by Amman [ linocut ]

I had to learn the straight path to God by the age of seven. I imagined heaven something like having a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. That one room with the tiny door in it- an illusion as to how to get to the other side. Today, I realize that golden ticket rests purely on luck and consuming tons of chocolate.

Isn't gluttony a sin? And lady luck is probably some sexy ass sinner as well. I was totally illuded by the whole fantasy. 18 years later, my straight path to God is...more colorful than a trajectory. Small basement raves with doors leading to the illusion of a smoking patio, when really it's just another room full of sweaty bodies. Eating flowers, binging on red vines, getting stoked on chocolate fountains at gay weddings.

Coming to face with the straight path and the thresholds we must cross to get there, the work is so deep it plummets us back into forgetting through anti-establishment means. We as in me and my sister. The black sheep. We had to dig our own canals.

I sat on Bart after a long day learning about contemporary art in the Persian diaspora. Next to me sits an Afghani family as I pull out a collection of Iranian-American essays. They quickly shift from farsi to pashto- my father's native tongue and one I still understand. They have three daughters wearing pink, blue, and purple car coats with monochromatic ensembles. I felt their gaze squeezing my path straight- tightened up my scarf and body language into a ball of good behavior. My passageway from Earth to the beyond is molded by my constant identity and faith struggles. My passageway is cluttered with trinkets, photographs, estate sale finds- stories of other people. I'm trying to find the thread that is me.

18 years into the future, my mind just might abandon me for a clean hallway with no doors. For now, I'll make the clutter worth it.

by Hawa

by Tonia