I am the woman that your daughter has become. Though you fear you may not recognize me, I am here in my words inspired by the passion transferred from you to me. I am a sensible and kind woman. A woman whose heart breaks at the injustice of the world. Who still seeks to give without expecting anything and return. I am who I’ve always been. I’m just able to articulate that meaning differently now.
Weary nights have plagued me. Constant. Destitute. My soul is left in the bondage of the indentured servitude of your desires and ignorance left. Drips. Drops of anguish ever bleeding through me. Death creeping ever closer as the darkness grows. Drips and drops breeding puddles that turn into drowning oceans. There is nowhere for the drips and the drops to go so they continue to inundate the soul. But today I have breached the sac, to you I give your ocean back. Leaving me empty as all I’ve known for a time is the weight of the ocean. But surely the breeze will penetrate the hollowed crevices in my soul carrying the echo metamorphosis inside.
We cannot live our lives to facilitate the social encounters of our parents. Our success cannot be confined to the parameters of “my son or daughter is…”. If we ought live this way, for a sound bite, we shall never find the truth of ourselves. Never have the courage to chase culture over chemistry and propose to write of sneaker culture instead of the classical civilizations of antiquity.
I feel like letting all the hate slip away. To dream that today could be that day. My tortured soul would have it no other way. Unfortunately, I don’t have much say, because you see it is the hate, that comes my way. But if it were up to me I’d feel like making love today.
Sistahs what you say we pray today? Sistahs what you say, today we rewrite the play? Sistahs what you say, we slaves today? Sistahs what you say, not my sistahs, no not my sistahs today, or tomorrow’s today. Sistahs what we say, no way no way. See me and my sistahs we can’t afford to play. That price is too high and in the world today, only pebbles we make. But I tell you, oh my sistahs they come to slay. So tell me sisters what ye say, this time will you fight for our freedoms yay or nay?
I forgive you for not having the strength we both needed. I forgive myself for thinking I wasn’t good enough for you to stay. No one really appreciates the sun until it’s dark outside. I’m sorry you never got the chance to know all of the great things I am. Or that I could’ve known the part of you that your family speaks so highly of. I’m sorry that sometimes are failures are the things that speak the loudest. I’m sorry that because you failed me I stopped loving you and I may never fully know the damage that fed on this truth.
The future has yet to uphold the promises made in my youth. Where is my damn robot or hover car? But for every promise delayed there are those that I hope exist only as figment of my minor imagination. I hope there is a place for people like me in our future, but not in the camps of the nightmares that used to haunt me. The cost of unity always seems built on the suffering and demonization of the other. But we continually fail to realize that we have more in common than the things that divide us instead of the things that divide us becoming our commonality.
I’ve never been good at writing, but it seems the only way I can express myself. Please forgive any improper usage. I hope that my other success in life will speak for my intellect. Unfortunately, though we’ve never met I may never know you. It is the failures of my life that speak higher volumes. It seems hard even now to justify your life in a world that holds fewer promises of light. How hard it is for a single flame to illuminate the darkness. Too many times have I been quelled to the last ember, waiting for breath of air never knowing if it will birth a flame or smother its last vestiges of being entirely. Life can be tricky that way. The jumanjatic nature of it all means once your piece is played, you are beholden to the game. The game has not been kind to me. I have been a pawn for the pleasures of others. I have lived a dark silence no one should have to experience. I have been my mother, but I will not have you become yours. I vowed to be the end and because of that you will never begin.
We ran like a river flowing through every passage that would carry our feet, body, and minds. Through flower beds. Perched on ledges. Arriving in the side parking lots and deepest crevices of the Smithsonian. As soon as we would find an open space, it soon would fill in behind us. I thought if we can only get to higher ground, then we might manage a vantage point. A glimpse of a screen . An earshot of a speaker in a vast sea of pink. We were surrounded, but there was a peace among us. The men supported us the white women acknowledged Black Lives Matter, without what seems to be a perfunctory All Lives Matter.
Hushed whispers go silently into the night. Our voices are left there, held captive. Our truths are comforted from under us. We are consoled and embraced, but who fights for our voice. Our silence becomes an internal report, a memo, notes on a family scandal. Why do we fear the outsider? Why am I relegated to find the humanity in a person who showed none for me? Why has reporting the crime become perceived to be almost as vile as the crime itself? Why am I bound by the thoughts of not wanting to put another Black man in jail or in trouble with the law? Why as I reach out to the authorities do I question if I’m doing the right thing? Why do I question my worth and my voice? Why did I ask myself if it is really worth it, was it that bad because he could’ve raped me or it could’ve happened more then once? Why have you taught me to hate myself? Why didn’t you fight for me? Why do I still cry for me but only oh so silently a fragile whisper in the night? Why did you make him right that day when you refused to fight?