When I was younger, I never wanted to stay out in the sun too long
because if I did I would get “too dark.”
because “fair skin is beautiful and dark skin is not.”
because then I would “look more Indian.”
because then people would look at me more differently than they already do.
And I don’t want the attention.
I want to be beautiful like the white Bollywood actresses.
And God forbid I marry a dark man because then my children will be “dark.”
And “dark is shameful.”
“You don’t act Indian.”
“You don’t sound Indian.”
“You are white on the inside.”
And for some reason that felt like a compliment.
Why?
Because our society rewards people of color when they suppress their cultural background.
If I can fit in with whites it means I am normal.
I am not “weird” or “foreign” or “different.”
I am not a threat. I am not a terrorist.
If I can fit in with whites then maybe I can travel down South without worrying about my safety.
Without worrying about dirty looks, racial slurs, or simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
If I can fit in with whites then maybe I will stand a chance
But the color of my skin gives people the right to judge me
And the color of my skin defines me.


​Author Bio:
The author is a young 24-year-old second generation South Asian-American female from New Jersey pursuing a career as an optometrist. 

She botched the entrance twice, the substitute lead
duly paid, quite a pro, superiorly trained
one who could look at a score, unscramble it cold.
The entrance was abrupt, in the second measure.
The entrance came as a slap in the face in the second
measure, third beat. And she saw it
open eyes, throat open, heart and lungs wide open.
She observed, almost admired it, she embraced it
her whole being prepared to mouth it
gulp it then spit it out but she couldn't.
She swallowed instead.
*
He turned towards her, the conductor
one she hadn’t met before.
Instead of going on he turned and he lifted an eyebrow.
A split second. That gaze she’d never forget.
Frozen blade, laser sizzling her on the spot.
Only two bars in the famous conductor
took the liberty of starting over
gave the poor clumsy thing
an undeserved second chance.
*
Now she knew where the entrance was.
Two words, third and fourth beat
of the second measure, easy to pronounce
a prayer, a chant, what was this piece
about? Someone told her, of course
when hours ago she received the call
concert dress always spick-and-span in the closet.
Now she knew where she should sing
the soprano sub, like an angel
like crystal rain from above
and she breathed on time
and yet something choked her
and she missed as one skids on black ice
as one skips a step and then rolls
down a flight of stairs and lands on her back.
This time the conductor went on.
She jumped in as if mounting a wild
unsaddled nightmare. She sung through.
She bowed at the applause.
*
As she wanders backstage, seeking the green room
the score flickers behind eyelids half-close.                                                 
The diagram of the second bar
lines her corneas still. The words cruelly
eluding her tongue were perdona nos.
She removes make-up in front of the mirror
thoughts unfocused, brains leaking lassitude.
She muses about the two most reflective
things she can think of, self-portrait and suicide.
Leaning back on her chair, she imagines
a stroboscopic lamp, a globe, but concave
or perhaps she is in it.
Sphere of faceted shine, sparkling beehive.
She can feel the smoothness of glass
its cool, soothing surface
and the lethal sharpness of shards.


Author Bio:
Toti O'Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has recently appeared in Bridge Eight, Little Somethings, Metafore, and Alkhemia Poetica.

I write like a puma
        (free after César Vallejo)
 
Gray ground like shade to yellow brights
of double structures of agricultural shapes
of hay and straw that may dot
the rural landscape
 
As it features this canvas
how golden yellow can shine
against darkness of green
with purple as an innocent judge
 
In between--only there to set up the scenery
to facilitate an objective decision
like a nocturnal judgement
one once said
 
As pointed out in
the violet flowery
that mysteriously covers
foreground of painting
 
Reflecting like lilies
in sheaves of grain
 
An enigma of abundance of nature
one may expect a promising harvest.
 
Xanadu (Ofvallejofame) for The Voices Project (June 2020)
(Thanks to Martin Malharro 1911 Las parvas (la pampa de hoy)
Museo de Bellas Artes Buenos Aires--please, find virtual painting
on Las parvas (la pampa de hoy))
 
 
Author Bio:
Xanadu lives in Iv, Space of Infinite Imagination, Public's Home 0.
It consists in publications, performances and exhibits in art, jazz and literary contexts.
气 is the Chinese sign qi (please, ask your local Traditional Chinese Medicine for its many senses).

(Coping in Quarantine/Safe at Home)                           

I can do this; I affirm with a smile.
I work from home, so few changes in style.
 
I already use Zoom to connect on-line.
Connecting with groups, too, will be just fine.
 
Three groups in week one, went really great.
Two weeks will go fast, a sprint at this rate.
 
Daily I record, Relax, we’ll get through.
I post activities and positives, too.
 
Working is wonderful along the way.
Helping others heal, makes my day.
 
These days I do this over the phone,
no hugs though as I stay here, home, alone.
 
New baby? I got pictures of the ‘Little Squish!’
Everyone’s healthy, the best birthday wish!
 
A friend’s son has cancer, I learn on the phone.
Just diagnosed and in his brain and bone.
 
“I’m so sorry,” I cry and manage to say.
The mom says, “I just hope with him I can stay.”
 
My heart sinks, knowing her final path with her son.
Unthinkable, cut off before its course run.
 
With the 2 weeks almost up, April filled in quick.
With thirty more days added, I feel tricked!
 
I did what was asked, following the rules.
Stayed inside and kept my cool.
 
I watched the Covid numbers stay in check,
no hospital overflow here; what the heck?
 
Two weeks I was willing to give for the cause,
Thirty more days gave me more pause.
 
My friend’s son died in just fifteen short days.
No gathering, just posts, we all stayed away.
 
I sent a condolence card and she sent a note.
“Now I’m really alone,” was what she wrote.
 
My husband’s friend died of a stroke overnight.
The shock sent him reeling, and no service in sight.
 
I know anger and sadness won’t help me get through.
I double up on walks and meditation, too.
 
I send more cards and letters; more Zoom groups start to form.
Talking with my sisters is now a Saturday norm!
 
A friend made paper dolls, complete with our faces,
missing our breakfast club, the dolls hold our places.
 
The silliness made me laugh when I saw them on Facebook,
we laughed more when Zoom squares gave us a Brady Bunch look. 
 
Tears and laughter move me forward, with a smile.
Confident we can do this, is much more my style.
 
Listening and talking, encouraging along the way,
connecting with more people, and ‘seeing’ they’re okay,
 
helps to make the difference while isolation occurs,
while days, weeks, then months, now become a blur.
 
So, I practice what I preach and focus on the now.
I breathe in and breathe out, and joy slips in somehow.
 
​
Author Bio:
Jane M. DeGeorge loves words almost as much as she loves people. She began writing as soon as she could hold a pencil. She has wonderful energy and enthusiasm, a soothing voice and left a management position in the non-profit world to pursue helping people at a greater depth as a psychic medium. Jane shares about life, love and the hereafter through her poems, short stories, a blog and is working on her first book. Jane earned her BA in Communication and her MS in Counseling. For fun, she’s known for changing words to songs to fit the occasion, creating themed game shows and has mc’d improv for an audience of 200 of her closest friends. Jane’s been married more than 30 years to the same man, who happens to be an introvert. Before they married, Jane’s mom warned him, he would have adventures!