THE SHEET

Happy is a 26-year-old Nigerian refugee who has been living in Rome for two years. If you frequent Termini station youve probably seen him, or maybe dismissed him as just another hustler trying to pick pocket or harass you. RESUR Yesterday I was heading into the train station when Happy shouted at me from about 10 feet away and asked to talk to me. I kept REC walking and to no surprise he followed. TIO He asked, Where are you from? This seemed to be a good time to formulate my fake identity and prepare to run away. N. I started to walk away, but realized that it was a Sunday morning and the metro would be packed with tourists headed to my metro stop by the Vatican, so I was in no rush and could afford to listen for a few minutes. Standing at about 6 feet 2 inches, wearing a badge with just his first name written on it and a huge grin on his face, Happy waited for me to decide if I was walking or staying. I decided to stay. Are you Christian or Muslim? he inquired and without giving me a chance to respond he went on, Im half Muslim, half Christian-my mothers Muslim, my father Christian, and you know what Ive learned? That it doesnt matter. As long as you care about people and are kind to them, it doesnt matter what which religion you belong to. With two friends working on theses about religion and immigration in Europe, I felt the need to stay and talk to Happy. He shared his experience of growing up Muslim and Christian in Abuja. About five minutes into our conversation I couldnt resist pulling out my pen and taking some notes on the receipts I had in my wallet. The world is going on about Nigerias growth and its booming economy, but no one asks how religion is treated in Nigeria. There are many Muslims and Christians but very few people are both, and being both can be difficult. Being both is what made me leave. Happy told me about the chaos that constantly erupted in his family because of the differences between his parents religious values and how he ultimately realized how there was no right or wrong religion. He wasnt comfortable talking about the details of why he left his home but he was grateful I stopped to chat for a while. You tourists, you think everyone wants to steal from you or sell you something. In other places, people are just kind and they want to talk about life. Happy Sunday! Untitled, no. 4 by Clarissa Ghelli by Tariro Mzezewa

Happy.

Issue 27 May 2013

Spring

Spring will come as peoples war and cars collide; as children cry while mothers fry. And birds will preen and fly, and all that was will be. As young men tan, and old men sigh and cry the truths that are no more, boys will grow; and spring will bring a nifty breeze that will deceive the lonely floating buoy. And hands will clutch and lovers stares will freeze, as pollen grains will waltz beside the cypress; And peepers will peep while children will fill their noses with damp dirt, and flightless birds will quack and smack and break their bills. And I stand still, and around me everything turns and turns and turns and keeps turning. by VXZZ

April 12, 2013

Harvard Square Gentlemen

Location: Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Ahora vivimos en una casa en el campo. Estamos rodeados de rboles. rboles que en anteriores pocas presuman de ser verdes. Hoy, sin embargo, se tien de antiguo. Se revisten de colores amarillos y marrones. Lloran por que se acerca el invierno, pero an es otoo y nos ilusiona. Nos gusta el otoo. Me gusta que te guste, te gusta que me encante. Viene con tardes de vino blanco, ante un fuego que preparan amigos. Que son a la vez nuestros vecinos. Prcticamente vivimos con ellos. Tenemos otros amigos que se llaman jabals. Nos visitan por las noches, y a veces temprano por las maanas cuando me preparas el t con leche. Me lo traes a una habitacin, donde nos guardamos cada da. Por la maana temprano me repasas con tus manos, buscando alteraciones en mi cuerpo preocupado de haberte perdido alguno de esos cambios que vienen con el paso del tiempo. Pero seguimos esta historia. Seguimos y seguimos. by Gabriela Valero Arias Privilege and have bought into the stereotypes of racial hierarchy such as are continually displayed on T.V. Somehow it has led them to believe in White as a command for racial and gender minorities to become their Instant On-Demand, Well, I am not Comcast. And in any case, my dear Harvard Square Gentlemen, the price is too high ever to be paid by any man. So be wise. Save your breath and your time. Use those dollars, and that privilege to board an aeroplane to Rome and while there, learn the language or, at very least, plain speech. by D. Blake

To both of which, I respond, It happens. I find Harvard Square It takes Google only 37seconds bathed in crimson red to search and find out that Black by its cobblestoned streets women are often seen as prostitutes and rather prestigious-but-oncein places such as Rome, Italy, histor ica lly- o nly- ope n- to- White still rife with gender men-Ivy League university. and racial inequality. Yet still, it guarantees me It takes a labyrinth of pseudo-intellectual conversation an opportunity, just like anywhere in Harvard Square, involving disbelief and justification else, to be accosted by some of my intelligence (due to its combination not- so- e lder ly- b ut- perhaps with the darkness of my skin -wishing-he-were-young White and my apparently aesthetically pleasing nature) gentleman. I use the word gentleman out of courtesy and custom. to produce a similar result I remind myself that Ivy League refers to growing Harvard Square gentlemen plants rather than acumen. like to hide behind There is simplicity and knowledge political correctness while evading in taking walks through Harvard Square, the history of slavery where stopping while being smart, Black, and female that have paved its streets, continues to mean a very real potential for devolution upon which they still stand of even the most self-perceived racially esteemed of gentleand have the audacity to call to me men, while simultaneously attempting to evince including those who have been stamped with a label equality punctuated by stereotypical questions of Juris Doctor, alumnus of Harvard University. like Why are you so eloquent? they too suffer the wiles of unrecognized White and How did a Black person become one of our residents?Even

Resurrection I sit here writing, Pursuing some sort of mental resurrection. With Finals Tension biting, Ive given up on perfection. What is it I need to prove? That sometime, somewhere, somebody wanted to move? That oppression screws up societys groove? That revolutionaries will always strive to improve? But what does any of this behoove? Do we have our own words anymore, any at all that arent twice-removed? Its nothing but shameless, recycled lore. Why do we waste our time with these dialogical wars? Are we nothing but ideological whores? Regurgitating values to feel better at our core? What a fucking bore. Were not opening any windows, Were slamming the goddamned doors. So Im sitting here, now, Writing. The distorted symmetry of my stanzas, admittedly, Uninviting. But in foregoing perfection, Ive found Resurrection. by Brendan Foley Just Come to the World

The Stone People It was pitch black. The heat had already risen substantially just from the body heat of the 29 other people entrapped inside, all of us clutching our knees towards our chests. They hadnt even started pouring the water on the excruciatingly hot stones: the stone people. A spirit of panic rose from my esophagus and exploded in my brain. I wanted out. I was prepared to scream aloud: I NEED TO LEAVE! But alas, my well bred domestication strained me back like a horses bridal. I whispered to my sister, beside me to the right: Im scared. Dont be scared, she whispered back. Suddenly, I felt calm and collected. Her brief reassurance miraculously soothed me. Fifteen seconds prior, 30 people entered the burlap and blanket covered dome shaped tent; it was the sweat lodge. We crawled on our hands and knees to place ourselves in tight rows on the sweat lodges dirt floor. It still stands today, in the backyard of a man named Frank who owns a restaurant on Route 66. My sister had been there before with some of her friends. Ten seconds prior, one by one we snuck inside, bowing our head to the floor before the small entrance way saying Mitakuye Oyasin (Mit-awk-wi-awsin), To all my relations. Once everyone was seated, a few men began to take the stone people out of the fire simmering outside which summoned ancestral spirits. The flames heated the stone people, dwelling in its orange, blue tails. A tall, white man with long, wiry hair used giant iron prongs to lift the hotter than hot stone people out of the fire and into the to the center of the round sweat lodge, three and a three-quarters feet high at its center (about 1 1/3 meters). Once all the stone people were inside, he took his place seated and then the flap fell shut. Total darkness surrounded us, I panicked, calmed down, then the singing and drumming began at full force. It was a language I dont think Id ever heard before: Lakota. A language of the people who really discovered America. The America theyd barely recognize today. The America before it was America. It was One of many languages of the Native Americans, Indians. The songs were prayers and the prayers were sang with feeling, with drums. The leader of the prayers, Wolf, punctuated the songs with the hissing of water. Or maybe it was someone else. It was so dark, I might as well have kept my eyes shut. Each time the water hissed, vapor flew out from the stone people and dosed our singing, chanting, panting faces with hot drops of dew. Each song prayer lasted about 20 minutes, and was followed by an invitation for any of the 30 people inside to pray out loud for anything they wanted to share. In the dark, unfamiliar voices prayed for positive resolutions for things people usually dont discuss amongst people they dont know. Things that lurk in the corners of our brains, that are shared between close confidants, or that are publicly scrutinized in newspapers about people youll never see in person. I prayed for a friend of mine. She went into labor the night before and was about to have her first child. A little boy name Leon. Others prayed for hope, for guidance, for relief from suffering, or for blessings. After each segment of spoken, individual prayers, the flap opened. Light rushed in and the curving vapor waves danced their way out carrying our prayers with them.

I can only answer smiling and moving my arms and legs. In fact, I listen to sweet voices around me. The people around me are numerous. They are both young and old people, both males and females. Among these people, the youngest ones celebrate me treating me as a newcomer for their family. They say to be my brothers and sisters. What is a brother? What is a sister? Their presence suggests me that I will never be alone. There will be always someone that will be with me, but I must know who he is. Someone even says that I am similar to my daddy or my mummy.

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Hence, who am I? Am I a male or a female? I do not know, but everybody says that I am cute and nice. Not only sounds, but also colours attract me. The number of colours lets me think that the world is various because of all its nuREAD AND SUBMIT FOR THE SHEET! ances. I see them as a mass of shapes I cannot identify. Is there a rule that associates forms, colours, and objects? What are the objects around me? Why are there these objects? Where are they from? Were they born with me? Was the world were I live born with me, or have I just entered it? Moreover, does it finish in the room where I stay, or does it continue over it? Finally, am I really a part of it?
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YES, EVEN

by Angelo Vigliola

Tree pollen builds up so much at Villa Pamphili it looks like snow. Wild flowers grow in unlikely places. -photos by: Adriana Bautista

I feel a very strange sensation. In fact, I have just become aware of my existence. I know that I am a part of the world. Who does my existence want? Why am I here? Is there a strange magic that has led me to life? Now, I have just left the deep place where I stood earlier. It was calm, protective, and free of dangers. Thus, I should learn to face this totally new place for me. Life is waiting for me, and I think that the moment to face it is now. I am aware of this change because I hear many voices around me. Who are these people? Are they friends or enemies for me? Someone [Check out the rest of the story at www.wearethesheet.com...] is smiling in front of me. Perhaps, those people love me. Two people seem more attracted by me than the others. by Adriana Bautista They are a man and a woman, who say to me to be called Mom and Dad. They talk to me, and I try to answer them. However, I am not capable to talk, yet.