Washington Writers' Publishing House
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WWPH WRITES 111... is a very special issue! Odes from Jona Colson's seminar at Montgomery College in Takoma Park/Silver Spring, held during their special humanities day, are here. These odes were inspired by Mary Ann Larkin's poem Let Us Praise Sadness (please find the poet reading her work here...a video under two minutes...and be inspired too), published in our landmark anthology AMERICA'S FUTURE: poetry & prose in response to tomorrow. We are currently developing a teacher's resource guide to America's Future, and this sampling demonstrates how the work in this anthology can be touchstones for meaningful college-level lessons in creative writing and critical discussion. These odes and their authors inspire us! Also inspiring us is another author new to the WWPH community, M.S. Sahu. Read her flash fiction, HAIR, below.
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WWPH WRITES insider's news...This year, we launched our first mini, pocket-sized anthology, Capital Queer: A PRIDE Celebration, and we had such an outpouring of support for this collection that we are doing a second pocket-sized anthology in 2026. Official announcement is set for the first week in January (make sure you follow us on social media!). However, since you subscribe to WWPH WRITES, here's the scoop: this pocket anthology will have a one-month open submissions period from January 3-January 31st. The theme: CAPITAL LOVE. The Washington Writers' Publishing House wants to celebrate love in all its enormity. We want to give the power to love. We want works about love as an antidote to these anxious times. Open to all writers in DC, Maryland, and Virginia, and those with connections to this area. We will seek poems up to 14 lines and stories (fiction or literary nonfiction) up to 250 words. A more detailed prompt and additional information will be shared in January. Target publication date is May 2026!
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Our 2025 Year-End Giving Campaign is now underway. Please consider a donation to your Washington Writers' Publishing House (501c3 nonprofit since 1975!) to further our efforts to publish and celebrate writers from DC, Maryland, and Virginia, to fund our WWPH Fellowship program, and to continue to grow as a vital and vibrant literary force. Donate now.
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Read on for some very special odes and new writers to WWPH! Have a safe and joyful holiday season.
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Caroline Bock & Jona Colson
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Happyness Philemon is from Tanzania, a place where nature, stories, and animals shape who they are. She is studying Nursing at Montgomery College, and she is excited to share her poem. This piece is inspired by the beauty and strength of the Serengeti.
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Abjatu Sillah is from Sierra Leone, and this is her first poem published in English. Abjatu is a Certified Medical Assistant currently enrolled at Montgomery College and aims to become a Registered Nurse (RN). She also enjoys reading, cooking, and watching movies.
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Gisele Megne is originally from Cameroon and now lives in Germantown, Maryland. This poem marks her first official publication, a milestone she embraces with pride. She is currently studying cybersecurity at Montgomery College and is determined to become a security engineer, inspired by the challenge of protecting digital systems in an increasingly connected world. Curious, driven, and always growing, Gisele enjoys exploring new experiences and expressing herself through creativity and writing, allowing her diverse perspectives and resilience to shine through in her work.
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Kodom Norbert Kyeremateng is a cybersecurity student at Montgomery College. He was born and raised in Ghana. His goal is to become a security engineer in the future. He enjoys learning about network security and how hackers think. Outside of school, he is also an Akan master drummer, a skill he learned from his culture. Drumming has taught him discipline, patience and creativity. He wants to use his skills to make a positive impact in the world.
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HAIR
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Even as a young girl, I knew my hair mattered. My mother cared for my wavy black hair like it was prized treasure. She would sit me down in the verandah and run a comb through my locks. Amma steeped dried herbs, flowers, and leaves in coconut oil, strained the mixture, and worked it into my scalp with practiced, rhythmic strokes. When a few strands came loose, she would coil them around her fingers and tuck them under her foot.
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Amma would braid my hip-length hair into a thick plait and weave strands of jasmine buds into it. Most girls at school were envious. But my friend Nirmala, never one to flatter, once asked, “Doesn’t it feel heavy? Not just the hair, but everything that comes with it.”
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Saturdays were reserved for oil baths, elaborate affairs that began with Amma mixing thick castor oil with coconut oil and pressing it into my scalp. She soaked black shikakai pods in warm water until they softened, then squeezed out the pulp and rinsed my hair with the brown, soapy liquid in the dim bathroom. Afterward, she’d rub my scalp with a towel, twist my hair into a rope, and balance it on top of my head. Then came the smoke. She lit sambrani in a small cup and held it under my damp hair, letting the fumes rise and curl through the strands. The earthy, herbal scent clung to me all week.
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Amma worked through the tangles gently, almost as if she were counting each strand. “A woman’s beauty is in her hair,” she’d say, parting it neatly and smoothing it across my forehead. “But it is what is inside that truly counts.” Her fussing, combined with the sidelong glances from cousins and the occasional awe-struck look from classmates, made the long hair feel like something worth carrying.
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Every summer, my parents and I boarded a train from Poona to Thanjavur, enduring forty hours of hard seats and watery coffee. We stayed in my grandparents’ sprawling house for a month, sometimes longer, depending on school holidays and Appa’s office calendar.
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My Paati dressed like someone who believed guests might drop by any minute and would expect her to be prepared. She had a fondness for Kanjivaram sarees, and pride in her collection of gold and diamond jewelry. I often went with her on her weekly rounds of the saree and jewelry shops in town. The shopkeepers greeted her with smiles, and she waved back. “Put it on my husband’s account,” she’d say, “he’ll settle it at the end of the month.”
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“Your Paati is Goddess Lakshmi incarnate,” a neighbor once said. “Look at her, those eyes, that fair skin, that red pottu on her forehead, and hair as dark as rain clouds.”
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Paati’s sister Suguna, just a year older, lived with my grandparents. One summer, before I entered eighth standard, I asked Amma, “Why does Suguna Paati only wear drab brown? And why is her head shaved?”
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“She was widowed when she was twelve,” Amma said.
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“Yes. Back then, girls were married at eight. A widow had to shave her head. No hair, no desires.”
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“To wear flowers. To marry. To have children,” my mother said. “If you don’t have hair, you can’t wear wedding ornaments or jasmine. You can’t be a bride,” she said. “It’s more than that. Hair makes a woman look beautiful. Widows aren’t supposed to be beautiful.”
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“I don’t know,” Amma said.
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“What about all those women with shaved heads at the Tirupathi temple?”
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“That’s different. They are making an offering, asking the gods for something. A child, good health, a husband. But those women are not Brahmins. Tamizh Brahmin women never shave their heads. Unless they’re widows.”
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I later overheard Paati whispering to Amma, “We brought Suguna here and treat her well, but she acts like the world owes her something. Nothing I do pleases her.” From bits and pieces I picked up, I understood that Tamizh Brahmin widows had a long list of rules. They had to shave their heads, sleep on the floor, eat once a day, avoid jewelry, fast often, and stay out of social gatherings.
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None of this applied to men. Amma’s cousin, Panchapakesan, lost his wife in childbirth and married his wife’s younger sister before the year was out. Everyone nodded approvingly. “Who else will raise the child?” they said.
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Years later, I moved to Ahmedabad for graduate studies. The first year was a whirlwind of books and assignments. In the dry heat, my hair grew wild, frizzy and puffed up like it had a will of its own. One sweltering afternoon, I marched into a beauty salon and had my hair chopped to just below my ears.
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When I came home for Diwali, Amma didn’t speak to me for two days.
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“How could you do this? Why do you want to look like a boy?” she asked.
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"You always said it is what’s inside that truly counts,” I reminded her.
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“That’s true. But a woman’s beauty is in her hair,” she replied. “Never mind. It will grow back. Just don’t cut it again.”
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“I’ll think about it,” I said.
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M.S. Sahu is an MFA candidate at Hood College, where she is writing her first novel, fortified by masala chai and the occasional illusion of progress. She lives in Maryland.
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DONATE today to your Washington Writers' Publishing House and keep us going strong for another 50 years supporting writers in DC, Maryland, and Virginia. All donations greatly appreciated! More information and easy ways to donate here.
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For the best value--and the most support to your Washington Writers' Publishing House -- order AMERICA'S FUTURE with WWPH DIRECT. ORDER here for the holidays!
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WWPH WRITES is open for submissions, and we are actively reading for winter of 2026. We are now a paying market ($25.00, which we encourage you to pay forward and use it to purchase a book from a small press). We are looking for poetry (up to 3 poems) and prose (up to 1,000 words of fiction or creative nonfiction). Free to submit.
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Here's to a joyful season for us all!
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Prose editor, WWPH Writes
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Poetry editor, WWPH Writes
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Copyright © 2025 The Washington Writers' Publishing House, All rights reserved.
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