Isla Silver is playing at the bar on 2nd Street, and no one is listening.

Well, nearly no one. When David Byrne isn’t staring blankly into his glass of whiskey, he’s staring blankly at her fingers, plucking and strumming to a long-practiced rhythm. Sometimes she thinks she’s forgotten, but her fingers always remember.

The soft buzz of conversation nearly drowns out the acoustic of her guitar; while some glance over occasionally, they always return to their drink and their one-night lovers; it seems alcohol eases every pain, dims the world to a point where it’s finally bearable.

Bars are safe havens while the wars bang on the walls outside.

She strums the last chord and the buzz of the bar continues without her. She supposes it doesn’t matter. Mr Pine will pay her $50 regardless. It’s a good deal for two hours of ambience. Or less – Mr Pine’s not always around to check whether she plays for one hundred and twenty minutes straight. God knows the customers aren’t paying attention.

Isla sometimes wishes she came here to escape instead of to work. She slings her guitar off her shoulders and leaves it by the side of the small stage. It’s barely half a metre off the ground; two steps and she’s walking on concrete again. It’s solid ground, or as solid as you can get it. Sinkholes have been appearing more frequently these days. Barely anyone watches the news these days, but the tired reporter warns citizens to stay inside their homes.

If the population of the bar is any indicator, they don’t seem bothered at all.

Isla’s sitting at the bar, but she hasn’t ordered anything. She’s staring off into space like David Byrne when the bartender slides her a drink. It’s a glass of orange juice.

She looks up.

The bartender shrugs. “Flynn told me you don’t drink.”

Isla takes the glass and sips. She prefers apple juice, but the tang is welcome against her dry palate. “I don’t.” She takes another sip and swivels slightly to face the bartender. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” she says. “It’s on the house. You play good.” She screws up her face and mutters something about having “shit grammar”, and Isla notices a tattoo of a flying beetle behind her ear as the older woman turns to grab a rag. Isla fingers the black ring on her middle finger.

The bartender leaves the rag on the counter and offers Isla a hand. “Dean. Nice to meet you.”

Isla takes her hand. It’s rough on the palms, where Isla’s are soft, and soft in the fingers where Isla’s steel strings have calloused her digits night after night.

“You new?” Isla sips her orange juice.

“Relatively. Got transferred from the bar over on 5th.” Dean’s wiping a glass dry and her brow furrows. “Hired new blood and I got shunted. It’s not so bad here though.” Her eyes meet Isla’s. “You?”

“Been playing four nights a week for about six months.” Isla’s finishes her juice. “Pretty sure as soon as they find someone prettier they’ll kick me out too. Maybe then people will actually watch her play.”

Dean smiles. “It’ll be a while til that happens, then.” She puts the glass under the counter and starts wiping dry another. It’s a monotonous rhythm, punctuated only by their conversation.

Isla gets paid tonight. Eight hundred dollars a fortnight. Whenever she has free time, she’s doing finances in her head. Two hundred towards rent, two hundred for groceries, set some money aside for Maia’s birthday – it’s in three days and she still hasn’t bought anything – leave the rest to collect interest in the bank. Maybe then Mama will be able to afford college for Maia when she couldn’t do it for Isla.

“You’re a million miles away, guitar girl.” Dean grabs another glass. “The night is young, what’re you thinking about?”

Isla looks past the fluorescent lights and into the empty street. Streetlights glow a dim yellow; it’s a jaundiced ghost town and everyone is hiding.

She sighs. “Why do we say the night is young when it seems so old?”

Dean shrugs and shelves another glass. “When was the last time you saw sky? Like, honest to god, real sky? The blue of our childhoods?” She shakes her head and her beetle tattoo slips in and out of view. “Guess the night is old cos it had to grow up.”

She’s right, Isla thinks. Even at night, there isn’t a sky anymore. No endless black, no studded galaxies. The clouds have turned grey, cumulus and smog mingling indeterminably.

“Aged sooner than it should’ve,” Isla says quietly. She doesn’t say it for Dean, though she knows she can hear. We’re all weeping for a lost childhood, for the kind of idealism we grew up wanting.

Isla raises her empty glass. “To youth. The night may be old, but we are young.”

Dean raises the glass she’s cleaning. “To a blue sky.”

Empty glasses for empty hopes, but across the world, in a town far away from the abandoned cityscapes, two men toast to the future.

The days are hot but the nights are cool where they are, and they lie on a patchwork blanket poked through with as many holes as there are stars. One has hair as light as harvest maize, and the other has freckles that smatter his face and arms like dirt.

“A sinkhole opened up next to the homestead last night,” says the freckled one. His name is Ezra.

The blond one – Niall – takes another swig of his beer. “You didn’t lose Fig did you?”

“No.” Fig is the homestead’s kelpie. He’s everything to Ezra.

They don’t need to talk to know that everything is slowly falling down around them. They don’t need to talk to know that it could’ve been the homestead that sunk last night.

They lie on their backs and stare upwards.

The sky is black and it is beautiful.   

i don't cry until a week after the funereal.

i'm making tea. boiling the kettle. pouring water. watching the teabag drown and then- hands are shaking. boiling water scalds my skin like an angry ocean. burns. but not as much as the tears on my cheek. not as much as my heart.

i collapse in the corner. like the kitchen counters are the only things holding me togther. perhaps they are. becuase god. i miss you. i miss your very presence. this room feels empty, this house feels empty, fuck, my heart feels empty.

friends and family have been visiting all week. offering condolances and cards and soup. why does anyone think soup can fix a broken soul?

i tip all the soup down the sink. and place the cards in a black bag on the street. there are other black bags in the hallway; full of the possesions that seemed so megure before you left. i can't throw them out.

sometimes i go and sit in the hall and bury my head in the contents of those bags. they still smell like you. i can alomost pretend you are still here- till i feel the tears on my cheeks.

there are several reasons i normally don’t wear makeup

but it’s mainly because it’s not my thing

if you like wearing it every day by all means do so i’m not stopping you

i support you

but that’s not who i am

i do indulge every once and awhile

it can make me feel happy

pretty

but that is a dangerous thing because to me makeup does not equate beauty and i always want myself to remember that no matter how bad i feel i am still beautiful

it does get really hard to believe that sometimes

today I hung out with my friends - masks and all - but it felt like normal almost

we went to get ice cream at oberweis in the town next door towards the end of the day after dinner

it was a lot of fun

we were all dressed up a little and wearing fun makeup

my friends did me as “emo” because that’s far from my normal style and look

and I decided to wear it for the rest of the night

i sort of regret it now

when i came back outside after ordering my ice cream one of my friends told us some boys had been laughing at her, presumably for the way she was dressed (white lacy blouse under a cowl neck mini dress; eye liner, mascara and eye shadow)

they were younger than us

probably still in elementary school or early middle school at most

she laughed it off but it still hurt

to be honest her sense of style is actually incredible - it is anything but normal and it’s beautiful

those boys didn’t seem to get that

those boys almost ruined my night for me

we thought that would be the end of it

we went to the outdoor seating area across the street to eat our ice cream

we thought we’d be able to sit and talk and eat our ice cream in peace

but the boys came back

those stupid boys came back

back on their bikes

back with their bags and staring eyes

back with their laughter and malicious smiles

they came back

it’s unnerving to be stared at and objectified by people younger than you

it’s dehumanizing

it made my skin crawl

it still does make my skin crawl

the first time they biked by and shouted at us we shouted back

in hindsight that is not the proper way to go about that but we’d thought they’d just leave after that

we thought they’d go away again and stay away

they didn’t

they came back biking around the block again

and this time they stayed by the entrance to the parking lot where my friend had parked her car and that’s when the butterflies started in my stomach but they weren’t the good kind

they weren’t the good kind

i made sure to look around for easy ways to get out after that

i couldn’t help it - it’s second nature now

i bet it’s second nature for a lot of people now

it’s hard to carry on normal conversation when you have about 12 pairs of eyes on you and you don’t know their owners

and you aren’t on stage at a show

and you’re 4 girls sitting alone at a caste iron table outside a closed starbucks in the middle of a pandemic

just ignore them they want attention one of my friends said

we nodded and carried on our conversation without acknowledging them directly

the boys decided to come closer

and closer

and closer

closer

they were at the edge of the outdoor seating area where we were when i checked over my shoulder

we were the only ones there in the seating area

they were behind us so we couldn’t see them

that’s when my friend said guys we should go

so we packed up our bags and unfinished ice cream and masks and walked to the car

heads held high

carried on our conversations

hey can i try your mask on one of the “braver” boys shouted before they all laughed

they laughed

they laughed and they ran

ran to their bikes and those who walked still ran and they were laughing

laughing at the expense of us

of me

i don’t like being laughed at

i don’t think anyone does

i don’t like being objectified and stared at

no one does

and while it might have had to do with my one friends clothes or all of our collective dressiness or the fact that we were alone and having fun (god forbid) i still can’t shake the fact that that was the first time i’ve worn a full face of makeup when hanging out with friends since homecoming and it resulted in me getting catcalled by a bunch of stupid young boys

it’s honestly disappointing

sad

disheartening

more than anything it pisses me off

so i guess this is me saying i’m sorry that i’m scared some times but this is why

and this is me saying that i know what it feels like to be objectified

i’ve felt those wretched eyes crawl across me from afar

i know how it feels to be whistled at / shouted at / honked at

(side note: it doesn’t feel good)

and later in bed while i fall asleep

i’ll spin my own story to make myself feel better

it’s a compliment a compliment a compliment

it’s a compliment a compliment a compliment

it is a compliment a compliment a compliment

it is not a compliment

and to those boys i say: you are the reason i am afraid to wear makeup

hi psa: i wanted to make it very clear that i’m not against makeup - it’s a lot of fun and i do enjoy it occasionally, and if you like to wear some every day, that’s your choice and i’m sure you’re beautiful and amazing and perfectly imperfect. <3

Alexander Hamilton, my name is -

And here I try to place my name, manipulating the syllabus till they fit- my name is ro-o-o-sie j-ones and there's a million things I haven't done 

My name never sounds right. But still I try to mould my story into his because 

His story is so brave. He was so great. He was incredible. And these words, written by someone millennia after his death they are so 

Brave so

Great

And when I sing them for a second 

I feel that power 

Strength 

That drive

In me. And so. I fit my ill sounding name into a song 

About a man who died before my great grandparents were born

About a man who started a new country 

Who died too soon

I fit my name over his and dream unrealised dreams of

Bravery and

Greatness 

Power and

Strength 

My name is 

Rosie Jones and there's

A million things 

I haven't done 

[ictus]

& you waltzed allegretto into my life

[caesura]

& us commoners breathe in barcarolle

but you inhaled arias & drink oratorios

to make sure your voice never loses

it's mellifluous tremor that filled

concert halls with applause & roses & tears

[key change]

& it all came to a striking

sforzando, your hands flying away from

the fingerboard, staccato staccato

& the curtain fell & the lights dimmed

& i quilted a symphony from the vexations

that reverberrated as you kept time &

one two three, one two three

& i cry in c minor & let my tremolo anguish

crescendo, poco a poco until

[fermata]

you dance malagueña as i finger your final notes

& we fizzle out, diminuendo,

forgotten against the backdrop of

tombstones & star crossed love

you know, three is a crowd, don’t they always say?

then riddle me this: what do you call six?

there is a red silk thread shooting up to the stars, curling around the ankle of an astronaut,

and the string continues down to the earth, stretches across oceans, brushes over the petals of a chrysanthemum in a field,

and the string continues, painting the sky in pinks, blues, purples, reaching out to two twin blossoms held delicately between pressed fingers,

and the string continues, dances across sandy beaches in the blue of the morning, caressing the figure of a girl with a daring arm held to the sky,

and the string continues, washing the room in a gentle pink glow, lacing around the bubbly smile of a girl, delicate petals between her ribs,

and at last, the string continues, stretches across oceans, until it reaches inky black hair and closed eyelids, golden flowers and sunbeams tucked into a heroine, and there, the thread stretched across six points is complete.

because six is a set connected across seas, stamped into the world by inky words. because six is meeting each other against about a hundred odds, despite about a million probabilities of never crossing paths. because six is sisters etched into the stars, meant to find each other since the beginning.

because six is sestina morya. stretched across oceans.

A History of Slaves- Introduction

“If they weren't fast enough, they would soon be slaves. And slaves were property, and property was money and power.” 

― E.Y. Laster, Of Captivity & Kings

Slavery formed an important part of the nineteenth century. It was ordinary to have slaves around. If we go back even further in history, we find that it was absolutely essential to the economic structures of civilizations like Ancient Greek and Rome. Slavery has continued through history, and only recently, has it been partly eradicated. If we move a little further, to about the 15th century, when the Atlantic Slave Trade began, when Portugal, and subsequently other European kingdoms, were finally able to expand overseas and reach Africa, we find that here, too, it was a necessary part of everyday life.

We regularly hear that slavery is one of the darkest chapters in history. But what exactly, is wrong with slavery? After all it provided a steady economy to countries in Europe, to the USA, and even to African countries, from where these slaves were bought in the first place, in exchange for guns and ammunition. Why is slavery so wrong?

I believe that there are three major reasons, the three pillars, the three horsemen of slavery, and it’s aftereffects, which will provide us with this answer.

Racism

The Trans-Atlantic slave trade which began as a means of providing labour, grew to be the main reason of one the greatest issue we have ever seen. Racism.

Forced labour was not uncommon — Africans and Europeans had been trading goods and people across the Mediterranean for centuries — but enslavement had not been based on race. There was a labour shortage in the European countries and the USA, and slaves were bought from Africa. Since their skin was of a darker complexion than that of the Europeans, all the blacks came to be viewed as inferiors. This distinction evolved as the years passed.

Daryl Davis describes in his Ted-Talk, this evolution as not one whole step, but a combination of steps. As the generations passed, slavery started becoming less of an issue, since it was abolished in many countries, and the world returned to normalcy. But the newer generations, who had not experienced slavery first-hand, had only little idea about this other race, which they had been told was inferior to them. And since they did not have enough information about this other race, they came to be afraid of it. Because when we don’t understand something, we naturally become scared of it, afraid of it. We view it as something different, something alien to us. And this fear, in turn, gives rise to hate. When we’re scared of something, we start hating it, we start loathing it. And as the final step, this hate, obviously, turns to destruction. And that is precisely what the slave trade, which was eradicated one and a half centuries ago, has done to the present era, and the world we are living in. Ignorance breeds fear, fear breeds hate, and finally, hate breeds destruction. And so, I would like to move forward by noting that slavery is directly responsible for instances of racism and movements against these instances like the ‘Black Lives Matter’ in the modern era.

Whenever we talk about the Black movements, one prominent name that always comes up is that of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Dr. King’s method to promote freedom and equality before the law for this oppressed minority was non-violent civil disobedience against unjust laws, such as laws banning black citizens from using certain public facilities.  When the authorities refused to permit protest marches, he would lead such marches nevertheless.  Among these was a series of three marches from Selma to Montgomery in the state of Alabama in 1965 to promote voter registration among the black population. These marches resulted in mass arrests and police violence against the protesters, which in turn attracted worldwide media coverage and a flood of new supporters for Dr. King’s movement.

Dr. King always insisted that his supporters refrain from any violent response to the violence inflicted on them. Engaged politically, he emphasized the right to vote as a means of achieving social progress through peaceful means. He often publicly acknowledged that he was likely to die from an assassin’s bullet, which, tragically, is indeed what happened. But not in vain, because the flame that he lit, the fire he ignited in our hearts, will burn tirelessly, everlastingly. His life would not be in vain, because justice will be given to those who deserve it.

Cruelty

Another point we often hear is that slavery was connected to cruelty. The treatment given to the slaves was inhumane, no doubt. And this point could not be more relevant today. The Trans-Atlantic slave trade, which began as early as the 15th century, introduced a system of slavery that was commercialized, racialized and inherited. Enslaved people were seen not as people at all but as commodities to be bought, sold and exploited.

The traders were tight packers. The captives were packed like spoons, with not even space to turn. The male slaves were kept between the hold and the deck in appalling conditions, and the women were kept on the deck, where they were regularly abused by the crew members. Diseases like the Black Death were common, and captives often succumbed to these. Hundreds of slaves were kept together, and this made the spread even quicker. Out of those who survived, many committed suicide and starved themselves to death willingly, to escape the brutalities they faced.

Food was scarce. The captives only received food when there was a significant surplus. The sailors ate first, and if anything remained, it was given to the slaves (which was not a lot of times, since it was seldom that the sailors left anything). They were handcuffed, and were treated as a source of entertainment onboard so that they wouldn’t revolt. The records of these brutalities support my point, and hence, I conclude this point.

Ownership

But the one point which tops both of the above mentioned arguments, is ownership. The right of one human over another. The ownership of a peer. That, in my view, is the one thing, that is absolutely, undeniably, wrong with slavery. This discrimination between the slave and the master, can still be seen all around the globe, where certain communities believe that they are superior to others. If you think about it, we have seen this several times in history, but we just don’t learn from our mistakes. The Nazis did it, the Whites did, and after almost a century has passed, we still see these instances.

Abolition

Now, since we’re talking about slavery, another thing that forms a part of the argument is the abolition of it. First, I would like to debunk the myth that slavery was abolished for moral reasons. It was done completely for prudential and economic reasons.

In the late 18th century the climate of public opinion began to change, slowly at first, but gradually gaining momentum.

The Society of Friends, a religious group, were one of the first to oppose the slave trade. William Wilberforce, Thomas Clarkson, John Newton, Granville Sharp, Olaudah Equiano and many others, joined the Abolitionist movement. Each contributed something different, but all having an impact on the move towards Abolition. 

A decline in the economic importance of slavery meant Britain’s economy was no longer dependent on the triangular trade. Additionally a new source of wealth was created by the growth of new industries. 

Abolitionists understood that the only way to end slavery was through Parliament. They presented their arguments across the country, lobbying MPs to try and persuade them to end the slave trade. In 1807 the British Parliament was finally persuaded that Britain’s involvement in the slave trade should come to an end.

In the USA, Slave labour was no match for canals, railroads, steel mills and shipyards. Slavery — and the parochial rent-seeking culture it promoted — inhibited the growth of capitalism in the South. Ultimately, it was Northern industrial might that ended that peculiar institution in the U.S. once and for all

By doing this, it was made clear that the abolition of slavery was carried out only for the sole reason of economic benefits. There were no moral reasons for this development, except of course, there were some groups that were actually concerned. And hence, although slavery was abolished, the reason for which it was done is completely unacceptable.

Conclusion

Equality becomes increasingly important in these turbulent times. Having given these three main arguments of my topic, I would like to conclude by saying that this, is precisely what was and still is wrong with slavery. Slavery, in my opinion, can be classified as the root to several social evils that now exist.

We saw above how the slaves were mistreated, I gave several examples, but one important thing to note is that these instances are not exclusive to just one era of slavery. These are common to every page of history, every time period where slavery has taken place, every time a price has been put on human life, every time someone sold a man in exchange for money. Whether it was the United States of America, Ancient Greece, Mesopotamia (Now Iraq) or Ancient Rome. Millions of human lives, captured by force, kept in ships like animals, only worse; their heads shaved to prevent lice, handcuffed to the belly of the ship, twenty percent of whom, would never see land again, in their entire lives.

But we have a chance to bring change; we have a chance to change the path of history, to rewrite the pages of textbooks. In today’s era, where things like racial justice play a significant role in our lives and the events around the world, it becomes all the more important to educate ourselves. Educating ourselves is perhaps the one and only way to break the chain, to defy the system and then rebuild it in our own manner.

Footnotes:

Sources:

-A Brief History of Slavery That You Didn't Learn in School- https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/19/magazine/history-slavery-smithsonian.html

-United States of America: Slavery, Racial Discrimination, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

https://mr.usembassy.gov/united-states-america-slavery-racial-discrimination-dr-martin-luther-king-jr

-Why I, as a black man, attend KKK rallies- Daryl Davis TEDx

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORp3q1Oaezw

-What is wrong with slavery?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUB11cTSJc0

how dare you prick my finger & lick it & say it tastes sweet after i've cried salty tears into my calluses & color with anguish on my palms when i'm bored & you say that life is beautiful but the most beautiful thing i've seen today is ash that singed my eyebrows & cauterized my nerves & is that why i feel so numb to pain now or is it just that i'm used to life kicking me & singing nursery rhymes as i slip in mud & grasp at absent hands & i lay in the discarded cinders of your love & i cry and watch as the droplets turn to steam on the hot coals before my eyes & you waft it toward your nose & say it tastes like butterscotch & that makes me mad because no matter how much i endure & endure & endure, you'll always say my pain tastes of sugarplums & that can be good, right & whenever i lick my hips, licorice bites my tongue & i wish that i'd at least get an undertone of pepper so i know that the discomfort isn't just in my head

head

head

i.

my seventh-grade classmate slapped me with the back of her hand, inked in slurs

and i stood there and let the words become an iron brand on my cheek.

she spits into my food: “sorry to ruin your lunch—wouldn’t want to ruin the taste of dog.”

the words on my face burn hot. i don’t move to rub them away.

ii.

i bet your parents came to america to work in a california nail salon. i bet they probably cleaned my grandaddy’s toes.

actually, my mom arrived in ellis island, and she waved at lady liberty, and i bet she didn’t know that lady liberty’s a filthy snake and a liar

i bet your parents are proud that this great country even allowed them in

yeah, i bet they are. i bet it’s everything my dad imagined when he starved, drifting in the pacific and i bet he really liked being called a yellow gangster and i bet he felt real welcome when he wasn’t allowed in some restaurants and i bet it was way better than his family’s life being threatened by some men in red uniforms back home.

iii.

i wore a face mask in public last weekend and a man told me to bring the chinese disease back to where i came from. i wondered if i forgot to wash off “alien” from my forehead that morning

he spat on me, so i used his spit to rub his slurs off my cheek

he ended up breaking my nose, and i heard the noise of my bones snapping, and it sounded like: “chink, chink.”

iv.

well, i mean, america spits on people like me and 

america spits on people who don’t really behave all that right

and america kinda spits on everything that makes it scared but

i think you know that. i hope you know that.

but it’s just, selfishly, all i can think about is me, and that

america spat on me last weekend. and i don’t really think i liked it all that much.

i'd take tea with the gods

if they would listen

spill liquified moons into delicate china teacups

and we will choke on tears woven from gossamer

what a bitter heart, my dear

dandelions coat my tongue with tuscany yellow

i shiver in the moon's glittering penumbra

as we paint waxing crescents across the sky