A Selection of Work from this Year’s Recipients of the John Lewis Writing Grants
by the 2024 John Lewis Writing Grants Recipients
An excerpt from Alafia Nicole Sessions’ poetry submission, the winner of the 2024 John Lewis Writing Grant in Poetry
My Grandmother Called Me A Heifer
and she was not wrong, I was a heifer
I was young, childless, I ate grass—a heifer
Though it gave me hives I rolled like lovers in hay
A virgin for twenty two years, long lived the heifer
Three square meals means certified humane
Alfalfa, silence, silage, shame–the diet of a young heifer
I opened my legs to serenade the sun–the nerve to have four stomachs With ringless fist she punched just three–made me unsung heifer
Raised for milk or meat, good enough to eat, still called unclean
I hid in milk-blue bathwater, let my udders pierce the surface, salty heifer
White dress clings in baptism waters, deacons eye the dark of their desire There is a God who loves cows, Brahman named holy the unfaulty heifer
Dead six years, she missed my belly full–a bull is never to blame
At the altar, brimming with life, I said her name, heard her answer back: heifer
And now my calf says she crushes too much, says she will love
so many boys, Mama. I tell her that it’s a gift, the heart of a black heifer.
~
Fable with Cyst, Celestial Being & Sacrifice
In my middle, small submarine, pigeon pea
housing hormones. A star was born beside it,
grew, then blued & popped. An angel appeared
before me, said, God will send a flood. Set
my bush to burning, in it I saw the future
blood. Marched animals onto my ark, two by two,
they knew me by the amber stripe in my eye.
The wolf in me paced the deck, the serpent
slept & bobbed for apples, the doves & ravens
circled, the birds of prey prayed, but, worried,
none would land. Their sounds a frenzied
symphony, so loud the panther felt compelled
to know the path & so stretched a long
periscope toward the multiplying horizons
& saw the new earth, instinctively knew,
to make it through the density, the beasts would
have to give up something: maybe memory,
surely hunger. And so, like any good God
-mother, I laid back, unzipped myself
from lip to heel, I let them feast.
~
Vernix Caseosa
When I brought her to my chest
she was all alabaster. Sweet cream skin
beneath white velvet vernix. Womb-wet,
her tiny stallion un-stalled, hushed despite
my calling to her. My mind thick with the rich
smoke of copal. Small beast with beating heart
and beady eyes, bright as the night that ushered
her in. Don’t know why I thought she’d be
russet brown, thought her hued the baritone
of brewed assam. I guess I’d dreamed her so,
though the math of him and me, small probability
to yield a midnight child. She wasn’t high yellow
like my father, but true as yuca, more frankincense
than copper. I, unwitting mother of Pearl, mere
moments after her birth, prepare to be mistaken
for the nanny of a child I bred and issued
all in the same ivory sheets.
~
My Faith Unfolds Itself
like a ribbonless plait:
the rain outside descends in strands:
percussive opera for the sheltered:
petrichor of hominy and green:
grief everywhere, all at once : and then
the sun : reminds me I’m not new:
they are my dowry : the gone ones
and their light : refracted through
the body’s fluids : o rivers : how to
marry threads of water with faith:
predates language : but the word was
the beginning : have we come this far by fate:
roots fracture, forget, then return : curse
the pattern of rupture then mend : not unlike
the making of a quilt, or muscle : broth born
of fire and water : fists full of ephemerals:
blood-honey : water always finds her way:
I plump and soften : like soaked grain.
After Faith Ringgold’s Exhibit, “Black is Beautiful” at the Picasso Museum, Paris 2023
An Excerpt from “CRYSTALLINE” by Dominque Feloss, winner of the 2024 John Lewis Writing Grant in Fiction
There is a tall man with no face sitting on a throne that shouldn’t belong to him. He wears the heavy black robe of a priest, and the large black hat of the Wicked. And by his usurped throne, there is a white candle with a single dull flame, flickering and dancing in the dark upon a great oak table. His crooked nails are lengthy like daggers, covered in blackened soot, and he taps them on the surface of the table.
Lord Rydel leans back in his great seat and sighs. “Well now. What brings y’all ‘round my way?” His deep voice reverberates in the vast emptiness of the black nothing.
We come to you to grant her mercy as she has a soft soul.
The cycle must be born anew, but give her some control.
The Rabbit sings in its nasally, whiny tone. A black tear forms behind its white mask from the darkness of its eye. It drips down its porcelain bunny nose, past the Rabbit’s frown, and disappears into its black robe with an esoteric language etched into the cloth. It stands stiffly at the far end of the table with The Many.
“And why would I do that? I do not need to show mercy to my creations. They’re nothin’ but an instrument. You grow too fond of things you do not have to harbor feelings for. And don’t pretend like you don’t understand me. I already know you speak my dialect, you’re just particular, ” Lord Rydel says.
We agree with the end result, she needs to be the one,
but merciful is not your strength, We ask and then we’re done.
The Bear says, its deep voice is loud and lingers in the air. Its empty eyes pierce behind its angered white mask.
“Well, y’all have asked and I have denied. I will do as I please in the name of science.”
The Strange One glares angrily, its warped face unexplainable.
Lord Rydel taps his long nails on the table, rapidly and impatiently. “Anythin’ else?” He asks.
The Many have spoken sternly, your wrongful throne will not last.
When the Hallowed Queen awakes, just know you cannot change the past.
The Owl says, high pitched and softly, as it lifts its strange fingers and points to the towering chair that Rydel sits in.
Rydel laughs, “Spare me your theatrics, Many. ‘When the Hallowed Queen awakes.’ You’ll be thanking me when I get the answers when we finally understand if someone sits on a bigger throne. The fool who called herself ‘The Hallowed Queen’ is dead. ”
The four spectral figures stare at him as silence lingers in the dark.
“She will come to me, and I will do as I need to make that happen. So, run along now and go down yonder, far, far, away from me.”
The Many stand still for another second, and then disappear into the shadows.
The Lord Rydel stares at the flickering candle upon the table. Then, he holds his palm to the flame. It sizzles and dances.
“I will bestow enigmatic dreams to shepherd her.”
~
Chekhov's Gun, by Dominque Feloss
The smell of rot is sweet and repulsive. The succulent putrid aroma lingers in the air and never dissipates. From the wolf’s mouth with bits of soft skin between its teeth to the scent of mushrooms hidden in the forest. From the pig roasting on a fire, skin crackling like lightning, to the formaldehyde that pickles your loved one for display. The scent of rot is everywhere.
I like the smell of rot. It’s comforting to know that we will all share this scent. We’ll all smell like our grandmothers. We will all exist as a marker, a tree, a floral arrangement, a speck of dust in the wind, a star in the galaxy, a name on a tomb. We’ll all find our way there, one way or another. The water may take us. The rocks may crush us. The stench of illness may cover our essence and slowly erode us. However it comes, know that it will come. No preparation will help you to come to terms with your departure as it happens. You just have to hope for the best.
Your body will stiffen and bloat. It will leak and contort. It will break down and feed the ecosystems underneath our heads. Your thoughts that once existed in your brains will melt into the bellies of maggots. You will cease to be on the plane of existence that your feet once printed. Everyone will forget you lived and continue with their temporary existence until they too succumb to the rot.
With life comes death. With youth comes decay. There is a natural balance, and if you exist beyond this scope, you become hollow and fortuitous. Therefore, you are no longer part of that natural balance.
Some exist beyond the scope of what is meant to be. If you’ve found yourself in the absence of death, don’t worry, you will long for it. You’ll desperately desire the embrace of the dirt and the scent of rot to envelope you. You will want it to fill your nose and ears and eyes. You will desperately claw at anything that reminds you of it. Let the rot take you. Don’t fight it. It’s what we all want in the end. It was made for us to desire it so that we submit to the invitation. Go on. No need to resist.
Embrace the smell of rot.
An Excerpt from “She’s Just Too Dark,” by Wytinsea Jones, winner of the 2024 John Lewis Writing Grants in Nonfiction
Nobody hated a dark-skinned girl more than her own kind of people. A gruesome reality that hit me sooner rather than later in life.
“Who’s jumping in first?” I raised my brows at my two cousins with a smirk, while lying in the yellow sun lounger chairs on the pool deck. I crossed my legs and yawned as the sun beamed with no ounce of remorse. The original frozen water bottles had no sight of icicles left in it. Only thawed droplets. I took a sip, waiting for their responses. Although we each had a respective amount of melanin, that didn’t stop my two light-skinned cousins from lying sprawled in their chairs without their umbrellas closed. Me, on the other hand, I knew that tanning couldn’t be a part of my forte. I had no need for it. I kept my umbrella opened above my lounge chair and sunglasses on.
“I bet you won’t jump in first,” my cousin, I’ll call Cece, stood up from the chair with both arms on her hips staring at me. I leaned my head up and furrowed my brow with a smirk. She knew what that meant.
My other cousin, I’ll call Felicia, sat up and chimed in, “I know one thing. You need to make sure you don’t stay in too long.” She pointed her finger at me, laughing, “You’re black enough, girl. The sun gone sho’ nuff burn your skin to a crisp.”
Cece looked at us both, covered her mouth, and giggled as well.
I stretched my arms out, examining my complexion. Even though I knew how much darker my skin was from theirs, I still frowned and flared my nose.
I sucked my teeth before rolling my eyes and dropping my arms, “Shut up. You sound really stupid. You black too.”
A weak response, I know. But I couldn’t just sit there and say nothing. I also couldn’t burst into tears like a wimp. I spared her only because I didn’t have a real argument against her to stand on anyways.
“Yeah, but not that black.”
What did that black even mean coming from another African-American? It didn’t make sense. I grew used to those remarks and found myself constantly in defense mode about my skin tone. After all, one thing was true, I was much darker than Felicia and Cece.
Over time, I realized how words like “darkie,” “blackie,” and “burnt,” dug holes of rejection in my heart. Mama always told me, “Don’t worry about what anyone says. You know who you are.” Although Mama intended to motivate me to think positive of myself, her advice didn’t necessarily do that for me. I had no strength to overcome harsh words like that, but I also couldn’t appear weak. Growing up with a single parent who always displayed strength taught me that I had to show mine too. In reality, I didn’t know who I was and why I had to fight this complexion battle in life.
After that exchange with my cousins, we jumped in the pool. Although that evening ended up better than it started, I couldn’t seem to get those words of rejection out of my head. What was wrong with me being dark? Why did it even matter what skin complexion I was if we’re all black anyways? My mind roamed with thoughts as we performed tricks in the water, did flutter kicks, and relaxed on the floats. They kept a smile and so did I. One thing was for sure, I got out of the pool first. After all, I didn’t want to become “burnt” as Felicia warned me.
I never imagined my dark skin would lead to such ridiculing by the ones I loved. After other encounters like that with my cousins, I grew guarded and bitter. I stayed away from people who made me feel low, unaccepted, and inadequate. Eventually, I cut them off not only for my sake, but theirs as well. The wall I built to protect myself only led to masking the insecurities I didn’t want to face.
I had no clear understanding of colorism in my younger days. I assumed that people were immature, ignorant, and just plain mean. Taking an African-American history course at an HBCU during undergrad provided insight on my experiences. Being called “blackie,” “darkie,” and “burnt” was none other than colorism. The Oxford Languages define colorism as “prejudice or discrimination against individuals with a dark skin tone, typically among people of the same ethnic or racial group.” Yes, you read that correctly, “Typically, among people of the same ethnic or racial group.” The majority of the people that made colorist remarks to me were black just like me.
* * *
Layers of rejection built one on top of another over time. I even remember how a simple flip of the lights by my high school teacher changed the atmosphere in my class.“Everyone stop talking right now or I will give out detentions again,” she yelled.
No one said a word for about twenty seconds. I sat at my desk, tapping my fingers, waiting for this all to end. Again. Here we go again. I hate it here. My heart thumped out of control as sounds of laughter and mumbling came from every direction. I clenched my jaws and grinded my teeth. They mocked her words, grunted, and chuckled. Just a regular day in science class. But I guess it was just like a teacher to never give up on trying to handle chaotic teens.
As it became silent, one of my classmates cleared his throat. My fingers stopped tapping. I balled both fists together. I bit my bottom lip to stop them from trembling. Nothing could ever prepare me for what happened next. No matter how often it occurred. Better not. Better not.
“I can see everybody but…wait…where is umm… where is Wytinsea?” Bursts of laughter filled the dark room. I recognized the voices of mean girls that teased me about my dark skin among those cracking up.
My teacher sighed before saying, “Shhhh,” with the lights still off. As if that helped, another one chimed in.
“Wytinsea so black, I can’t see nothing but her white eyeballs.” More laughter echoed through the room as rejection cut me deep within. I banged the desk before standing up, unable to see them but determined to stand my ground.
“And so what?” I said, “Y’all ugly.” More laughter ensued right before the lights flashed on.
“Knock it off boys. Since you two think this is a joke, you both have detention. Uh-gain. See you at lunch.” My teacher huffed with a flushed face, and furrowed her brows. My body quivered as a cool tear rolled down my cheek. I pursed my lips and swiped it from my face.
As the chaos ceased, I paid attention to my teacher to get my mind off the painful encounter. The silence in class helped calm me. Just when I thought I could move past this, one of the boys balled his fist at his eye, making “wah wah wah” noises at me. My emotions were no longer on the high, so I didn’t sock him in the face like he deserved. Right before I could roast him with my words, my teacher came over to pat my back. I glanced up at her as she glared at the boy. That did no good for me. Rejection ate me alive as I dreaded the remaining class period. I wasn’t even accepted in my own classroom. Not just by the Latino, biracial, and white students, but by the Black students I grew up with.
Head over to our website to read more about the John Lewis Writing Grants and this year’s recipients.
Congratulations to the John Lewis Grant winners!