work for a kindergartner,” Margaret assured her, and as Abigail’s small arm grew tired, she slowly began to lower it. “First grade,” Abigail said softly, and Margaret looked up from the pile of magazines she’d been ‘organizing’ now for the last minute or so, directing her gaze down to the red-haired
41 little girl in front of her. “Hm? Yes, well,” Margaret said, paying no mind to her mistake. “Your hair’s a mess. It should be up in a bun.” “Will you help me?” Abigail asked, and Margaret looked back down at the magazines. “Ask Mariam. Mama’s busy right now.” With that, Abigail was heading back into the living room. Harry had long since forgotten about pining for his mother’s attention, simply having returned to his nanny as soon as Abigail had started to show her mother the drawing she’d made of their family. Margaret peered at the four of them through the entryway connecting the kitchen and the living room. She couldn’t quite hear them, but she could see Abigail showing Mariam all her drawings, pointing them out excitedly. Mariam nodded her head along with each one, Oscar cradled in her lap as his little hands reached to play with her dark curls, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. Margaret huffed a little. She didn’t understand how someone couldn’t be bothered by such a thing. She made her way to the ice box, pulling out a jar of olives they kept around for cocktails, using a toothpick to stick a few and pop them 8 into her mouth before returning the jar to its proper place. She’d wait to have a drink until it was a little closer to Harold getting home. Her heels clicked against the linoleum floor of their kitchen, the sound changing into soft thuds as she made her way onto the carpet of the living room, then down the hall where the bedrooms were. “Mariam,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget you’re staying with the kids tonight.” “Yes, Ms. Margaret,” she called back as Margaret made her way into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She took down her hair and opened up her cedar wardrobe, pulling out a gown for the banquet they were attending that evening. She undressed herself and changed into fresh undergarments and stockings
42 before slipping on the wine red dress. The hem was flared outward and the waist cinched inward to accentuate her shape, the bust holding a V-shape over her chest with straps that crisscrossed in the back. She pinned up her hair and reapplied her lipstick, trading out her pearls for diamonds and her black heels for red pumps before she finally took the chance to look at herself in the mirror. To any outsider, she’d likely have been considered a pretty sight— even she knew that, but she couldn’t get over the one aspect of her outfit she hated. Well— it wasn’t part of the outfit, per say, but part of her body. With the V-neck cut of her dress, the top of her bosom was exposed. There were slight wrinkles in the skin since they were being pushed up and together by a tight brassiere, and just looking at them made her feel ill. These were breasts that had gone through three pregnancies, nursed three babies into health. The memories of sniveling, crying infants sucking at her engorged and misshapen breasts that were swollen with milk she’d never wanted to come in made her clench her fists, french-tipped nails digging so harshly into her palms she could swear she was close to drawing blood, tears welling up in her eyes. “Mama?” There was a knock at the door, and Margaret could swear she’d seen red other than her dress in the mirror in those moments. She stomped over to the door, wrenching it open so roughly the door handle slammed into the drywall, leaving a crumbling hole once the 9 door swung back into Margaret from the force. She caught it with her hand, her chest heaving as she stared down at the child in front of her. “What?” She asked Harry in a broken voice, but before he could answer, she just kept going. “What is it? What do you want from me!?” She shouted at him. The boy cowered in
43 fear, his face crumpling before he turned on his heel and ran down the hall, crying out for Mariam. Of course— of course he was crying out for Mariam. Margaret slammed the door shut, pushing pieces of stray hair away from her reddened face. She returned to the mirror to look at herself, and somehow, she hated what she saw even more than she had before. She hated how wild her eyes looked, how her red hair had begun to frizz, how her mascara began to run when tears slipped down her rosy cheeks. She reached for her hairbrush and wound her slender arm back as far as she could, throwing it with all her might at her reflection in the mirror. It shattered with a loud crash, shards of reflective glass joining the solid brass hairbrush on the floor, but she could still see herself. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. Margaret crumpled down into a heap on the floor, letting out an agonized, ear-piercing wail. She tore her pumps off her feet and tossed them at the wall hard enough to dent the drywall, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them close to her as she cried. She could hear rushing footsteps and the opening and closing of a door— it was likely Mariam getting the children out of the apartment. Margaret was alone. Completely, utterly alone. Short Story
44 Jamie Parker
45 Fabric stretched stripped tapered fabric ripped fabric stained jeans have tears lightning blue strands of fabric the sweater I wear hangs loose around my bones a dirty baseball cap the brim slightly bent to a side my grandfather’s Jean jacket sling across the back of my desk chair winter gloves lost in places hands can’t go the fabric of my life explodes with resilience it is cheap and wounded rare and irreplaceable like pure memories Fabric By Hameed Nelson Poetry
46 Mariah Thompson
47 Hohn Seminar By MinnieAynaj human rights is a debate I’m surrounded by people who are few shades from white We are different beyond this layer of outer skin But I am the only black sinner as we debate about basic human rights I’m am trying to help them understand my light For I always knew the darkness I seen all my life I seen others give in to the darkness for I knew I had to speak out My brothers and sisters are my world So I assume they let the black girl say her words For they asked, decoded with disgust Because for some reason I was their library Although they had the world In their hands I gave my all they spoke and I listened with my heart As I let them park into my heart and brain I saw this boy may be no mind I was speaking about my past brothers and sisters Who were taking from this world because Poetry
48 Poetry They were breed different I look this boy in his eyes Because I see through him As if I was his reflection I spoke with anger and passion I gave him the satisfaction of seeing a angry black woman I screech as my throat attacks my words This boy has the audacity to smile As I describe my people in agony my chest swelled My eyes red as a monthly surprise My anxiety is taking over Was this angrier? Was this madness? For years I seen my people be slaughtered By the hunters Something in me I never felt before I was your Expected black woman, Calm with decades of fear April 1 was the reason I almost committed Treason When I had mention Marsha P.Johnson He smiled as if I was doing Comedy show And my people were the walking punchline I cry for the first time
49 Poetry For you see this isn’t about me I am a black fat queer woman I will face more For the world isn’t done with me I just couldn’t handle this boy smiling at me As I described her life I thought about the hundreds of black lives who died It was as if they were all inside me Fear and sadness flowed over I cried and cried Now I understood what I felt inside For this was the start of the revolution
50 Trila Diallo-Carson