We are happy to share yet another submission from our 2025 WGI Invite to Write Challenge!
Last summer, we asked our talented cohorts to create a piece on this prompt: Write a story where the end is also the beginning.
Next up, we are sharing TWO of Jori Rillera’s pieces entitled, “Black, White & Blue,” and “Mustardseed.” Stay tuned, as we will continue posting the submissions throughout the winter!
Black, White & Blue
i’ve got the weary blues and i can’t be satisfied.*
in this 1960s
black and white video
a white man introduces
a black writer
langston hughes
who is reading his poem
“the weary blues”
about black music
and wow
all the musicians
behind the poet
are white
that’s a surprise
really
i expected at least
a few musicians of color
an all-white band backing
langston hughes
how does he feel
reading his poem
about black musicians
with this all-white band
maybe it’s a union thing
the visual is so stark
so powerful
i can’t listen to
his poem,
“the weary blues.”
not one
musician of color
was it too much
to hope for
i’ve got the weary blues and i can’t be satisfied.
in washington dc
a white man
raves in the white house
friends talk about
going to protests
noticing
the attendees
are mostly
white
i think
they might say,
“maybe we didn’t do
a good enough job
getting the word out,
making sure
all felt welcome.”
but instead they say,
“where were they?
what were they doing?
do they even care?
why weren’t they there?”
i feel on the spot
accused
every question
a crusty dagger
to my tender heart.
every question
a meaty fist
to my soft belly.
i want to say,
“maybe
they were working,
and couldn’t afford
to take time off,
maybe they didn’t
have childcare,
maybe they didn’t
have transportation,
maybe they were
afraid of ICE.”
i want to say:
“i am them
i am they
i am other.“
but instead
i shut down
i’m so used to being
one of the only
people of color
at a concert
a poetry reading
a support group
a writing group
i have spent
my whole life
educating others
and i am tired
i’ve got the weary blues and i can’t be satisfied
—jori marie rillera
* from The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
Mustardseed
“forward, forward…”
i’m in a dance studio, wearing ballet slippers. i’m trying to learn the choreography for a performance of midsummer night’s dream where i play a fairy named mustardseed. i’m thrilled that i’ll have iridescent wings. i’m also happy the makeup will be minimal. only elaborate eyes, nothing else.
i’m standing in a line with the other fairies. we’re waiting for our turn to go across the floor. the head choreographer, patrick, is teaching us a step. i don’t remember the name of it. i have one foot in front of the other, shifting my weight from the back foot to the front, front to back. there is no music only patrick’s voice and his hands clapping a steady rhythm, “forward, forward, foward, push forward, rock forward…” we’re supposed to push off from our back foot to leap into the air, front leg stretched out ready to land, back foot ready to spring again…on and on across the floor.
i love patrick. i love this man. patrick’s been my champion since i got committed to a psychiatric facility for severe depression and suicidal ideation right in the middle of the production schedule. because of him, i’m let out of the hospital for rehearsals and performances. and he lets me know he believes in me by placing me in the center of each dance. this, despite my learning disabilities which make understanding and remembering choreography difficult. and the emotional pain i’m dealing with doesn’t help. but, patrick patiently takes the time to teach me the steps over and over.
back at the ward i use the grab bars in the hallways as a ballet barre and practice. when a new medication makes me too woozy to perform on opening night, the assistant choreographer, teresa, steps in for me. later she tells me her hilarious experience onstage pretending to be me. the dancers volunteer to drive me to and from the hospital so i don’t violate my curfew. everyone in the company is so kind and loving towards me. it’s like patrick has helped create a warm, safe bubble for me to exist in. a place outside of pink padded rooms and windows covered with metal mesh. a place where i can glimpse hope.
i work really hard. one of the medications slows me down. when i dance, my timing is off and i have to speed up to be on the beat. it’s doesn’t make sense, but i do it and somehow it works. i’m now at the front of the line and it’s my turn, “forward, forward…” patrick stands beside me like a dance partner, his hands lightly on my hips to guide me up and over, “forward, push, push!” i leap higher and farther than i would have on my own.
—jori marie rillera
