Our Stories, Our Voices Read online

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  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Editor’s Note

  “My Immigrant American Dream” by Sandhya Menon

  “Her Hair Was Not of Gold” by Anna-Marie McLemore

  “Finding My Feminism” by Amy Reed

  “Unexpected Pursuits: Embracing My Indigeneity & Creativity” by Christine Day

  “Chilled Monkey Brains” by Sona Charaipotra

  “Roar” by Jaye Robin Brown

  “Easter Offering” by Brandy Colbert

  “Trumps and Trunchbulls” by Alexandra Duncan

  “Tiny Battles” by Maurene Goo

  “These Words Are Mine” by Stephanie Kuehnert

  “Fat and Loud” by Julie Murphy

  “Myth Making: In the Wake of Hardship” by Somaiya Daud

  “Changing Constellations” by Nina LaCour

  “The One Who Defines Me” by Aisha Saeed

  “In Our Genes” by Hannah Moskowitz

  “An Accidental Activist” by Ellen Hopkins

  “Dreams Deferred and Other Explosions” by Ilene (I.W.) Gregorio

  “Not Like the Other Girls” by Martha Brockenbrough

  “Is Something Bothering You?” by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  “What I’ve Learned about Silence” by Amber Smith

  “Black Girl, Becoming” by Tracy Deonn Walker

  Resources

  About the Author

  FOR ALL OF US WHO AT TIMES

  FEEL LOST AND POWERLESS.

  MAY WE CONTINUE TO FIND,

  AND FIGHT FOR, OURSELVES

  AND ONE ANOTHER.

  INTRODUCTION

  Amy Reed

  In the days after the 2016 presidential election, I felt lost.

  Like so many people, I was overwhelmed by feelings of shock and powerlessness. I needed a way out of my despair; I needed to do something. So I became determined to channel those feelings into action and hope. Out of that determination, and the determination of twenty other YA authors to make our voices heard, this book was born.

  No matter where your beliefs fall on the political spectrum, or even if you don’t consider yourself political at all, it is impossible to deny that we are living in a time when many people are afraid. Many people are angry. Hate and fear seem to be the ruling emotions in our country. I’ve had countless conversations with people who are terrified by what seem to be the very real possibilities of nuclear war, the mass deportation of millions of immigrants, the overturning of Roe v. Wade and marriage equality, the government’s open support of white supremacy, homophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia, xenophobia, ableism, sexism, and racism. I keep hearing stories of emboldened hatred and violence, of kids being bullied in school and nobody stopping it, of trans kids committing suicide. I know so many survivors of sexual assault and abuse whose trauma is being triggered by the behavior and rhetoric of those in power. We are living in a cultural battleground where, for many of us, our very identities seem to be under attack.

  My heart hurts. I have a four-year-old daughter who deserves a better world than this. You deserve a better world than this. So I asked myself: How can I help? How can I be part of the solution? What is my power and how can I use it?

  My power is in my words, in storytelling. I knew I had a story to tell. I knew my friends, the incredible YA authors in this collection, all had stories to tell. I thought of you—young people across the country who may be feeling scared and threatened, with your own stories that need to be told and heard. I wanted to do something to help you know you’re not alone in your fear and anger, to help you know that your stories—your lives—are valid, and valued. So many of us are hearing the message right now that we do not belong, that we are not welcome. To that—I think I speak on behalf of all the authors in this book—I say bullshit. You are wanted. You are loved. You belong. I hope you read these pages and see yourself in our stories, see that there is a place for you, with us. I hope the words of these authors help you feel less alone. I hope you read about women just like you, and I hope you read about women very different from you, and I hope that your heart opens for all of them. I hope you see in the diversity of our stories a common light, a shared humanity and dignity, a community that includes you and the people you care about.

  Telling our stories, speaking our truths, is in itself an act of resistance. Ours are the stories many in power seem to think do not matter. Ours are the marginalized voices they refuse to listen to. This book, this act of resistance, says our stories matter. Our lives matter. Our voices will not be silenced.

  The women in these pages are daughters and sisters and partners and mothers. We are young and not so young. We are scared and brave and sad and full of joy. We are not perfect. We are works in progress, still growing, still healing. We are survivors of abuse and hate and sexual assault. We are immigrants. We are Christians and Muslims and Jews and Hindus and agnostics. We are American Indian and Indian-American. We are white and Black and Asian and Latina. We are so many shades of brown. We are straight and queer. I regret that there are no trans writers in this collection, but please know, if you are trans or gender nonconforming, we hold a place for you, too.

  In this collection, you will read stories of hope and empowerment. You will read about healing and self-discovery. You will read about love, family, and community. You will read about courage and activism. But many of the stories are not so obviously optimistic. Some of them may be very difficult to read. Many of us have been victims of hate and racism. Some of us have been raped. Many of us spent our teen years confused and lost and angry. Some of us still feel confused and lost and angry. Some of us still feel like we live on the margins, that our identities don’t quite fit in anywhere. Some of us struggled with writing these essays, struggled with finding a message of hope hiding beneath our fear and pain.

  But there is one thing we all have in common: we are all still here. We are speaking out. We are refusing to be silent. Whatever is contained in our stories, what matters most is that we are telling them.

  This book is about us. It is about our diverse experiences as women in this country. It is about our vulnerability and strength, our joy and pain, our fear and love. It is about our resilience. It is about our humanity. It is about us getting real. It is about us refusing to be silent. Our stories are our resistance.

  This is our love letter to America, to the young people who are hurting and scared. You are not alone. We hear you. We are listening. We stand by you. We will survive as we have always survived: together.

  This book is dedicated to all the women and all the girls, to our trans and nonbinary siblings, to the men and boys who stand as our allies, to everyone who cares about building a home for justice.

  Keep speaking your truth. Keep telling your story. The world needs your voice, now more than ever.

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  Some of the essays in this collection deal with sensitive subject matter that may be disturbing, traumatizing, or triggering for certain readers.

  If you are sensitive to stories of abuse and sexual assault, you may want to take extra care with the following essays:

  “What I’ve Learned about Silence” by Amber Smith

  “Trumps and Trunchbul
ls” by Alexandra Duncan

  “These Words Are Mine” by Stephanie Kuehnert

  “Not Like Other Girls” by Martha Brockenbrough

  “Finding My Feminism” by Amy Reed

  If you are sensitive to portrayals of racist violence, you may want to take extra care with the following essays:

  “Easter Offering” by Brandy Colbert

  “Chilled Monkey Brains” by Sona Charaipotra

  “The One Who Defines Me” by Aisha Saeed

  “Is Something Bothering You?” by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  With love,

  Amy Reed

  MY IMMIGRANT AMERICAN DREAM

  Sandhya Menon

  My first night in America was a sleepless one spent wide-eyed in the dark, listening to the crushing silence. This is going to be great, I promised my fifteen-year-old self. You’re going to love it here.

  My family and I had just moved to Charleston, South Carolina, from Mumbai (Bombay), India. We’d moved periodically between India and the United Arab Emirates before, but I’d always lived an insulated life in the Middle East, studying at Indian schools and engaging mainly with the very large Indian community there. This, being plunged into a brand-new culture in a brand-new country where the population of Indians wasn’t nearly as numerous, was completely novel. The lack of noisy, bustling rickshaws and street vendors hawking glass bangles and multicolored saris would take some getting used to. But the thing I had to get used to the most was being an outsider in a country of outsiders.

  I’d heard from excited friends and relatives that America was the land of immigrants. “Even the white people who are the majority there are actually immigrants, if you look at their ancestors!” people told me. “Plus, Americans love people who are different. Just look at San Francisco.” We knew many friends who had immigrated to America, whose children were born there, and the stories that trickled home were dotted with details that made me salivate: convertible cars and spotless beaches, people who dressed like Westerners in short-shorts and tank tops. Besides, America was famous for its equal treatment of women. India still had huge strides to make in that arena when I lived there, and I was eager for a change. I was so ready to be welcomed with open arms, to make exotic American friends who might grow to love Bollywood movies and Hindi songs like I did.

  What happened was a little less idyllic. I had a thick Indian accent when I first moved to the States, and people—including some teachers at my small magnet school—immediately thought that meant I couldn’t speak English, period. By then I’d already had short stories (written in English) published in international magazines, so that wasn’t the case at all. There were also other micro- and macroaggressions to get used to, ones I wasn’t expecting from the land of immigrants.

  I distinctly remember my father speaking to store clerks who would sigh and roll their eyes because they couldn’t understand him. They spoke slowly and loudly, as if he—a highly educated engineer who’d lived all over the world—were having trouble understanding them. Occasionally I was stopped in my neighborhood by the police and asked what I was doing there, whether I was in the country legally, and where I lived. As far as I could tell, the only reason I was stopped was because of the color of my skin. My friend who’d emigrated from Russia the same year as me reported never having experienced that particular form of harassment. One boy insisted on sneeringly calling me Ganesh in class because of the religion my parents practiced, and the teacher never stepped in. At the post office someone yelled at me and my mom to go back to our country because, apparently, we were standing in line wrong. I got used to the question, asked seemingly casually but with a gimlet eye: “Are you here legally?” whenever I said I didn’t have a social security number, since I was here as a dependent on my dad’s work visa. It made my cheeks burn at first. My parents had paid a lot of money to come to the States; we’d gone through all the proper channels and jumped through all the hoops (and of those there were many). What right did they have to ask me that when they didn’t even know how visas worked, when many of them had never even been out of this country? And anyway, what did they think? That I swam all the way from India?

  Not all experiences were negative, however. I did enjoy greater gender equality in the United States than I had in India. Egalitarian messages pervaded my high school: we were told we could do anything a boy could do, be anything a boy could be. Still, these messages were implicitly and explicitly targeted at white girls and women. The role models and those they spoke to looked nothing like me.

  For the longest time I thought there must be something wrong with me for people—even people I respected or considered my friends—to say the things I was hearing. Once I realized I was accepted as a woman, just not as an immigrant, I figured I needed to acculturate better. The other Indian kids around me, the ones who seemed to be accepted, at least to my eye, seemed indistinguishable in accent and dress from the American kids. (At the time I didn’t get the concept of Indian-Americanness.) So I began to speak with an American accent. I tried to blend in so much that I would actively decry Indian things. When people asked me about arranged marriage I would announce that I didn’t believe in it. When people asked if I spoke Hindi, I automatically said, “Yes, but I speak English better and it was my first language.” I began to shop at Old Navy whenever my parents would let me, and I relegated all my Indian clothes to the back of my closet.

  One of the biggest losses, though, was my art. Although I still wrote in a private journal, my stories and drawings began to go by the wayside. I refused to let people peek into my imagination. I didn’t know what was “acceptable” anymore, so I simply stopped creating. I was, without thinking, trying to obliterate those parts of myself that I thought weren’t American enough (and to me, in those days, “American” meant “white” because that’s the message I was getting). I wanted to be lighter skinned, taller. I wanted to blend in and become someone else. I was trying to perfect the art of becoming the human chameleon.

  But as I went through high school and then college, a strange and wonderful thing started to happen. I began to see myself for who I was, past all the cladding of “immigrant versus American born,” of “accent versus no accent.” There was a side to me, I realized, that had nothing to do with the labels other people gave me. I started to pay attention to that side more, to unearth who I was for myself.

  My volunteering with the teen crisis line and individuals with developmental disabilities, for instance, helped me see I was a person capable of empathy and kindness. My high school best friend, who happened to be the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, helped me see that there was nothing inherently wrong with being an immigrant. She embraced her Nigerian roots and celebrated her parents’ accent and where they’d come from. The way she spoke openly about the injustices they faced helped me see that that’s what they were—injustices, prejudice, ignorance. I’d had a hard time seeing it when it was directed at me, but seeing it directed at a friend drew the line between right and wrong pretty starkly.

  I met incredible women in the places where I volunteered, who told stories of overcoming traumatic pasts and abusive partners, mental illness and poverty. We had a mutual sense of responsibility to share what resources we now had with others less fortunate. We spoke about what it meant to be female, how easy it was to be hurt, but how capable we were of healing.

  I enjoyed the freedom of being able to walk down the street without being incessantly catcalled or waiting in line without being groped. I began to see that I had inherent worth as a young woman that went beyond my looks, and I was eager to see what that might look like for me.

  Although my high school teachers had not seen much merit in my writing, people at college did. I still remember one of my English professors telling me he’d seen my essay in the literary magazine. He looked at me appraisingly from behind his glasses. “You’re a good writer,” he said. “Have you written anything else?” And so I began to believe, once again, that I was talented, that I had somet
hing to offer that other people wanted to see. I met my husband, a white boy, who believed that I was beautiful as I was—dark skinned, on the shorter side, with curly black hair.

  I began to realize that for every ignorant, misinformed, or prejudiced person I met, there was a counterbalancing person in the world who would recognize my worth and stand up for me and others like me. I heard the Mr. Rogers quote, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping,’ ” and it really resonated with me. It was true, I realized. And somehow, realizing that other, good people saw me as worthy helped me realize that people who didn’t see my worth, who automatically categorized me as “less than,” were the ones in the wrong. I had to lean on other people to find myself, but once I did, I began to blossom.

  It was a little like emerging after hibernation, I imagine. I came out into the sunlight, blinking and unsteady, but I was warm again. I began to tunnel my way out of self-doubt and anxiety. I realized I was so much happier when I put myself in charge of my life, when I refused to accept what other, misinformed people said about me. A large part of that, too, was realizing that adults weren’t always right. Being raised in Indian culture, I’d been taught to always respect my elders, to never disagree, to accept what I was told. But adults, I was quickly learning, could be judgmental and cruel, prejudiced and bigoted. Adults did not automatically get a pass anymore. I had a right to question them.

  I began to make art again, with gusto. I drew, painted, and wrote short stories and poems. I sometimes even made up song lyrics and music, though I’d never considered myself especially musically gifted. It was at this time that I began to realize that I had a voice and I could use it to tell my story. Who cared if it wasn’t perfect? I knew there must be people out there who experienced the same things I did—the cold pain of otherness, the sting of rejection, the joy of connection, the particular pain and beauty of being a woman, the brilliant and ecstatic freedom of creating—regardless of their backgrounds. I thought about the stories I’d read that had touched me, from people like Enid Blyton and Kate Chopin, women whom I had little in common with on the surface. Still, I’d recognized parts of myself in their stories. Art, for me, though I didn’t think about it in concrete terms then, was about pushing against all the hands that swatted me back down when I tried to grasp for the American dream. It was my way of saying, I belong just as much as you do. I’m here to stay.