Issue| Spring 2023

Liberation

Dwayne "BIM" Staats

NOW Bim was in his cell meditating upon the circumstances that loomed over him and the rest of the Vaughn17. And an Angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire from the midst of his mattress. So he looked and behold, the mattress was burning with fire, but it was not consumed. Nor did smoke materialize in the cell. Then Bim said, “Why this is a great sight, but why does the mattress not burn?” So when the Lord saw that Bim was utterly amazed, God called to him from the midst of the mattress and said, “I am God of your father—God of George Jackson—God of Marcus Garvey—God of Nat Turner.” The Lord said, “I have seen my people (the v17) who stand trial in Delaware, and have heard their cry, for I know their sorrow. So I have come down to deliver them out

of the hands of Deputy Attorney General Downs. Now therefore, behold the cry of V17 has come to me, and I have also seen the oppression placed upon them by the Department of Corrections. Come now, therefore, and I will send you to the Superior Court that you may bring my people the v17 from the grips of D.A.G. Downs.” But Bim said to God, “Who am I that I should go to the Superior Court, and that I should bring the V17 out of the grasp of D.A.G Downs?” So He said, “I shall give a sign that I have sent you.” Then Bim said to God, “Indeed, when I come to the v17 and say to them, The God of your fathers has sent me to you, and they ask What’s his name?, what shall I say to them? And God said to Bim, “I am who I am.” And he said, “Thus you shall say to the v17, ‘I am’ sent me to you.” Moreover, God said to Bim “Thus you shall say to the v17: The Lord God of your fathers, the God of George Jackson, the God of Marcus Garvey, the God of Nat Turner, appeared to me saying, I have surely visited you and seen what is done to you by the Department of Corrections and D.A.G. Downs.” Then Bim answered and said, “But suppose they will not be-lieve me or listen to my voice; suppose they say The Lord has not appeared to you?” So the Lord said to him, “What is that in your hand?” And he said, “A pen.” And He said, “Cast it on the ground.” And it became a Black Panther and Bim fled from it. Then the Lord said to Bim, “Reach out your hand and take it by the tail.” And he reached out his hand and caught it, and it became a pen again. The Lord: “They may be-lieve that the Lord God of their fathers, the God of George Jackson, the God of Marcus Garvey, and the God of Nat Turner has appeared to you.” Then Bim said to the Lord, “O my Lord I’m not a eloquent speaker, neither before or since you have spoken to your servant.” So the Lord said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I the Lord? Now therefore, go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall say.” But he said, “O my Lord, please send by the hand of whomever else you may send.” So the anger of the Lord was kindled against Bim, and He said, “Is not Ruk of the North your brother? I know that he can speak well. You will meet him and when he sees you he will be glad in his heart.” Then Bim and Ruk went and gathered together with the rest of V17. And Ruk spoke all the words which the Lord had spoken. So the v17 believed when they heard the Lord had visited them, and when they heard that he was sympa-thetic to their affliction they bowed their heads graciously. Afterwards Bim and Ruk went to Superior Court and told D.A.G. Downs, “Thus says the Lord God of V17, Let my people go!” And D.A.G. Downs said, “Who is the lord, that I should obey his voice to let Vaughn17 go? I do not know the lord nor will I let Vaughn17 go!” As a result D.A.G. Downs conspired with the Judge to bring forth an order to conceal all evidence against Vaughn17, locked them in solitary confinement, solicited the wicked to spew false testimony against them, restricted communi-cation with their loved ones, spread vicious lies so V17 would be ostracized by the people, cast spells causing v17 to be suspicious of one another, and appointed devils disguised as lawyers to represent some of them… So Bim returned to the Lord and asked, “Lord, why have you brought trouble on these people? For since I came to D.A.G. Downs to speak in your name he has done evil to these people.” Then the Lord said to Bim, “Now you shall see what I will do to D.A.G. Downs. For with a strong hand he will let them go. I have also heard the groaning of the v17 who all face life sentences because of D.A.G. Downs. Therefore say to v17 I am the Lord, I will bring you out from the burdens of D.A.G. Downs. I will rescue you from his abuse of power, I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgements.” So Bim spoke thus to v17 but they did not heed him, for anguish of spirit, cruel bondage, and psychological torment. Then the Lord spoke to Bim and Ruk, and gave them a command for the v17 and a command for D.A.G. Downs to drop the case against v17. And said, “I will harden D.A.G. Downs’ heart so he will not heed you, this way I will lay my hand on the Superior Court and bring V17 out of the clutches of D.A.G. Downs.” Then the Lord spoke to Bim and Ruk saying, “When D.A.G. Downs speaks to you, saying Show me a miracle for yourselves, then You and Ruk shall take your pens and cast them before D.A.G. Downs, and let them become Black Panthers.” So Bim and Ruk went to D.A.G. Downs and they did so, Bim and Ruk cast down their pens before D.A.G. Downs and his servants and they became Black Panthers. But D.A.G. Downs also called his detec-tives, investigators, and witnesses, and called for them to cast down their pens and let them become serpents and pigs. The Black Panthers slaughtered all of them. One of the Panthers mauled D.A.G. Downs, knocking him to the ground. Its eyes glared red while growl-ing into D.A.G. Downs’ sobbing face. The Lord said to Bim, “Let him live for his defeat and the liberation of v17 will be a testimony to the power of God.” Bim reluctantly grabbed the panther’s tail and it turned back into a pen. THE END
*Dwayne “BIM” Staats is a self-published author, founder of Believing in Myself, LLC, and co-founder of Rebellious Hearts, a liberation movement built on Revolutionary, Matriarchal, Abolitionist, and Black Power.

Letter to a Friend

Ella Helmuth

Heliogabalus drowned his dinner guests in flower petals.

He mixed their lentils with onyx, he mistook emeralds for spring onions 

I have to imagine. 

Decadent, they said, wasteful, corrupt, depraved, shameful. 

No. I get it. 

Couldn’t he have just loved them so much without knowing how?

Just wanted them all to sleep over?

Just thought that choking on rose petals with all

(aren’t we all in love with our friends) (tumultuously and wonderfully and chastely in love)

the loves of his life, thought it would be the right way, the only way to go, 

destined by his Eastern Gods?


Everyone I know is falling in or out of love. 

Some are doing both. Some don't know they are doing either. 

Some think they are doing one but are actually doing the other. 

Cocky of me to think I know these things, I know. Shh, I'll kiss you. Don’t worry about it.  

I want to hold up my hands like they’re scaling something unstable, climbing wet metal. 

I want to catch their dead weight and cushion them with my skull, whichever way they’re falling. 

I’ll take care of you I'll take care of you I'll take care of you I'll take care of you I don't want

to watch a heart hit the pavement, the spatter, the ooze will

occupy my intrusive thoughts for decades to come just let me

catch you. 


But even the friends for whom I would eat peonies until I suffocated 

are going to slip through my fingers and I theirs. 

There are unbendable rules of this reality that I can’t fix by magic. 

You can’t catch what’s falling, all you can do is beat the electricity back 

into its ruptured atriums when it hits the ground. Don’t touch your face with your hands. 

Someday I'll fall in love again. They’ll try to catch me. 

They know my method of feeling. Tangy, viscous, gluttonous. Overbroad and overgrown.

Sticky orange pollen from lilies packing subdural space like sawdust. Bulbous moons for eyes. 

And I'll brush their hands away like my own hair sweeping my shoulders and look 

at some girl and give her soft soft body everything that it wants.

Letter to a FriendLetter to a FriendLetter to a FriendLetter to a FriendLetter to a Friend

Kriti Sharma

At the heart of it, this story is about love and what it takes to make good art. But for me, personally, it’s about the age-old question of choosing between love that is earned and love that is meant for you. It’s the choice between love that makes you a better person and the love that forces you to reveal your darkest self to the one looking straight into your soul. I will not say it is as simple as the choice between peace and passion. That’s a rudimentary analysis of love. There is no love without passion, and no passion that doesn’t bring peace at the end of it all. Peace from knowing you loved well.

En el ombligo del mundo

Maria Lares

En el ombligo del mundo by Maria Lares

True Sight

Paul Martini

True Sight by Paul Martini

On the Beach

Lez P.

Content warning: police violence. An old shed, off-kilter roof propped up by faded gray teak. Stars glancing through an open window, reflected light scaling the walls, the floor. Moonlight across the crusted steel barrel of an old hunting rifle. Everywhere the same sound – the steady breath of the ocean, waves pushing in and out, in and out, inescapable, hope and oblivion. Wednesday morning. Her eyes shot open. She cast the linen bedsheet off her body – it was late. Gentle, mid-morning light wafted through the window, leaping from the ocean and welcoming the bedroom into the day with an even glow. She looked next to her, the bed was empty. He was already awake, she could smell the coffee and slightly burnt toast downstairs. It was their fourth morning in these unfamiliar surroundings; the beach house of a friend of theirs, away visiting in-laws in Chile. This vacation, disguised as housesitting,

was their first in years – “maybe ever?” he had teased her. This morning was the latest in a long string of awakenings, dating back so long she couldn't remember, of eyes opening to a deadness, a shame, a fidgeting that had to be satiated, that she knew how to fix – but couldn’t. She looked around the room. To the left, a huge window looking out at the gruff, long grass that gave way to sand, then the ocean. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf covered the wall opposite the bed, the books organized by color, from brilliant red in the top-left corner, winding through purples, blues, greens and ending at white. The titles were familiar, many of them the same ones they had at their own apartment back in the city: old issues of New Left Review, the Little Red Book, Prisoners of the American Dream. She looked to her right, past the clock on the woodgrain nightstand, the time displayed in bright red, towards the corner, where a ribbed ceramic vase hoisted a dead bunch of peonies. The flowers seemed to slump in real time. She got up, threw on a pair of shorts, and walked downstairs. Wednesday morning, later. He was bustling around the kitchen, sliding PB&Js into a ragged backpack, filling water bottles, checking how much time was left on the coffee, his face brimming with excitement for their hike – along the ocean, then up on the dunes, ending at what the visitor center’s map called “the end of the world.” He was talking to her, but she wasn’t listening. On her phone, she saw flashes of familiar scenes – dread inducing, miles away – different worlds, yet within reach. Or maybe she was remembering — or maybe she was imagining — The police rushed the line without warning, riot shields and batons splotchy and stained, picket signs torn from broken fingers, heads inadequately covered as they hit the pavement – Another pipeline burst – a gorgeous, murky plume, oily smoke and brilliant orange flame overexposed against the atonal white of the northern tundra, the tacky wiring of the homemade explosive littering the snow, the camouflaged men in binoculars looking on – Gloved hands switch the body cameras off as the SWAT team rounds the corner, emerging from the crowded forest to the grove where forest defenders lie in their hammocks – one looks up, the red dot instantly part of their visage, the gunshot muffled by the silencer – He tapped her shoulder, holding out a Nalgene filled with homemade red Gatorade. “Are you ready to go?” Wednesday afternoon. As they trudged along the sandy path, the glistening sea opening wide besides them, she remembered the first time she saw him. His eyes, she told him many times after, had been on fire. At the time they had lived so close to the chest, so viscerally. She could still see those memories – but as they were now, blips in time, a montage. She could see him, dizzy with intensity, in the popcorn-ceilinged basement of the faculty building where they met with other union reps from City University, dining workers, janitors, grad students, writing what would be their power map – “our manifesto,” he insisted – of industrial trade unionism at the university. They were townies, staff, not professors – but it was euphoric. She would meet him in the Ethiopian cafe across from campus, they were reading things like State and Revolution and Industrial Unionism, devising formulas to put the books into practice. The things she’d dreamed, that now seemed impossible. She remembered biking along the river, weaving between the dotted lines on the path, him laughing while he pedaled to keep up with her. She remembered him leading her to his backyard, staying up for hours making picket signs by moonlight. She remembered his hand on her arm, still, gentle, anticipatory, as they peered around the corner of the brick building where the police were staging. She remembered sneaking past the chatting officers, gutting the back tires of the SUVs. She saw the gorgeous arc of his arm, that summer night, the humidity suffocating beneath her mask, the sweat sparkling beneath his electric green eyes as he lobbed a brick into the glass window of the DHS. She remembered kneeling next to him, digging out carrots in their block’s community garden. She remembered eating prosciutto and drinking negronis out of a mason jar on the roof of the science library, when they finally found a key to the door. She remembered lying next to him in the park, the sun burning her cheeks, his head on her shoulder, the drummers by the fountain beating out a syncopated rhythm. She remembered him clutching her while they huddled behind a torched Prius, the sound of marching footsteps growing louder, kissing the gash on her head, whispering “it won’t be long. It won’t be long.” She looked at him now, his silhouette stepping in and out of focus along the beach — the curls in his hair, his head cocked, darting back and forth as he smiled towards the ocean — and she started to cry. Wednesday evening. He sat at the edge of the dock, breathing in the ocean air – breathing slowly, slower than he ever could in the city, deeper too. He looked down at his feet, tickling the surface of the lapping water. He had left her staring at the shed, her hands clutching at each other, no longer crying, her eyes empty. I didn’t want to let us be here, she had said. I didn’t want to let us be comfortable. They had fought when they got back to the house, quietly, then furiously, then quietly, then silently, and finally with a rage that was still trembling in his chest, trailing each other around the bedroom, the kitchen, out onto the porch. Was he shaken by what she had said? By what she now thought of him, what she had maybe thought of him for weeks, months, but that he was now just seeing? By the person she now considered him to be: leisurely, passive, definitive, unrevolutionary, comfortable? Was he shaken because she was right – and he hadn’t noticed? We said we would fight with anyone who was fighting, and now all you care about is your fucking research, she had sobbed. What is that going to do?? He knew the fire in her chest. He knew the shame she felt; he saw it when she thought he wasn’t looking, when she stared into the nothingness at the center of the dinner table, when she bit her lip watching footage of the dockworkers’ strike or reading the coded report-backs from the pipeline hunters in Canada. He sighed, flicking his feet into the water, flecks of saltwater foam clinging to his legs. Maybe she was right. He had fallen in love with her and the revolution, and then he had fallen in love with their life – maybe together, those three things took up too much room. Maybe. I can’t do this, she said, – I can’t sit around, thinking, meeting … writing. I mean, can you? He suddenly felt clammy, short of breath. He turned around and looked back towards the house. What were they if not two revolutionaries – comrades in love? Wednesday night. He opened the sliding door and stepped from the porch into the living room. He looked in the kitchen, then hurried up the stairs – her bag was gone, the bed hastily made, the books she had borrowed from the shelf stacked on the night stand. There was a Bolaño novella on his pillow, an envelope sticking out at the top. He opened the book, looked at the envelope – but it was empty; only a makeshift bookmark. He looked out the window. Somewhere out there was the ocean, but in the dark, with the bedroom light on, he could only see his blurred, faceless silhouette. Wednesday night. She wiped away the sweat or tears or both clinging to her cheek and pushed open the creaky door of the shed, stepping over spiky marram grass. Streaks of shimmering moonlight glimmered faintly on the crusted barrel of the old hunting rifle, the stars glanced through the window. She reached out and felt the old, steady grip of the rifle, which likely didn’t hold any bullets but held the possibility of an act, blood on the street, her blood maybe, someone’s, spilt for a world to win. She laughed to herself, snot bubbling from her nose. She didn’t even know if this thing worked. Outside she heard the steady breath of the ocean waves pushing in and out, in and out, in and out, whispering ancient hope, inescapable oblivion. END www.stopcopcitysolidarity.org/
On the BeachOn the Beach

Greens Are Good

K.T. Abram

Once, after announcing the title of her poem, “cutting greens,” to an audience, Lucille Clifton was met with laughter. To that laughter she replied, “greens aren’t funny, greens are good.” Greens are good. Because I know they are. ‘Cause my grandma said so. ‘Cause collards make a thick crunch when you bite ‘em raw out the ground before they’ve been boiled, heavied with meaty neck bone that glisten like knuckles. I remember Her knuckles after church—curled, nimble as a switch, as she clipped off her clip-ons leaving the impression of something frivolous. Feminine. A soft shadow in her ear. God is good. She’d sing as I echoed back, in the pews, by the stove. Hymn lingering on my tongue. The particular taste of devotion, earthen, unknowable.
Greens Are Good

Maheen Haq

I wore my trauma on my chest just to get through the door. Sometimes I wish. Just for a second. That I could rip the melanin out of my skin. The scarf away from my hair. The colonialism out of my heritage. And the thirst for justice out of my mouth. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so angry. Trying to create a world that will never exist. And breaking myself in the process. Take this empathy out of my heart. Turn it into apathy. Some days all I see is white. Until I think maybe that it would be easier. Just to be. Be white. Malcolm X asked, Who taught you to hate yourself? And my answer is you. You did. You do. Everyday.
--Georgetown University Law Center

Azul

Maria Lares

Azul

Legitimate Theories: The Capybara & The Law

Evan Molineaux

This TikTok is a stimulating exercise in the law and retributive justice. The basic facts of the Tok are as follows. First, we see a jaguar attack a capybara. Next, we observe as a crocodile attacks the presumed same jaguar (“aggressor”). Finally, we see two separate clips of the initial capybara (thankfully living) riding on the back of the crocodile that appeared in the second clip. Mental state and intent should never be presumed, but it should be obvious that the crocodile and capybara are seeking revenge and looking for the aggressor. Based on the perceived climate as well as the biological data our team has collected on capybara and jaguar residences and mating habitats, we can assume the incident in the video occurred in South America. Likely Brazil. However, I am not an expert in Brazilian tort law (yet) and we therefore will adapt our analysis to an American

jurisprudential lens. As a certified American torts law expert (see e.g. academic transcript indicating completion of required 1L course) this is a clear case of assault and battery. Assault is generally defined as an intentional act that puts another person (or jungle creature) in reasonable apprehension of imminent harmful or offensive contact. No physical injury is required, but the actor must have intended to cause a harmful or offensive contact with the victim, and the victim must have thereby been put in immediate apprehension of such a contact. Cornell website that contains all laws. Battery is an intentional tort. When a person (or jungle creature) intentionally causes harmful or offensive contact with another person, the act is battery. However, if the plaintiff expressly consented to such an act or gave implied consent by participating in a particular event or situation (e.g., consensual, sensual misdeeds with defendant), they are not liable. Id. We can clearly establish that the capybara did not consent to any contact from the jaguar. While the torts are obvious in the video (at least to an expert), this Tok represents a much more detailed and purposefully curated philosophical legal engagement applicable to the American criminal legal system. Dating back to Hammurabi’s Code and the theory of ‘lex talionis’, the law has focused on retaliatory justice. See Also the Bible (Exodus) and the Talmud (Moses’s Divine Law) and The Qur’an (Sura 5:45) (illustrating the similar principle of retaliation and the adage that an eye for an eye does not in fact make the whole world blind, but instead makes us all feel better). *We note that Biblical scholars may rebut the reference to Exodus as indicative of the Bible with a reference to Leviticus 19:18 – “Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.” However, Leviticus 10:6 also says God is going to get angry if you rip your clothes or leave your hair unkempt. Not to mention the hate speech that has emerged from Leviticus 18:22. Point being, this journal disrespectfully does not recognize the book of Leviticus as any sort of legal or moral authority.* The western world has adopted this philosophy. Today instead of taking an eye for an eye, the American legal system has shifted to taking ‘the ability to move freely throughout the world for an eye’ or ‘vast money and sanctions for an eye.’ The crocodile is representative of the criminal justice system, bent on retribution. The crocodile knows there are alternatives to dealing with this situation and making the capybara “whole” again, but instead of shifting the jungle ecosystem to a more rehabilitative model of crime and punishment, the crocodile is firmly entrenched in traditionalist criminal legal practice (represented by its status as one of the oldest creatures with many scales). The punitive order decreed by the crocodile works to punish the jaguar in a way that will remove it from society and prevent further harm to the capybara. Capybaras throughout the jungle will pick up the newspaper in the morning, read the verdict that another jaguar has been dealt with appropriately, nod in approval, and then reference the incident to their capybara grandchildren during capybara thanksgiving and say something like “if jaguars don’t want to be punished then they should stop biting.” However, what the crocodile and capybaras fail to see (represented by the poor eyesight of said animals) is the long-term effects of this approach. That jaguar has a family that will now be without its primary source of income. 87% of fatherless jaguars resort to a life of crime, primarily in the form of eating capybaras, as a means of providing for their families. So, an action with the intention of protecting capybaras is creating more harm. The additional reality is crocodiles hold prejudice against jaguars and continue to hide their bigotry behind a thin veil of legal justifications. For the harmed capybara, crime remains a high salience, low comprehension issue. The capybara is happy to ride the legal system down river without realizing the true impact of their decisions to pursue damages as a victim of this crime. Maybe the solution is to put more capybaras in prison. Make criminal justice a personal issue so capybaras stop casting judgment from behind their disconnected veils of perception. If capybaras had opposable thumbs, I’d say they should stop throwing stones from glass houses. If the system functions in a way where capybaras are punished for crimes and that punishment is designed to ruin their lives, the lives of their families, create unrest in their communities, perpetuate generational wealth inequality, and turn them into the kind of animals who do the sorts of things that the animal kingdom defines as criminal, then maybe the crocodiles (we all know crocodiles are controlled by capybaras) will be forced to reconsider their approach to criminal justice instead of continuing to attack brown and black peo….shit…jaguars. Jaguar populations are dwindling in the wild. There has been a 20% decline in the population in the past 14 years and their conservation status is currently listed as “near threatened.” Instead of allowing crocodiles to needlessly exact retribution, there need to be alternative means to justice. Put the jaguar and capybara in a room. A controlled environment where a mediator (maybe a buffalo, idk) can allow both parties to express their grievances and apologize. The power of personal connection, eye contact, and allowing aggrieved parties to be heard is unrivaled. This approach has proven successful in South Africa. Failing this reconciliation approach, there needs to be a greater effort to understand why the jaguar decided to do what it did. Maybe the jaguar is houseless, jobless, or suffering from a debilitating mental condition. In all of these situations there are solutions that do not include removing the jaguar from society. The demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels and for all animals, a health system that provides free physical and mental health care to all, decriminalization of drugs, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance. What is rooted is easy to nourish. What is recent is easy to correct. What is brittle is easy to break. What is small is easy to scatter. Prevent trouble before it arises. Put things in order before they exist.

Sketch

Paul Martini

Sketch

FilmFilmFilmFilm

Two Truths and a Lie

Cornelius Vanderbilt

Do you smoke death stick bro? See the first death stick i had, the doctor geebed me up to promote healthy chemical flow. Later in the day, after the chord was prematurely cut.. oh yes yes I was a member of the Infantile Death Stick Corps.. Can you imagine, Squatting out a Squealer?! I wonder if the umbilical chord came about b/c the mother would just dip on a fool, unwanting of the slime and cacophony. Anyways, I’ve been chasing my administered infantile Death Stick geeb high ever since. THE DHS AGENT SAID "WATCH OUT FOR THE REGULARS THEY'LL TAKE YOUR STUFF" Sitting here, texting god knows who. Getting myself into who know what. Sent lots of money to lord knows where this night. I'm not a knight. When occam's razor applies to the mystical it tingles my senses. Whenever I do this it rebounds back to me somehow, the lows

as well. If you keep looking into, leaning into, the forget me drug cocktails, the lows will hit very heavily thats for sure. Just want to make it happen, see if it can be done. It's all part of a larger plan if you didn't know. One of self-loathing. Adding things to my shit case. The shit storm is brewing, can you feel it? The morning is easy, the man was blasted. Oh nice, he said to the cigarette offered. I was splitting while making fried rice, hell of a night. Willfully getting cancer, and I'm not even smoking cigarettes I don't know what's the answer, and I'm not even finished yet. From high to high, I think back on the past hours and pipes and bongs punctuate it. Bought these juicy jays this morning, feels like last week, right in the fading portion of my memory, smoke shop employees blend together and I'm rolling up. I find myself in these little hateful moods. I find fault in everyone. Why can't you be perceptive enough to see that I fucking hate everything right now. bitch. And today I woke up in a hammock in two puffy layers a little slick and sweaty but not too much so and when I went shirtless to sit in the chair and smoke the spliff that charlie offered as soon as I was conscious I didn't feel too warm from having slept in with the sun in two puffy layers nor did I feel clammy. Rather, it was refreshing, and I inhaled and let my back touch the cold metal of the chair.

A Day in the Life

Big Law Correspondent

A day in the life of a Summer Associate 9:30 am – Shoot! Woke up before my alarm went off. Try to go back to bed, but too excited for the day ahead! 10 am – Login remotely. No new emails. Decide to go into the office. 11 am – Arrive at work. Eat complementary food. High five coworkers. 11:15 am - Email supervisor to ask if anything needs to be done. Response: “Nothing to do as of now. Way to show initiative and get into the office early!” 11:30am – Call mom and go for a walk around the block, it’s a beautiful day in the city! Mom asks when I’m coming home, tell her I’m working hard and can’t deal with this right now. 11:45am - Start to get hungry again and remember that one of the associates is taking me out to lunch. Networking! 12pm – Go out for lunch: steaks

and chowder! Associate tells me how grateful they are to be at a firm that recognizes hard work and that I will really fit in with the culture after graduating. Expense meal. 3 pm – Back from lunch. My supervisor emails me to ask if I can help him with some legal research for a PowerPoint. He is giving a presentation tomorrow and claims “this should only take you a few minutes.” 3:15pm — A little sleepy from lunch. Luckily the office manager set up a tab for the summer associates in the building’s Starbucks! 3:30 pm – Tell one of the other summers that I am kind of stressed from the assignment I got today. 4 pm – Respond to my supervisor’s request. Supervisor is really impressed with my answer. He says, “At this point, you’re pretty much guaranteed an offer!” 4:45 pm – My supervisor asks, since I was on a journal and have legal writing expertise, if I can check some of the citations on a brief he is working on. 4:46pm – My supervisor says: “My mistake! I didn’t realize it was this late. You should be heading to today’s event!” 5 pm – Dinner with the other summer associates at Nobu. Thanks firm daddy! 7pm – Firm reserved an indoor mini golf course & bar for the summer class. 7:10pm – We get bored with minigolf and head over to Karaoke. 3am – Finally get home. I love being a lawyer in the big city! Idk what everyone complains about!? 6 am – Phone goes off and wakes me up. Text from my supervisor: “Client meeting in an hour, can you send me that legal research I requested?” 6:09am –Respond: “bruhhh” 6:10am – Supervisor responds: “Are you still drunk from the event?” 6:20am – I respond: “srry bb” 6:21am – Supervisor responds: “Legend! Very pleased with your ingenuity this summer. Also wrote that letter of rec for Justice Kavanaugh’s clerkship. If you keep this up you are a shoe in!” 6:22 am – Sleep. A day in the life of a First Year Associate One year later. 2am – My mandated “nap allotment period” is over. Partner curses how soft HR is and unchains me from my hitching post. 2:25am – Arbitrary client deadline is in 5 minutes. 3am – Pointless call with client stationed halfway around the world. Client thanks us for meeting the arbitrary deadline and promises to review our work by month-end. 3:30am – Partner calls me to discuss client call, addresses me by the wrong name, and asks that I “circle back” with answers to five client questions by morning. 5am – I check in with midlevel associate for guidance. Midlevel asks if I have heard of Google, noting that she is busy “frying bigger fish.” 9am – Turn back to dataroom I’ve been reviewing all week. Partner had instructed me to “review for red flags” and, when I asked what a red flag is, laughed and said “you’ll know it when you see it.” Still haven’t seen it. 12pm – The partner allows me to order food. I order a meal that will require the least energy and dexterity to consume. Soylent. 1pm – I hear the summer associates coming back from lunch. 1:05pm - I wipe my tears away. 2pm – Midlevel pings me asking me to urgently run redlines for a deal I’m not on. She says I can’t bill for this but it’s a “valuable learning experience.” 2:30pm – My redlines aren’t lining up. I’m starting to worry. 5pm – The partner unshackles me for my state mandated bathroom break. I scurry down the hall, dizzy from the sunlight creeping into the building. 5:05pm – While going to the bathroom, check The League to see if I have any new matches. Try to remember what human contact feels like. 6:55pm – Exit building to go for a quick jog. Immediately receive an urgent follow up to the urgent redline assignment. 6:57pm - Wipe my tears away. Re-enter building. 7pm – Receive firmwide wellness email describing the benefits of mental health walks. I make a note to download the meditation app using the 5% discount code graciously provided by the firm. Glad I chose a firm that prioritizes mental health. 8pm – Phone call with partner asking why I wasn’t at the diversity committee dinner. He tells his children – crying in the background – to “shut up.” He says I’ll never make partner if I can’t figure out how to manage my time. 11pm – Midlevel associate tells me I can “take five” to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. 1:50am – Nap allotment period begins. 1:55am – The pinging of Outlook notifications lulls me to sleep.

CEO Jess HEEYYYYY

Happiness Quotient

Cameron Eldridge

Bianca Delathorpe was the name of a forty-three year old schoolteacher from Brickshaw, New Jersey. She wore almost exclusively cheetah print and drank primarily energy drink powders that she used her long plastic fingernails to tap into a clear blue Aquafina water bottle with a green cap. The shade of lipstick she wore every day was called ‘Meow Meow Magenta’ and the shade of nail polish she wore every day was called ‘Fuck me Fireman Red.’ Her voice was nasally, especially when she stood at the front of the classroom and said “listen up, class.” She had a long-term boyfriend named Joseph Bangbottom, and her nickname for him was Mr. Bang. He drove a white car and had one gold tooth and three rings on each of his hands. On special occasions, he would add a fourth. If the occasion was celebratory, he would add it to his right hand,

and if it was conciliatory, his left. After class got out, Mr. Bang would pick Bianca up in the front of school and they would go to the drive-thru. She liked Carl’s Jr. but he liked Jack in the Box, so they switched off depending on what they’d had most recently and also any unresolved conflicts or arguments in their relationship. Then they would go back to her place and watch a movie and probably have sex. Mr. Bang lived with his mom, and ate dinner with her every night, so between the hours of seven p.m. and midnight, Bianca Delathorpe usually found herself alone. She made herself a microwave meal and poured herself a glass of wine and watched Netflix or cable until she passed out on the couch. She would stir around two a.m.—she was a light sleeper—and drag herself to bed, set an alarm for 5 a.m. the next morning, wake up, shower, and get ready to go back to school again. She had been dating Mr. Bang for seven years. Their relationship worked because they were both the kind of people who liked to talk about getting married but didn’t actually want to get married, and also the sex was good. Bianca Delathorpe didn’t know it but once for a school report, a student in an alien kindergarten had to sort the population of earth numerically by happiness. The assignment was about efficient data presentation of ten-figure quantities, which was fairly typical of the curriculum for an Uuoontsan kindergarten on B9-Exalta. The student, Xancquathocar, accurately placed Delathorpe at 2,789,653, putting her in the top 0.09 percentile of happiest people living on the planet Earth at the time of the last Anti-Federalist intergalactic census. Number one was Brian Waites, who suffered a traumatic brain injury when he was seven years old and spent the next sixty-seven years of his life in a neurological trauma-induced bliss. Number 7,837,491,265 was too horrible to describe. Number 7,837,491,264 was Robert Blanc-West, a senior partner and top litigator at corporate defense firm Stines, Gates, Ill & Cobb, who was tying a noose made of the neckties his ex-wife had given him for the seven birthdays they spent together to the ceiling fan of his office at the point in time the census data was psychically collected. When Xancquathocar (whose lontsa – Uuoontsan for ‘long-term monogamous sex partner’ affectionately called him ‘Mr. Car’) was tasked with coming up with a definition of happiness to use for his assignment, he decided on the seventh universal metric used by intergalactic Anti-Federalist economists, which was: the relative differential between one’s current state of being and one’s knowledge of one’s highest possible state of being. In equational terms, this looked like. C.S. (current self) - (K.O. x H.S. (knowledge of higher self’s potential multiplied by higher self’s actual potential) = H (happiness). Bianca Delathorpe’s equation looked like this. 69.7 - (0.28 x 100) = 69.420 Brian Waites’ equation looked like this. 100 – (0 x 100) = 100.000 And, if you’re still curious, Robert Blanc-West’s equation looked like this. 23 – (96.7 x 100) = -73.700 Mr. Car got a B-plus on his report and went on to work for a psycho-pharmaceutical company on Quant-609.

Conflicts Checked

Conflicts Checked

Front Line

Nikila Smith

Who’s on the front lines risking their lives? Most people think of doctors, nurses and delivery drivers, but I think of people who are homeless. Most of them here are people of color. We are being hit hard. We didn’t ask to be on the front lines. We were volunteered. This is not a conspiracy theory, this is a fact. Homeward DC reports that D.C. used to be a “chocolate city.” If you don’t believe me check it out for yourself. In 1970, over 70% of D.C. residents were Black. By 2015 the number dropped to 48%. I’m thinking every Black person should get a medal of honor. Everyday, we are fighting a war we don’t want to be in. I understand the anger a lot of people have, and I know love because of anger. I don’t want to be angry. But we’ve all been marked with the seven

deadly sins of envy, lust, greed, sloth, gluttony, wrath and pride. My beautiful Black people are suffering with wrath. It’s okay, but it’s not okay. McPherson Square You know you are on the ground and sleeping in corners! Never forget, you are people! You are fighting for a cause you think you can win, all you’re doing is living, but it seems like you have no life or fight within. Let me explain, I’m homeless. I’m not looking down on anyone. I want answers. I came though McPherson Square and was devastated. I just want to make you see there are different ways to look at this. Is it a political statement not to get help? Is it a political statement to deny yourself a better way to live? You have the right to scream, so do it. You have the right to write, so do it. I don’t understand how sleeping in that park was a happy place for anyone. I was so sad looking at tent city. It was not a place for my kings and queens. When did it become okay to have people outside with rats running around their heads? If you lived in a house that was condemned, you would be relocated by the city, so why is McPherson Square any different? People in power should be ashamed. I’m not going to name names, but if you care so much about Washington, D.C. looking beautiful, why don’t you take care of the people who live here? I feel as though a lot of politicians just don’t want Black people to grow. We are a strong race. I love my beautiful Black brethren. D.C. is not going to be beautiful until my beautiful people are off the streets. This situation with the park didn’t happen overnight. Do you see where the park is located? Are there people at the White House pulling the curtains back everyday saying “I just love this view, it’s beautiful”? People lose their wits when they don’t interact with others. Keeping to yourself slows down your wits, and you tend to go in your own head. And that can be misconstrued as having a mental illness. People have the right to be in a healthy environment. When you read this article, I would like you to know these are my feelings and they come from my life experience. If you agree or disagree with me you can always contact me through the zine at legalfictionzine@gmail.com. Remember kindness is a good thing. We all can show it. Some of us choose not to. Watch out, one day you may be on the ground sleeping in front of your favorite store too, waiting for a blanket, food and toiletries.
Front Line
Note: This piece is republished with the permission of the author and Street Sense Media, where it originally appeared.

Genesis

Learned Foot et al.

INT. LAW SCHOOL BUILDING - ATRIUM - DAY The building is buzzing with mid-day traffic, overworked brains tumble out of lecture halls bug-eyed, professors sidewind through detritus and dicta. JEFF runs into MICAELA on the stairs. MICAELA You done for the day? JEFF Yeah, getting out of here. We should catch up, though. MICAELA For sure! JEFF Do you know what you’re doing this summer? MICAELA Yeah, New York. JEFF Nice, where at? MICAELA I’m gonna be at a firm… JEFF Nice! Big law summer. You excited? MICAELA Of course. I’ll be back in the city and I think this summer is going to open a lot of doors. I’ve always been interested in the associate experience because you get to sample a lot of different practice areas in the summer program and I know I like corporate work so I’m looking forward to experiencing corporate legal work. JEFF Nice what’d you do before? MICAELA I worked for my dad’s private equity company called

Grief Cap Global. My role was basically doing the first draft for corporate property insurance contracts. So I know I like grief. JEFF Nice. MICAELA I won’t do big law forever, but like I wouldn’t mind doing it for a few years. I’ve got to pay off these loans somehow. (Winks.) I also like that the setting is fast paced. Contracts was probably my favorite 1L class. I like the idea of putting the puzzle pieces together. Plus you know, the money doesn’t hurt. I like the international setting especially. Getting to see how things work in other countries and then piecing together the master contracts. Maybe I can work in the London office. Or maybe I’ll do litigation. I honestly don’t even know what litigation is still. What about you? Where are you going to be this summer? JEFF I’m going to be working at the Arkansas Public Defender. MICAELA Oh shit, that’s going to be so crazy… Wait, why? JEFF Well there really is a neat narrative right now about 2020 and why we need to decarcerate and defund and all of that but that’s not really why I want to do it – I want to be around people who are experiencing a lot of pain because I have a lot of pain and trauma and I’m trying to deal with that myself and I think if I see other people suffering and I help them maybe I feel like I can help myself– MICAELA Wow. JEFF –Yeah it’ll be really neat and I’ve really wanted to do this ever since I read about Atticus Finch but now there’s the argument that Atticus wasn’t really a great guy you know and I hear it but at least he was fighting, you know? Plus I get a little stipend. It’ll be chill ‘cause my parents are paying for rent. EXT. LAW SCHOOL BUILDING - PICNIC TABLES - LATER JEFF, KEISHA, REGGIE, and MARISSA lounge at a sunny picnic table outside a big, Soviet-style, functionalist building. Law books, tupperware, Juul. Woman walks by with a roller bag. REGGIE I want one of those roller bags. Are people with those on another level? KEISHA Yeah, I think so. It’s giving night school crowd. Somehow older, cooler. MARISSA Very law cool. KEISHA What are you doing after class, by the way? MARISSA Studying. KEISHA No you’re not! MARISSA You right. JEFF What about these professors rolling into class, bald heads and lots of paper, it seems like the less hair you have the more paper you have to have, so that it offsets. Reggie Yeah, it definitely offsets. MARISSA I just don’t want pizza anymore after class. It’s too much. Even if it’s made by that Wisemen pizza or whatever, it’s too much cheese. KEISHA I don’t like taking notes anymore. I just like listening, eyes closed sometimes. JEFF All of the buildings here are stone. Hard wall. (Everyone looking at him inquisitively.) And then there are turns and there is grass. You can get inside from the grass, if you turn off the way. But then everything is changed inside the walls. They are the same walls. Hard walls. But there is a difference. REGGIE Dude, what? KEISHA (Long exhale) Man this campus is another type of energy. Everybody walking around, going places. I can’t imagine ever, like, meeting someone here. REGGIE But hold up people are actually interesting underneath, like hella creative and diverse interests. JEFF You think? REGGIE How do we tap into that shit? MARISSA But oh. my. god. I have so much reading for classss !! KEISHA We’re being socialized, straight up. REGGIE Warriors of process, defenders of the status quo! JEFF Arbiters of objectivity and reasonableness. MARISSA Condoners of property and pogroms. KEISHA Conceptualizers of suit and square. REGGIE Jesus. (A beat.) MARISSA We should start a zine! TODAY. TODAY AND NO LATER. WHAT WAS OURS IS OURS FOREVER.