The Parting

Her heart bleeds

No ones sees it

Her soul bleeds

No one else feels it

Her spirit breaks

She breaks

She falls

To the ground

Faster than death

Her heart pounds

She is all alone

Her heart stops pounding

She is all alone

Her heart stops

She is all alone

 

They leave him

For weeks

No one comes

Around

His flesh

Rots

 

They have set her free

beautiful words to live by….

“to write is to live…to create is to exist with evidence…to share is to really love” –  Alexandria Tesfaye (Daughter of the Diaspora)

A Pedagogy of Rage

I  came across something today that I wanted to share with you all. It is “a poem that was written by a high school senior (Richard Karl Roberts)  in Alton, Illinois, two weeks before he committed suicide found in johntaylorgatto’s book.” I don’t know who John Taylor Gatto is. I am simply quoting my source.  Below is the poem.

He drew… the things inside that needed saying. Beautiful pictures he kept under his pillow.
When he started school he brought them…
To have along like a friend.
It was funny about school, he sat at a square brown desk Like all the other square brown desks… and his room Was a square brown room like all the other rooms, tight And close and stiff.

He hated to hold the pencil and chalk, his arms stiff
His feet flat on the floor, stiff, the teacher watching
And watching. She told him to wear a tie like
All the other boys, he said he didn’t like them.
She said it didn’t matter what he liked. After that the class drew.
He drew all yellow. It was the way he felt about Morning. The Teacher came and smiled, “What’s this?
Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing?”
After that his mother bought him a tie, and he always Drew airplanes and rocketships like everyone else.
He was square inside and brown and his hands were stiff. The things inside that needed saying didn’t need it
Anymore, they had stopped pushing… crushed, stiff
Like everything else.

This poem, I think really speaks to how fucked up this world is. How “rigid” and how “stiff” this world is. How we are forced to conform to certain norms. How we are forced to fit into these boxes (literal and metaphorical). How we are forced to shut up and dismiss the rage we feel deep inside. In recent conversation with a family member, I was asked “Why are you so angry?” But what I should have been asking them is Why are they not angry? And that is the question I want to pose today for all those folks who are simply content with the way things are. Why are you not angry? Because that is the real problem. If you’re an oppressed person a.k.a colonized, racialized, queer, non-abled, you need to be angry. And I don’t care much for white rage. I don’t care of you’re an oppressed white. Johal writes, “as much as white people across difference of class, gender, sexuality, ethnicity, or religion may be oppressed in relation to the dominant white middle-class heterosexual male subject, they hold a pigmentary passport of privilege that allows sanctity as a result of the racial polity of whiteness.”  For people of colour, Johal writes “A passionate ethical commitment to justice serves as the catalyst for rage. The fire inside oneself fuels rage – it is a necessary element for every form of struggle against oppression. It is an act of love of self as well as of the collective movement toward freedom.”  Read that again – AN ACT OF SELF LOVE! 

For so long, I harboured anger that I didn’t know what to do with. All I had come across until this point was Audre Lorde’s “Uses of Anger” but I never felt that was thorough enough. I feel that this article is an extension of Lorde’s piece which I think everyone who hasn’t read it yet should read. It’s incredible. He also warns that internalized rage can be dangerous. “The internalization of oppression is a symptom of a disconnected self. Once disconnected, the rage of the oppressed becomes dangerously self-destructive.” And unfortunately, that happens all too often. As I write this I am reminded of the Andrea Johnson who jumped off the 401, sending her two year old son before her. I am reminded of Richard Karl Roberts.  I am reminded of friends and family who have attempted suicide. I am reminded of myself. As I reflect, one thing remains steadfast in my mind. That I must fight. I must continue fighting this battle. To give in, is to let them win. To spare them of my presence is to let them win. To lose sight and focus of the goal is to let them win. We must not let them win. We must continue fighting. We must force them to look us in the eye everyday. Force them to deal with our presence and use our rage in the struggle against oppression and “as an act of love of self as well as of the collective movement toward freedom.”

I don’t experience whiteness. Whiteness experiences me.

I know it’s been a long time coming, but my life took  a really drastic and unexpected turn for the worse the last couple of weeks and I’ve just been trying to pick myself up again, rebuild and reconnect from within. I have tried to blog, but most of the posts just made it to the drafts box. Perhaps I will rewrite and publish them later. For now, I’m going to focus on what I would rather not be writing about right now. That is the subject of whiteness. As you read on, you will find out why I would rather not be taking this up. A professor recently gave us an assignment on this subject. He asked to critically look at the ways in which whiteness is expressed in our day to day, the way we experience whiteness, and so on and so forth. For now I’m just going to post an excerpt of what I wrote. Here is a little blurb on the way I experience whiteness.

I don’t experience whiteness. Whiteness experiences me. It uses me, chews me up, and throws me back out. When I walk out of my front door all I see is whiteness. When I walk through campus, all I see is whiteness. When I walk into a restaurant, all I see is whiteness.  The buildings and roads are soaked in white colonial legacy.  The streets are filled with the constant reminder of genocide. The people go about their day to day without even pausing for a second. The people except for a few here and there, do not look like me. These people, they speak a foreign language that is not my ancestors’ language. But it is a language that I have learned so well that I write in it, even now. It is a language that I have mastered. A language that I have internalized.  A language that is drowning out my mother tongue. A language that I have come to think in when stuttering (because I am forgetting) my mother tongue. A language that forces itself to be heard above my mother’s language. That is the power of the white language. The oppressor’s language.

Whiteness has engulfed me to the point that I can’t breathe. For one second, all I want to do is not think about whiteness and the way that is uses me everyday. The way it leaves me drained at the end of the day. The way that it eats me from the inside. The way that I crave to be more white even though I would never admit it to myself or anybody else. The way my people and my own family members equate whiteness with goodness. The way that whiteness has permeated my soul in a way that I thought was never possible.  The feelings that surface as I write this.  For just one day, all I want to do is not think about whiteness. Perhaps learn about myself and my culture. Perhaps explore my own internalized hegemonic masculinity. Perhaps explore internalized heterosexuality, ableism, classim. To think about anything, other than whiteness. To write about anything, other than whiteness.

A Moment of Longing

I lie wide awake

Just before the break of dawn

Dreaming of her, though she sleeps soundly in my arms

 

I pray she does not wake up

As I whisper the words I love you

Softly into her ear

 

Her back is pressed firmly against my chest

Her soft frame enveloped in mine

Our arms intertwined

 

I feel my core begin to throb

And once again, I am overwhelmed

With emotion and want for her

 

I want to reach down and grab her

To feel her essence

And pull her back with me

 

I want to taste her

To marvel in this moment

Silently, I whisper a prayer of thanks to the one above

 

I press into her once again

Kiss her sweet soft skin

And take in all that is her

 

For now, I will have to be content

With only having her in my arms

The rest shall come in time.

To love is a risk

Pride sneaked up on me this year. I don’t know how and I don’t know when but all of a sudden, it’s Pride time and I’m getting all the event invitations and signs that Pride is here. One of the signs that lets me know Pride is here, is when the ladies start checking me out more than usual. You know, when you meet a girl’s eyes and then suddenly, the tight scrunchie that’s been holding her hair comes off, along with the tousling of hair, and the climbing down top, while she throws you a provocative glance that spells “I dare you. Come and get me.” Well, that’s all fun and exciting. And somewhat arousing. But this year, I don’t feel any of that. I don’t feel excited or aroused. And it is not because of a malfunctioning libido. Trust me, my libido is working just fine. This year, I’m wondering what I have to be proud about. What do I have to show for who I am? What tangible rights can I point to that tell me I am a free citizen? Why do I still have to walk down the street and be judged because of who I am? Why do I have to have someone make me feel dirty? As if I have committed the worst crime against humanity? Is it a crime to love? To want to be loved? 

As I complete my studies, I ponder over my next steps. I want to go home. But I fear. I fear sexual harassment. I fear rape. I  fear death threats. I fear gay bashing. I fear banishment and isolation from loved ones. I fear the lack of support. I fear policies that will support violence against me. All of these, a reality to many people at home. But on the other hand, all is not well in the land of milk and honey. To stay means confronting a profound and utter loneliness. To stay means to be a racialized minority, to deal with everyday racism, institutionalized and systemic racism. To stay means to literally be a ‘resident alien’, to be unwelcome. To stay means to not belong, to lack community.

As the fight for freedom continues at home, the fight for freedom persists in me. I feel more and more that I want to come into my own. I want to live who I am without fear or shame or judgement.  I want to stop living in this pretend world.  I want to live free. I wonder if I should just come out to my homophobic, conservative Christian family.  I know there will be consequences. I know there will be dire consequences. But can I really continue living like this? Living as if I were sinning? Am I not only doing what I was created to do? To love and be loved in return?  My journey continues. It is a risk. A risk from which I know not, if I’ll come out alive or dead.

The prodigal daughter

I am in a foreign country, alone

With no family to call my own

With no home to call my own

With no people of my own

 

I am in a foreign country, alone

There is a white woman that holds me

What does she know about the fear of deportation

About depending on a few written words

 

I am in a foreign country, alone

What separates me is a piece of paper, alone

A cloud of fear, anxiety, instability and hopelessness

envelope me, The loneliness engulfs me

 

I am in a foreign country alone

I sit back and watch

As they take my language

As they take away my culture

As they take away my pride, my joy, my soul

 

Even though she holds me tight

As I burst into a million tears

As my heart breaks and bleeds to the ground

As I feel the world crashing around me

I still feel alone

 

I want to go home

I want to return to the sun

I want to return to the land that is mine,

That shines, I want to feel my people

I want to return to what was.

 

I am in a foreign country, alone

With no family to call my own

With no home to call my own

With no people to call my own

a black woman and a white woman

I find myself in the arms of a white woman. I ask myself how I got here. I wonder whether it is really possible for a white woman to love a black woman. Or even for a black woman to love a white woman. She is my oppressor. I know that. She knows that.

I love you is a phrase from this white woman’s lips, that engulfs me and swallows me. It drowns me. It is filled with a certain coldness that becomes colder every time she says it. She looks up at me with her pretty blue eyes from under brown lashes and wants me to validate her. She wants me to validate her so that the power dynamic in this relationship is not upset. So that she can remain secure in her deeply condescending, arrogant and racist nature and so that I can continue to lap up every single word she says. She looks at me with tears in her eyes as if to say, “I understand your pain. It is my pain too.” But what this white woman does not know is that she does not, nor will she ever be able to understand my pain. I let her see my tears. She eats my tears. My tears fall into her hair. She knows my tears, perhaps too much. But as far as pain goes, that is all is she sees. She sees my tears, but she will never know my pain.

She holds me and I hold her back. She caresses me and I caress her. She kisses me and I kiss her back. I kiss her with passion; because that is all I feel in this moment. I do not feel her oppression weighing down on my back. All I feel is intense passion. I feel the need to pick her up and throw her onto the bed. I feel the need to fuck the oppressor out of her. I feel the need to give her an orgasm. She tells me I love you. I say it back. I do not know if I feel it but I say it anyway. I ask her whether she really loves me. She says yes. But I don’t know if she knows what love is. I don’t know if she has ever experienced the kind of love that makes one do crazy things. I do not know. Either way, I believe her, for now. But I am still doubtful. Because she does not act like she loves me. Her condescending and arrogant nature is a contradiction to those necessary words. And I feel that contradiction deeply. 

I love you are three necessary words.  They are necessary because they feed me. They are necessary to me because they are from a white woman’s lips. They are necessary because without them, I don’t know where I would be. Although they drown me, they also comfort me. They become me and I become them. I am in a colonized state of mind. I know I am colonized. No matter how hard I fight, I am still and will always be a colonized subject. I hate it. I hate them. I know I am colonized because I need a white woman to assure me, to validate me. I need a white woman to tell me that she loves me. I need a white woman to hold me and caress me and tell me how wonderful I am. This is how I know that I am colonized. This is how I know that I am the colonized and she, the colonizer.

It doesn’t matter whether I love her or not. Because she will never feel the contradictions and battles within me. She will never know what it is like to be a black woman in a relationship with a white woman. She will never understand how it feels to walk down the street holding her hand and hear the thoughts of passer-bys.  She will never be able to understand how it feels to be glared and stared at all day long as if I were the main event in a circus. She will never understand what it is to be a colonized subject. She will never know what it is like to be a racialized subject. But it matters if she loves me. It matters because I need her validation. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I hate myself for that. I hate her for that.

I love this woman. At least I think I do. We laugh together, we cry together, we are silly together. But this woman is a white woman. And when we laugh, I wonder whether it is me she laughs at. When we cry, I wonder what her tears are a reflection of. And when we are silly, I wonder whether I’m the one who is really the fool.

I love this woman and I hate this woman. For, she is a white woman.

Chaotic Soul

Funny that wordpress has a setting called ‘chaotic soul’ since that pretty much describes me right now. You ever have those moments when you’re crying uncontrollably and have no idea why? Yeah, same here. On the other hand, writing always helps and that’s why I’m here! Just moved over from blogger and I’m finding a hard time navigating my way on here, but I shall soon catch up!

So a little about myself. As my blog name suggests, I’m a queer (for lack of a better word), continental African living in what we now call the Northern Hemisphere but what the Indigenous people originally called Turtle Island, in an active process of decolonizing my mind and my way of life. I’m interested in reflecting on all aspects of my life –  black, queer, masculine-presenting, continental African, woman, and in an interracial relationship which means being brutally open and honest about myself. I’m also interested in questioning terms like ‘African’, ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ and really critiquing the investment in such terms. For example if I don’t identify as ‘feminine’ or ‘trans’ can I only then consider myself ‘masculine’ and why isn’t there another category which describes me? Why do we put ourselves into these little narrow boxes that we can’t get ourselves out of? One would say, ‘well, it’s unfortunate that we don’t live in a label-free world’ but  I would say, why don’t we create that world? Is it so impossible?

I guess, I’m also an idealist in the sense that I believe humanity is capable of better.  I think I would just curl up and die if I were a realist. Perhaps it is this idealism that keeps me alive. Yearning for a better world. But until this world bumps me in the head and baptizes me in the name of realism, I shall say good night until we meet again. Welcome to the life of a queer(ing) African, living in a chaotic state of soul.