the pursuit of happiness

Bhakti Patel ’22

“life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”
the very ideals this country was founded upon
mean nothing to us now
did “life” not apply to the native americans
displaced from their home by colonizers who sought to satiate their greed,
demonized as savages because they did not conform to the white man’s standard?
did “liberty” mean nothing for the slaves
stolen away from their lives and forced to work for the white man,
torn away from their families and given no compensation?
does “pursuit of happiness” not apply
if we are not rich-white-straight-cis men?
forgive me, america, for i am not your poster child
i am the rioters in the streets, screaming for the change that we need
because when thomas jefferson penned “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”
he did not mean for it to apply to sally hemmings
because when the constitutional convention met to write the founding document
they did not mean for it to protect anyone different from themselves
because when i sit in my u.s. history 1 classroom and learn about the “great founding fathers”
i am deathly aware that they did not fight with my freedom in mind
so fuck you, america.
fuck your lies, your false promises, your skyscrapers built on hypocrisy
fuck your glorification of our founders; they are not the gods you told me they were
unlike you, when i say “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,”
i mean it.

your america

Saanvi Nayar ’22

when your america was founded
i had no place in the narrative
for the term American Indian 
was coined to compensate 
for the exotica
of how, in 1492, 
columbus sailed the ocean blue
and missed -
entirely. 

when your america was founded
my kind had no place on the ballot
for a brown-skinned woman 
was not worth 
the weighted glance
of a white man’s most trivial thought. 

when your america was founded,
my stance had no representation in history
for my land of the free
was built, cherished, and raised
to undermine who i am,
suppress all with which i stand for.

for i am now resigned 
to accept my absence in the narrative,
but in parting from my
white-washed education,
surely you can teach me the art 
of love, unreciprocated,
after condemning me to worship a country
founded to not love me back.

when your america was founded 
broad stripes and bright stars,
consider how its history 
founded me.

Prejudice & Judgement

Rohan Lokanadham ’23

As said by the author “Some people think that it is so easy to come out. They say that people care for some time but then forget about it. But that’s not how it is. Every time someone says any one of these things that I have stated in the poem, it shows their homophobia. These are things people in the LGBTQ+ community have to deal with every single day, and not only that, but they hear from their friends and family. I feel like I can’t ever truly be myself, because people will look down upon me for that. I get scared to have a “gay voice”, so I make my voice deeper when talking to strangers. I have to go through all of this just to hide my true self, and sometimes it makes me not want to be myself anymore. My anger and frustration about this, reflects who I am. This is how I feel. I feel that society needs a change, a major one, and it needs to happen soon.”

Why can’t I be myself,
I don’t understand.
Wherever I go, there's the judgement, 
The prejudice of the gay kid. 
That’s all I am, isn't it. 
“Shut up, you like men” 
“You’re gay” 
“You don’t count ‘cause you gay”
Why?
Why am I invalid because of my sexuality? 
These are the questions I ask myself everyday. 
These are the questions that make me wonder if I’m valued. 
I don’t wanna be myself.

()

Yasmine Patel ’23

it might be strange to see a brown girl
in this neighborhood-
sitting on her driveway
bent over in concentration
wiping the sweat off her brow
and replacing it with a layer of colored chalk 
that blanketed her calloused hands. 
the white people pass by in their trucks 
roll down their windows, 
and look out to see what task is so 
alluring 
so fascinating 
where she won’t even look away from the ground
to see the passerby’s. 
they might roll their eyes and keep driving
disgusted by the flag 
that she carefully sketches
on the blacktop. 
the little kids who walk past her
might just see a rainbow, 
and start to excitedly search 
for the pot of gold that follows. 
but she never looks up. 
even after she lays down her chalk, 
claps her hands together and forms
a hazy cloud of color and dust. 
even after she carefully writes in block letters
“happy pride month.” 
she only looks up at the white man before her
who gawks at the letters she scribbled on her driveway. 
she laughed-
obviously amused at his discomfort
and gathered up her box of chalk and walked away
leaving the man staring after her 
in a mixture of awe and confusion.

aim for the head

Bhakti Patel ’22

you will not defeat me.
i’ll let you try
come on, i’m right in front of you, easy target practice
tip: aim for the head; my soul is bulletproof
i refuse to fall to a man like you
too pathetic to come up with a better insult than “faggot”
masculinity too fragile to be able to call his friends handsome 
i’ll steal your girlfriend before you can even throw a punch
i spent too long fighting a civil war that you cannot imagine 
to even consider you a worthy opponent
my battle scars are by my own hand; your battle scars came from a poorly picked fight in a walmart parking lot
so throw up your fists and spit your ugly words
because at the end of the day, you are a man who falls back on your archaic beliefs to justify your fear of everything different than yourself
i am sorry that my existence offends you, that you cannot pull your head out of your ass and recognize
the world has changed. 
society has shifted to make room for me and pushed you out in the process
jealous? you should be.
so come on, take out your second-amendment-guaranteed pistol and fire
and like i said: aim for the head.

unravelled, sewn again

Saanvi Nayar ’22

scraps of identity
too often wrung of pride
basked in heat blazing of privilege
hems picked and pulled
scrubbed with a hatred 
that kills not soft nor subtle nor slow
but a hard, gut-wrenching hatred
that burns and blisters till festered 

and as the sun reaches its peak
a heat so unbearable that
scraps weathered and worn
pinned with slurs that turn to fists
assemble to be hemmed and stitched
though broken and bruised 
tanned by scorched oppression
blood of life splattered
there is strength, resilience,
the vitality of a culture 
rallying rich and fragrant as ever

brought together by cries 
of anger and love and pride
hardened by screams for mercy
the softened gasp of not one life
but futures, families, careers,
too many to count - robbed.
scraps bonded for justice
fostering art of voice, 
of spirit, of action
vibrant and demanding to be heard

stitched with old thread
covered in patches and fabrics anew
for do not forget
as the sun rises again, 
so will we
scrapped in unity
a community built to thrive
under the harshest of heat
and the pledge of allies
beautiful and diverse
stitching arms and hearts
to fight as one.