Quiet Lightning is:

a literary nonprofit with a handful of ongoing projects,

including the flagship literary mixtape, a submission-
based reading series featuring all forms of writing without
introductions or author banter, published as a series of books
called sparkle & blink. This special edition is an anthology
featuring some of the authors who this year performed in
our quarterly showcase of writers of color, Better Ancestors.
Since December 2009 we’ve presented 1,900+ readings by
1,000+ authors in 162 shows and 126 publications, selected
by 80 different curators and performed in 99 venues,
appearing everywhere from dive bars and art galleries to
state parks and national landmarks.

Full text and video of all shows can be found for free online.

Subscribe

quietlightning.org/subscribe

opportunities + community events

One of Quiet Lightning’s efforts to move toward
racial equity, Better Ancestors is a quarterly showcase
of writers of color. Developed in partnership with
the poet Michael Warr, the series features 5 authors
reading or performing whatever they choose. Each
author selects one performer for the following show,
so the series—and community—is self-generating.
Authors are paid and published in this special edition
of sparkle + blink.

Why Better Ancestors? This showcase aims to

Better Ancestors
provide a long-term, forward-thinking goal. We
are all ancestors of the future, and if we want
a better world we have to be better ancestors.
This begins by listening to one another, and by
giving each other space to be heard.

Read about the authors, watch their performances

and find out about upcoming shows:

quietlightning.org/better-ancestors

Better Ancestors was made possible

with support from California Humanities,
a non-profit partner of the National
calhum.org Endowment for the Humanities.
sparkle + blink 120
© 2025 Quiet Lightning

Cover art “Lace: Dulce” (2024)

by Pilar Agüero-Esparza
pilaraguero.com

“Translation” by Marisa Lin first published in Ten Years of Voices

Elevated: An Elk River Writers Workshop Anthology
(WordFire Press, 2025)
“Family Secrets, As Told Through Dreams” by Marisa Lin
first published in Interdisciplinary Writers Lab 2023 Chapbook
(Kearny Street Workshop, 2024)
“To the River” by Marisa Lin first published by Volume Poetry (2025)
“Poetry Raised Me”, “Mama’s Hands” and “Second Wind”
by Monique R. McCoy first published in Poetry’s Daughter:
A Collection of Poems (2024)

set in Absara

Promotional rights only.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form

without permission from individual authors.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the

internet or any other means without the permission of the
author(s) is illegal.

Your support is crucial and appreciated.

quietlightning.org
su bmit @ qui e tl i g h tn i n g . o r g
 featured artist Lace: Dulce (2024)
Acrylic, stretched and woven leather,
pilar agüero-esparza cobbler nails, on wood panel
pilaraguero.com 30” x 45” x 1.75”

Michael Gallagher
from Back of the House: Poems from the Service Industry
How to Hone Your Blade 1
Wet Bar Receipts 3
Infusion 5
Caramelization 6
Holey Mat 7
What You Mean to Me 8
Rainy Sunday 9

Marisa Lin Translation 11

To the River 14
Family Secrets, As Told Through Dreams 16
Cael Dueñas-Lara Perceptions 19
Amexicano 21
flor en una tina 23
1852 24
Deport ICE 27
Asphalt at fault 29
Carmina figure it outa 31
This poem was not made for you and me 32

Monique R. McCoy
from Poetry’s Daughter: A Collection of Poems
Poetry Raised Me 35
Mama’s Hands 36
Second Wind 37
shannon garth-rhodes
Language of the Heart 39
 g is sponsor
et Lightnin ed b
Qu i y
 Quiet Lightning
A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression.

Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the ql board is currently:

Evan Karp executive director

Meghan Thornton treasurer
Kelsey Schimmelman secretary
Connie Zheng art director

Anna Allen Kevin Dublin

Rhea Dhanbhoora Christine No
Sophia Passin

If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in

helping—on any level—please send us a line:

e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

 help us invest in a sustainable
e t hi c a l a r t s ecos ys t em

Support us on Patreon
patreon.com/quietlightning

t h a n k y o u t o o u r pat r o n s

alex abreu catherine montague

sage curtis james morehead
frederica morgan davis sophia passin
chris dillon jessie scrimager
kevin dublin jon siegel
linette escobar katie tandy
ada genavia
mary gayle thomas
chrissie karp
miles karp meghan thornton
ronny kerr brian waksmunski
charles kruger emily wolahan
jennifer lewis edmund zagorin
shannon may connie zheng
 ael Gallagh
M ich er

Poe Back of the House: ry

fr om
ms fro st
m the S e rv i c e Indu

How to Hone Your Blade

I have seen you worn

rounded out
rolled over
like empty bottles collecting
on your night stand
bent cigarette packs
found in jacket pockets
those days you came to work lifeless
squinting at chattering tickets
in the teeth of stainless steel
dragging orders across the zip line
you grabbed your honing steel
with a droplet of light
in the corner of your cornea like
that little smirk
in the turning of your blade
you would survive tonight by realigning your
curling edges
by straightening your
beveled neck
by propping up a perfect metal mohawk
on days you felt trapped

1
 in the food you cut
your teeth on
an obtuse tool
is arrogance
an acute instrument
is discipline
you fed into the will
of your wrist I should have scraped
my fangs along diamond
I should have drug
my lips across wet stone
before I told you
a dull blade
is more dangerous
than a sharp one.

2 mi c h a e l G a l l a gh e r
 Wet Bar Receipts

Dead grey Bic pens and wet bar receipts,

a belt made of saran wrap,
no underwear,
thighs chafing and burning.

I survive the weekend,

face the sober mania,
the hyperactive task-attack,
and the ironic inability,
to properly relax.

My mind hates my body,

it keeps it stuck in deep,
mental trenches,
sweating out fight or flight,
goopy and trudging,
brigade to brigade
bar to bar.

Little mistakes hit like land mines,

I’m maximizing the details,
minimizing the lessons,
ears ring and eyes dilate,
I lose my footing,
tripping over nothing.

An insatiable appetite creeps,

leads to pre-work aperitifs,
post-work tequila bottles,
white tea bags steeped
in numb adrenaline.
mi ch a e l Ga lla gh e r 3
 I’m reaching for a receipt.

Dead dreams and dusty relics

whisper from the back burner,
“we miss you Mikey, where have you been?”
a pendulum of hope and regret,
like a candle burnt at both ends,
flares and flickers out.

I grip empty Bic,

squint at smeared ink,
unable to read numbers,
on a lifeboat of gratuity,
in a lifetime of pity,
with the sinking feeling,
always underneath.

4 mi c h a e l G a l l a gh e r
 Infusion

We lay suspended in soft solvent

filtering psychic venom
letting frustration bleed out
until we’re both opening
up and vulnerable we
start to fuse together
percolating as our pores
clarify interior
solving what’s soluble
pushing differences aside
breath left in the sifter
that little smirk as you scrub
dark spirals off of my mind
you become a part of me
an inseparable flavor
greater than the sum of our measures

mi ch a e l Ga lla gh e r 5
 Caramelization

Your breath
is a blowtorch
on my mind.

My brain is browning
venting unstable chemicals
degrading and releasing
condensing to rich caramel.

Your hot saliva exposes

new flavors on my tongue
your internal heat evaporates
tears on my cheeks.

Your subtle flame

slow and low
forms new hopes
on buttery lips.

I’m left spreading you to the corners of my mouth.

6 mi c h a e l G a l l a gh e r
 Holey Mat

Let me temper your knees and soften your feet,

let me ease the agony,
in your hips and lower back.

Let my space catch the refuse,

of everything that slipped,
between your fingers throughout the night.

Let me catch the fragile objects,

you dropped and bounce them back,
unbroken and intact.

Let me be a vessel for fallen vegetables,

shredded cheese that missed the pie,
fruit that rolled away,
an orphaned mushroom slice.

Let me catch everything raining down,

threatening to bury you alive,
all I ask is you shake me out,
lay me down easy and pure,
roll me up tight at night,
but please
more importantly:
never work without me.

mi ch a e l Ga lla gh e r 7
 What You Mean to Me

For you
I would bake bread
from the finest flour
grown in the richest soil
at the base of the oldest volcano.

For you
I would massage a cow every day
feed it only premium grass
tended on a luxurious loam
laid on the laziest back.

For you
I would prepare an eternal broth
and I wouldn’t take it off
the flame my entire life
I’d let it roll and enrich
until my last breath
which I’d use to say
“I made you some fucking soup.”

8 mi c h a e l G a l l a gh e r
 Rainy Sunday

We slid our knives back into their sheaths cause the

power was out. It was one of those strange days in back
of the house where nobody could be held accountable,
not even the most degenerate of the ragtag late-
capitalism generation. No one would break an egg, let
alone a sweat. For a few this was bad; rent was due
soon and deathly hangovers were now stubborn in
their porous release. It was a solemn sight: a group of
red-eyed cut and burn victims standing around in their
aprons clicking their tongs, honing blades absently,
picking through herbs. One cook played with a piece
of her finger flap she had slit on a mandolin the day
before; it hung off like a beige curtain from her cuticle.
I watched her flick it back and forth, pondering how
it looked like a little flag of surrender, dancing to the
currents of the oven fan.

A few smoke-breakers stared dead-eyed into the back

alleyway. The glazed-over whites of the whiskey-
soaked chef’s eyes rippled with secret glee. He untied
his apron string, muttering about putting in an order
in the office. There would be no brunch today, no
broken poaches, no bulging veins, no gritted teeth, no
mental breakdowns or metal breakdowns expounded
out of 6-pan portable speaker systems. The dishwasher
sprayed out the empty sink and started to bleach the
cutting boards. We started to feed ourselves, playing
with makeshift munchies from the later-labeled mis-
en-place. We’d make a little snacker and tell each other
“try this,” and “you ever do it like this? “Hella good, huh?”

mi ch a e l Ga lla gh e r 9
The bartender pulled espresso and we made her a
grilled cheese, and we all stood there staring at the
rain coming down outside the building openings.
Some people braved the chaos, soggy and frustrated. A
few customers ducked into the entrance and the host
intercepted them with an impenetrable reason for
denial. By the time the manager gave up and cut us
loose, we were fed, rested, and ready to face the storm.

10 mi c h a e l G a l l a gh e r
 Marisa Lin

Translation

林 (Lin): forest, grove

The tree calls to me
and that is enough.

Despite my life
bound as leaf

to gravity, my words
cargo thrown

overboard, in this shade

I am surrounded,

wrapped by wood
and wound

in the cradle
of a hidden ear.

The war is near.

Even as others say

the war has gone. But feel

how it leaves

11
 its remainders
in us, our chests

filled with intended

burnings, stockpiled

denials that laugh

at apocalypse.

For who can say

money

is enough or
whether science

will save us
and yet—

the eucalyptus
with her trickling hair

breathing Stop
or bruise us

forever arresting
some sliver of me,

while light
passes through

to another
trunk—

(exploding on a bike
swerving past)
12 Marisa Lin
—and it is evening
when I gather

what few futures

I can calculate, none

of which keep
the immeasurable:

the seed that erupts

beneath

a shivering meadow,
new skin streaked

in a pale rainbow or
how I know forests

hunger to be seen
as much as those

named after them.

Or why my dreams

have the calligraphy

of saplings. Or:

each day
that I rip

I am new.

Ma ri sa Li n 13
 To the River

I went to the river

once. Called the head
of a trout a vowel

I can only pronounce

in my sleep, folded
crabgrass against

itself, sliced my finger open

to find nothing
beating between want

& bone. Feathers glued

to my knuckles, stalks
piercing my skin

like false suns, I walked & the way

of my walking was how children
lose their names. Still,

there are doors I cannot

open. A heart that fell
into my mailbox once

with a note that said to feed it

oxygen, grace, & green
beans. But when it opened

14 Marisa Lin
its mouth, it demanded donuts. Which
side, I asked the heart,
of love is better: the dread

before or disappointment
after? But then its valve clogged
and all I could hear

was the muffled thrashing

of blood. Only years later, when
water licked my skin, did I feel

the agony of all of which I did not know, cities

feeding upon themselves, bodies
& their radiant wounds, pools

of trash. Or how I became my mother, who

when she could not take
away my loneliness, declared

it was all in my head. So I went to the river,

knelt by the bank, & swallowed
all of it.

Ma ri sa Li n 15
 Family Secrets, As Told
Through Dreams

1.

There is throttle, there is mayhem, then the mother

who siphoned out my insides
and auctioned them on the black market.

2.

I never found my organs. Instead, I pondered

how the market nurses scarcity,
the far-off jawbones of sisters and mamas.

3.

While the brokers remain silent, another question

slides to the surface: When will time heal
what it shouldn’t, and when will it pierce again?

4.

The hardest thing I have ever done:

Throw myself into the void to see my mother
collapsing, father racking a pistol, brother sucked
into a blue-light vortex.

16 Marisa Lin
 5.

To reiterate, cataclysm is both a natural

and inhuman event, the logical fate of hunger,
apocalypse sealed with a letter: Hello, mother.
Today I bring you heartbreak.

6.

Twenty-six days of sleeplessness

for twenty-six years: The only way
to escape tragedy, says my father.
All other means are taken.

7.

Only so many ways to unravel

a conscience. Money the straightest path
to relief. On the saltiest days, we swallow old rice.
Our lost fingers lick the window.

8.

By the time the economy quiets, we’re

full. Each stockpiled spore burned
in the stir-fry.

After dinner, a border crisis

blinks on TV. My father scoffs.
Damn liberals.
9.

At night, I sleep with three eyes open,

wait for the climax. Will the market save us?
There is no dream for this.

Ma ri sa Li n 17
 el Dueñas-La
ra
Ca
P e r c e p ti o n s
As a male of color I’ve learned I’m a threat
That I am a criteria to be met
Violence
prison
lack of education
I need to fail and you must catch me
That’s my place in this great nation
I’ve felt your wrath through your glares
Your anticipation
But for what
I wear this disguise to hide the real me the one you
won’t allow yourself to see
I force a smile around you for your comfortability
I don’t think you understand that it
obstructs my ability
To live
To dream
To hope
Why must I fear what you fear of me
The fears spawned from the media

19
Is what you believe
And only the bad was what you saw
You judge as if in a court of law
Come on now
Show me a world where young boys of color
aren’t victims of your perceptions
Show me this progression that you swear by
Show me a world where you don’t just pretend to care
Show me a world where your biases don’t impair
our lives
Or will you continue to let more sons die
More brothers, uncles, cousins
More fathers
I ask you
No forget that
I demand you let us live
In peace
I am more than a perception

20 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
 Amexicano
My people carry the blood of the colonized
and that of the colonizer

My people are the ones I call mi raza

My people are:

The migrant

The bracero

The fighter

The Adelita

The ones forced to bury a language

Anglicized, institutionalized

Brown Hands that are forced in dirt brown bodies

sprayed with chemicals

You uprooted us

Broke our raízes into pieces

Caged us like animals countless times

Yet claim to be a land of the free

Denied us relied on us

I hope you understand the families we feed

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 21
 And now

You plan to break up these families once again send

back citizens

It’s forced a sort of conflict in my mind

The fact that you don’t want us when we’re not

natives

Yet when we are

We’re still not safe

The government

Drowns us in unkept promises

Drowned like the bodies in the river

I hope one day I don’t need that to have that conflict

I hope one day this world isn’t based on questions

of who belongs and who doesn’t

But a world of raza

A u.s. of us

22 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
 flor en una tina
light brown the steps. the color of my people
my church without religion and absence of a steeple
palace that’s always been my second home
La Once where I’ve been growing up and will
continue till I’m grown

since I was a chubby baby I’ve wobbled on the dirt

my feet always unstable made me tumble
and caused hurt
a bolis as “ice” to tend to the wound
really I was waiting to eat it hoping
the time would come soon

My abuelita’s hugs and words of comfort

made me smile and laugh
And my tata’s humor has always been his own craft
Now I understand him more no more language barrier
When we’re eating I’ll sneak another flauta but hey
the more the merrier

nothing makes me happier than being in that cocina

to make me smile, just say flor en una tina

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 23
 1852
This Oakland

The epicenter of resistance

People will say they wanna help but glare

from a distance

See we Hella town

Talking bout tourism money but it’s nowhere

to be found

I’m from a city that people believe deserves pity

That people wouldn’t even dare to step in

But I don’t care what you think that’s

the town I’m reppin

That bird with an engine shining that light

into my room

I’m over here thinking it’s the moon

man everyone ready to bounce

to leave come on why can’t you believe

have an ounce of hope

You complain that the people on the street too

aggressive

24 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
but turn around and post all these things about yea
I’m progressive

We got people leaving us

the A’s at least we got the ballers

however this city network keep getting smaller

These pot holes got us messing up our tires

Education system’s depriving citizens of fulfilling

their desires

Why can’t we live why can’t we breathe

Without watching our back every time we leave

our home step on our concrete streets let blood run

beneath our feet

On these streets where so called thieves are left to

grieve for the ones passed on

Tío Lolo I know you’re up there

I know because I talk to you when I pray and I say

please get rid of this system that took you away

That made you run the streets at such a young age

told you you’re supposed to be stuck in this cage

Swear I wish this world believed in second chances

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 25
Wish I could step foot outside of here and not get
those glances

See Oakland I love you despite the pain you’ve

brought on me

One day I hope to see you thrive for me for my family

A place where people don’t talk so much shit

and create a travesty of our city

Come on its been almost 200 years of this town

I think it’s about time we lay it down

Turn the city around get rid of the violence

get our people off the street

Let’s rebuild our community

Right now is that opportunity

Let’s take it

Come on now Oakland I know we can make it

26 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
 Deport ICE
There’s a reason y’all called ice
Before I get started this not gon’ be nothing nice
Easily breakable that sets you apart
from me and my people
Ripping children from parents arms
Ripping bodies off this soil, soil that we sowed never
given what were owed man that’s cold
No wonder y’all called ice
How do y’all sleep at night
You know what I hope you don’t
I hope the screams and tears of brown babies
haunt you
See cause they for sure haunt me
In my poems I say “see” a lot
But that’s cause y’all won’t look at U.S.
and see past skin or language y’all call us foreign
Or is that only the president you swore in
The book told us to “love your neighbor as yourself”
and because it seems all y’all want is proof so go on
Check out Matthew 22:39
and see that your pain is mine
I understand why you hate us now
it’s because you hate yourself

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 27
 We could all learn a thing or two about love but
For now hear this
“Love comes naturally but hate is taught”
• (a human being)
or so I…
thought
chinga la migra

28 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
 Asphalt at fault

I could write about grass

But the asphalt is greyer on this other side
I like grey because
It’s
No judgment there
No one’s poisoned by
Black
And white thinking
No, they are in the grey
In the grey where many bodies have met yours
Due to judgement
shoot first
Ask questions later
All because you believe your life is greater
I’ll spare the humans from this limerick
Instead I’ll focus on the place where the hearts no
longer tick tick tick….

I ask
Is it the asphalt who’s at fault
For raising a young male to be convicted of assault?
Or do you believe this to be their default

Perhaps I lied about excluding humanity

But the street causes so much insanity

See the irony is that the asphalt is warm when laid

But at the end of the day

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 29
 Here lay more cold than warm

I believe there is a reason for a grey tombstone

Last time

Grey is
no judgement
Guilty or innocent

At the end of our time us humans are equivalent

I bleed blood that’s red

And I too have been at fault
And one day we’ll both die on this

Asphalt

30 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
 Carmina figure it outa

I saw a seashell on the street

Man I saw a seashell on the street
I didn’t touch it that would ruin its beauty
I saw a seashell on the street
walking around 11th ave
about a block away from sex workers
I saw a seashell on the street
out of place no water in sight
shiny and glistening from the sunlight
I saw a seashell on the street I saw a seashell on the street
Man I saw a seashell on the street
couple blocks from the spot a man was shot
over a scooter two young black males whose
lives ended right when they pulled that trigger,
I saw its ridges and grooves
I saw a seashell on the street
two young black males poisoned
by the system with no escape
A shame they never seen the bigger picture
I saw a seashell on the street
on broken concrete with blood seeped within
in Oakland
Man I saw a seashell on the street
A product of society
Opportunities stripped of a variety

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 31
 This poem was not made
for you and me
These poems are not made for you and me

See, these analogies and metaphors

Aren’t the way we speak
Because these poems were not made for you and me
We’re more violence drugs guns
More of that always on the run
Gimme some of that grime
Put a beat on it make it rhyme
Only symbols we know is a
Farm worker’s flag rebranded by youth
A badge that’s supposed to hold the truth

THIS IS WHERE THE POEM CHANGES ITS “MOOD”

None of those birds who remain trapped

in an open cage
Except, you are that bird
No clipped wings just decisions enforced
by a mind underdeveloped

32 C a e l Due ñ as - L a ra
An open cage door, blind bird eyes
Don’t realize that the doors open
No no
No
Instead you accept fate
Believing your destiny is only the words
Tupac chose to abbreviate
Like the baby bird you get fed, though not food
its media
Looking in a never ending mirror
Constant portrayals in this media that exempts you
from academia

You know that grime

You know that rhyme

Now learn that anaphora

Learn that stanza

Cause ain’t nothing more hard than calling someone

A porcelain lion roaring from behind velvet curtains

END STOPPED.

Ca e l Du e ñas- La ra 33
 n ique R. McCo
Mo y
fr om
P o e t r y ’s D a u g h t e r :
A Coll
ection of Poems

Poetry Raised Me

Poetry raised me
Took me under her wing
Clothed me with her words
And affirmed my gifts
You got a way with words she told me
Reminded her of her younger self
When she was just a haiku
Sitting on the stoop
Watching the world move in a hurry
She said she never understood what the
fuss was about
The rushing
The running
To get nowhere fast
So she learned how to take her time
Building a life one word at a time
I watched and studied her
Immersed myself in her teachings
Joined to her at the hip
Knowing one day I too would stand on my
soapbox and be the wisdom that calls out
in the streets

35
 Mama’s Hands

It was like a ceremony

I sat Indian style between my mother’s thighs
Anticipating the pain that came before the beauty
My crown was a sacred space
A canvas for my mother’s creativity
crafted with love and responsibility
Her hands
heavy and authoritative
She parts my strands with precision
Separating each section
Divided like my ancestral DNA
I have hair like my father
My mother reminds me it’s picture day and
to make sure I don’t mess up my hair
As she twists and loops one knocker ball
over the other until they meet side by side
Make sure to smile she says
As she swoops and brushes my scalp from
root to tip
I like what I see in the mirror
It was all worth it
The pain
The heavy hands of my hard working mother
I smile in my pictures
Hair neat
Head throbbing
Anything to make mama proud

36 M on i que R . M c Coy
 Second Wind

Success is like the midday sun that seeps

through cracked shutters
It reminds you that it is within arm’s reach
just when you feel like giving up
Success taps you on your shoulder while
you are in the middle of self-sabotage
To help you shake off self-inflicted fatigue
that only comes when you take your eyes
off your own path

Moni qu e R. McCoy 37
 n non garth-rhode
sha s
Langua
ge of the Heart

My cousin uninvited me to his destination wedding in

June 2017. He was getting married to a white woman,
on the island of Gibraltar. The plan was to fly into
Barcelona and then take a ferry to the island for the
wedding and subsequent reception. Some of the family
planned a separate trip to Morocco, since we were so
close. I’d never been to the continent of Africa, that
part was very appealing. I’d also never been to Europe,
that part was less appealing. I have to admit, the few
things I’d heard about Spain were off limits to me as
a gluten-free, lactose intolerant, and sober person. So
when my cousin said that they didn’t have space in the
villa for me or my siblings, I should have been relieved.
Only I wasn’t. I’d already purchased my ticket and
reestablished my passport. I was too far down the path
to turn back.

I minored in Spanish in college. Which for the

University of Houston - Downtown meant I’d passed
a few classes and tested out of a few more. I was proud
of my minor until I was asked to habla español in the
real world. I lacked confidence and todos mis palabras
sounded muy gringo. Mr. Right, my first love, asked
me to practice more: “You’ll never feel good about
it unless you try with other native speakers.” Turns
out he was trying enough for the both of us, texting

39
native speakers from our bed at night. He was using
my Spanish fluency as a carrot to carrot Magdala.
It left a bad taste in my mouth.

In the absence of a wedding itinerary, I decided to enroll

in Spanish courses in Barcelona. Two weeks would be
enough to get the old engine running again. Besides,
those classes are not cheap. I’m not the only person
who decides to go to Barthelona to learn Thpanish. I
saw the utility in being bilingual. Despite my spurned
heart, I sort of grew up in Texas with a lot of U.S. born
Latinos who were raised not to speak Spanish. Not to
mention in today’s climate it’s damn near subversive.
I tried learning Spanish in the Dominican Republic
(DR) in 2008 and people didn’t even show up to class.
Including the instructor. They say “Island ‘panol ‘ta
mucho different.”

Unlike Spain, which is a lot of the same. Everywhere.

When I arrived in Barcelona all of this was apparent
from the outset. Everyone was white. Except the
housekeepers and vendors on the street. I am
accustomed to being around white people (as I
mentioned I kind of grew up in Texas), but I took note
of it.

I went to the touristy spots, the De Gaul and the

Iglesia, the parks and shops. One evening, I’d heard
that Anderson Paak and the Free Nationals were
performing across town. I love Anderson Paak. He
exudes joy and hilarity. I saw him perform three
other times that year, twice intentionally and once by
accident— he was a surprise opener at J. Cole’s concert
in Atlanta, well it was a surprise to me. I went from not

40 s hanno n gar t h- r h o d e s
knowing who he was to being one of his biggest fans.
I’m wearing a skater tank top and cut off jorts, because
I know Anderson would dig it.

Barcelona is known for these large courtyards in the

middle of towering buildings. I was standing in line
in a courtyard about to order food when a child came
running by. The child may have been ten or eleven
because I couldn’t identify their gender at all. (I was
33 and couldn’t identify my own gender, so there was
that.) What had become clear very quickly was that
the child was running from someone. Their eyes shot
around the courtyard. Their limbs seemed almost
detached from their body. I hear a bunch of commotion
and return my vision to the corner of the courtyard
the child originated from. Three adults, two women
and a man, run at the child, who is now in the center of
the courtyard. They grab the child just as what appears
to be the child’s mother shows up back to back with
the child, with even more people chasing her. One of
the women has ripped the child’s shirt and I can’t stop
staring. People have returned to their meals and with
little to no conversation about the child and mother
being attacked mere feet from their plate. “That’s a
shame really”; “They must’ve stolen something,” they
say in Spanish. My heart hurts for the two-person
family.

I close my eyes and when I open them I am in front of

the child, fists hurling toward me. I don’t remember
running or walking over. I just appeared in front of
them. It takes the first punch to land on top of my
head for me to realize I am no longer a witness to this
attack. I am being attacked. I back up and the child is

s h a n n o n g a r th - r h o d e s 41
no longer behind me. Where did they go? A woman
from the mob lunges at me and grips my shoulder
between her jaws. There is a moment when I look
down at her head, now attached to me, and then up at
the courtyard where everyone appears to be scattering.
How is this happening? Someone grabs her head and
pushes her off of me. He grabs me by both biceps and
says, “Corre!”

I run. I run until I’m out of breath from running. I

run until I hear police sirens. I stop. The car is right
in front of me. The mother and child are in the back
of the car pointing and yelling at me. Is that French?
Wait, the mother and child are in the back of the car?
The officer gets out of the car and speaks to me in
hurried Spanish. My brain is too discombobulated to
translate. What on earth is happening? He asks me for
my papers. I carry my passport with me because my
license from the States is meaningless and my mom
said I should always carry something in case I wind up
dead— someone can identify me. A mother’s wisdom.
He looks at my passport, looks at me. It’s an old picture,
but my face hasn’t really changed since grade school.
He gestures for me to get in the back of the car. What?
He opens the door for me like it’s a date, not like
I’m under arrest. The guy who saved me from JAWS
had kept pace with me and was nearby, said I should
probably go with the police. Did I have a choice?
Did he think I would be safer with them? What was
the relationship between cops and Black people like
in Barcelona? I hesitantly climb into the car next to
the child. The mother is leaning against the opposite
door, waving her arms quickly and speaking even more
quickly. It’s definitely French. The child doesn’t really

42 s hanno n gar t h- r h o d e s
acknowledge me. They’re facing forward, their collar
on their shirt stretched to their elbow, barely hanging
on to them. I look out the car window at the random
guy, whose name I still don’t know. And then at all the
people staring at the three of us in the back of this car.

It dawns on me: I have my phone! I check for a

signal. One bar. I text a friend in California who is
always online and tell him that I have been attacked
in Barcelona and I am being taken somewhere with
the police. He replies back with an emoji and an
exclamation mark. I close my eyes and throw my head
back on the sticky padded car seat. It is so hot back
here. The vinyl-like material makes a noise when
I turn my head to face the family. The mother had
failed at activating the child, who seems numb; she
began talking to me, but even though the languages
are close I can’t understand a word of it. Until the car
stops in front of a subway station, the officer from the
passenger side opens my door and ushers me to get out
of the car. I do. The family stays in the car.

I ask, in English, “What about them?” and I move back

toward the car and reach for the child’s hand.

“No”, he opens the car door wider.

The mother softens to say, “Merci.”

The child’s eyes soften on me for the first time, and

they reach out to me. “Señorita,” the officer says. I
touch their hand. “Señorita.” I let go, and step back.
The officer closes the door with the family still in the
sweltering backseat. Tears begin to roll down my face

s h a n n o n g a r th - r h o d e s 43
as I watch them roll away. I hadn’t let myself cry—
I was too panicked, too afraid. I realize that I am alone
again and susceptible. That angry mob is still out there.

I scurry down the escalator to the subway. I scan the

platform. I think, “This is the train that will take me to
the hospital, but will the hospital take my insurance?”
The train comes and I scan the car for any of the faces
from the courtyard. I use my phone to take a photo
of the bite on my arm. I suddenly become aware that
I am in a confined space and I jump off at the next
stop. The straight-lined map overhead in the train
car indicates I am near the hospital stop. Still close to
where the incident happened. I walk into the hospital.
It’s clean, sterile even, basically empty. Someone hands
me a form to fill out on a clipboard. My brain feels like
mush. I am incapable of conjugating a single verb. I
don’t know any of my insurance information. I don’t
even bother to write my name. I set the clipboard back
down on the registration desk and leave. Across the
street is the beach. I walk to the beach and plop down
in the sand. My throat tightens and I feel like I’m
going to cry again.

My phone rings. I don’t remember turning on the

ringer. It’s my mom. She says I’m on her mind. She
had decided not to go to the wedding. “How are you?
Is everything okay?” Two questions to which she
doesn’t really wait for the answer. “shannon, don’t
drink.” What? I didn’t even say anything? In two years
she’d never mentioned my sobriety. Stunned, I look
around to see if anyone else is capturing this and there
is someone selling wine to the left of me and folks
partying with a bucket of booze to the right of me.

44 s hanno n gar t h- r h o d e s
I hadn’t even noticed. “Thanks, mah. Love you mah.”
Then we say goodnight.

I catch a cab back to my hostel and the cabbie speaks

to me in English. I wonder how he knows I’m not
Spanish?

“How was your night, miss?”

“Eh, uh…” I am reluctant to make small talk, but the

alternative is too real: “I got attacked by a mob of
people in a courtyard.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, this African mother and child were attacked first

and—”

“No, no, that doesn’t happen here.”

Huh? What? But it did happen. It happened to me. I

don’t defend my story, I don’t even say anything else
to the cabbie for the rest of the ride.

It’s one of the hottest summers on record in Barcelona.

The rest of the week I’m wearing tank tops. People
can see the purplish blue bruise on my shoulder. They
ask me about the bruise. I tell them what happened
in the courtyard and they say some variation of what
the cabbie said: “Not in Spain.” “Maybe in the U.S.,
but not here.” Etc. I’m not sure which hurts more,
the mob of people in the courtyard attacking me or
the mob mentality of the Spanish people denying my
experience. I wear the only short-sleeved shirt I own

s h a n n o n g a r th - r h o d e s 45
 to my Spanish language class; I can’t bear to have my
peers gaslight me too.

On my second to last day in the city, one of my

classmates invites me out to ice cream. I figure he’s
fond of me when he offers me a ride on his Vespa. He
seems harmless so I go with him. Over ice cream he
tells me about this sex club on the other side of town.
He and his colleague are going to check it out and he
wants to see if I’d be interested in joining them. Like I
said, it’s my last night and I am nothing if not curious.
(The club was sort of “womp womp”— you’ve seen
one you’ve seen ‘em all, am I right?) After we leave the
club my classmate invites the two of us back to his
apartment. I’m not particularly interested in playing
out this guy’s fantasy, but my phone has a low battery
and I figure I can charge it before catching the train
home.

On the way to his place, I hear, “Señorita!” I don’t

typically turn around to this sort of thing when I’m
dressed the way that one does when they’re going to
a sex club. “Miss!” English? I turn around. “Are you
the lady from the courtyard the other night?” It’s the
officer. What are they doing all the way across town?
Don’t they have jurisdictions? Also, now he speaks
pretty good English? I don’t answer, I just stare at him
like he’s a mirage. He says, “May I talk to you?” Again,
do I have a choice? I stand still as he leaves his car to
stand a foot away from me. “The mother and child are
okay.” I hadn’t known how badly I needed to hear that.
My mouth parts and my eyes well up as he continues:
“They were taken to the hospital and examined. They
are fine.”

46 s hanno n gar t h- r h o d e s
 I feel like I have to say something or he’ll walk away.
“Okay…”

“We took the people who attacked them…and you…into

custody, the mother will identify them.”

My knees weaken to collapse under me, and the

officer catches me by the elbow. I hadn’t known
I’d been holding that for so long. I hadn’t realized
how desperately I needed them to be safe. I whisper,
“Thank you”, and swallow my remaining tears. Does
he know why it happened? Was it part of the anti-
tourism protests in the city? Or was it…just…plain old
anti-Black racism?

His cheek lifts slightly as he lets go of my elbow, turns

and walks away.

It has taken a while for this story to arrive on the

page. The initial doubt I received during my visit to
Spain colored my willingness to share the story when I
arrived back home in the United States. I gave so much
power to explaining myself to others. Today, I choose
to rightfully place the power on that which I cannot
explain.

s h a n n o n g a r th - r h o d e s 47
Subscribe q u i e t l i gh t n i n g . o rg
info + updates + video of every reading

Read quietlightning.org/sparkle-blink
every past show

Scene l i tseen . co m
calendar + reviews + interviews + purviews

Also by Quiet Lightning

quietlightning.org/books

The Sacred Text of Rosa

Who is Great
by emme lund
illustrated by stello peach

Breast Milk
by tupelo hassman

if you want to be one of them

playing in the streets…
by zack haber
 ing.org/better-ances
tlightn tors
• quie •