- The Exchange: To Our Flags
- The Exchange: The Negro Speaks of Dryland
- The Exchange: blue is darker than Black
- The Exchange: Sans Fleur
- The Exchange: Blindspot
- The Exchange: Her.
- The Exchange: Lint
- The Exchange: Reality Check
- The Exchange: Caution
- The Exchange: Rubik’s Cube
- The Exchange: The Path
- The Exchange: sTREEtS
- The Exchange: Butter
- The Exchange: The Bright Side
- The Exchange: Concrete to Shoreline
- This Empty Cage
- Paper Machete
- The Exchange: Marketplace
- The Exchange: One Year Anniversary
- The Exchange: Sunscreen Affective Disorder (SAD)
- The Exchange: Immigration & Culture
- The Exchange: Love, Street Cleaning, & Other Myths
- The Exchange: An Accent Enters a Room and Says Good Morning
- The Exchange: An ode to Oceania
- The Exchange: Happy New Year
- The Exchange: NEW GROOVE/LODESTAR
- The Exchange: Wolves, Strides, and Landslides
- The Exchange: Honest Haikus
- The Exchange: Foreheads, Haikus and More
- The Exchange: Softness, Water Bottles, and Movie Theaters
- The Exchange: Algae and Understanding
- The Exchange: we like it here!
- The Exchange: tag & waiting
- The Exchange: spare
- The Exchange: Marketplace
- The Exchange: some coffee
- The Exchange: A Scary Story
- The Exchange: Consumer Report
- The Exchange: Affirmations and Sunflowers
This section publishes creative writing submissions from the public that do not necessarily reflect the views of the South Side Weekly or its editors.
Note To Self
by Chima “Naira” Ikoro
Before I leave the house, I force my scattered pixels to retract into one character in order for me to participate in this simulation. That is my morning routine.
Does anyone else feel like three kids stacked on top of each other in a trench coat and a top hat, tryna disguise themselves as one adult so they can sneak into a movie theater?
Does anyone else feel awkward? don’t know how to end conversations in a casual way when you run into someone you know in public? I rather walk away too early; it makes me seem like I’ve got it figured out.
Does anyone else get reminders to remind you of the reminder that was sent as a courtesy to remind you of a message you never saw but somehow opened?
Did everyone grow in the same direction?
Am I the only one who grew out instead of up? I am trying to understand
which things are a part of the “neurodiverse package deal” and what is just normal human-stuff, but I’m too afraid to ask because folks are too busy tryna prove how normal they are.
And I can’t blame them because I’m
doing the exact same thing.
Chima Ikoro is the community organizing editor for the Weekly. She last wrote about segregation in Chicago.
“If you could speak to a past version of yourself, what would you say?”
This could be a poem or a stream-of-consciousness piece. Submissions could be new or formerly written pieces.
Submissions can be sent to bit.ly/ssw-exchange or via email to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Featured below is a reader response to a previous prompt. The last poem and prompt can be found here.
by Claire Bernstein
Us women, we hide ourselves well.
We are expert hiders.
We hide behind every curtain draped
before us, because that’s what we have
been taught to do.
It all begins when the towel envelops us
when we’re born,
muffling our cries.
We hide our voices, tears, dress sizes,
pimples, bodily functions, bruises, nerves,
sensations, ideas, opinions, thoughts,
we hide ourselves.
I want to play hide and seek but erase
the word hide from the game.
I don’t want to know what the word even means,
a jumble of thick foreign letters on my tongue.
I want my fingernails to be dripping blood from
tearing away at those curtains, and I don’t want
the overbearing need to get a manicure to fix
something broken on my body after it happens.
I want to name my daughter Seek.
She’ll be an adventurer.
I want to hold her hand as we learn to spell
words like “powerful” and “unashamed”.
I want her to fly feet first into a world where
she won’t have to hear boys voices drowning
out her beautiful songs.
I don’t want her to begin hearing the
catcalls telling her to hide.
Because hiding is simply the act of
waiting to be found.
We don’t need to be found.
We’re already here.
Claire Bernstein writer and theater artist from Lakeview. You can find her on Instagram @clairebernstein!