|
|
 i have asked myself a dozen times if i have the right to write what i’m about to share, if i can share with an audience a story that is not my own.
it is a question that we need to ask ourselves redundantly because words have power & stories change things. in this case, i’ve come to the conclusion that i can. & i only can because of this : i am not seeking to replace the voices who are currently experiencing the dark depths of this issue & its ramifications, i am simply seeking to add to their brave number, to raise my voice as a banner of hope alongside theirs. . a few of the latest statistics, according to Aljazeera & the Alberton Record : “in August alone, 30 women were murdered by their partners” “a woman is murdered every three hours in South Africa” https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/3-hours-woman-murdered-south-africa-190905103533183.html “the Crime Against Women in South Africa Report by Statistics SA shows that femicide (the murder of women on the basis of their gender) is 5 times higher than the global average” & “41% of people raped are children” https://albertonrecord.co.za/225326/south-africas-shocking-gender-based-violence-statistics/ . for the daughters in south africa whose lives have been hauled to death. for their voices : silenced. for their dreams : destroyed. for their journeys : demolished. for you, we are outraged. for the fear that has been planted because of the past & of the present, may it be starved. for the fury that follows this monstrous injustice, may it be felt in our core. for the future that is being built by today — a tower of these moments -- may it be strengthened. . the following poem was written by natalia molebatsi, a writer & poet, born & raised in tembisa, south africa. it was written for her daughter & it is a rallying cry for the present & a rallying cry for the future, for the daughters of south africa & for the daughters in every pocket of the world. “listen up, child” // by natalia molebatsi “i’m raising you to wake up and take a ride to any universe be the beauty of soul sound and energy create my child like you the created earn the language of moulding seeds into fruitful beings i’m raising you so you too can raise me infant of my skin reveal chapters the two of us are yet to learn and believe me child some of the rules i have run into can save your soul, so listen up child, be yourself or don’t wake at all life is not for the feeble are you ready for the fires of time that only life alone can extend her long arms to light up? If so clothe yourself with ancient selves who knew before we did that you, the future will be born into this crazy but jazzy scene called living rise and let the world know you are here to claim no sense nor sin but only the waking and dream-dripping sun of each dawn never wait for time’s breath to blow into your lungs rather bloom from the dust we rose from like mystics to grow your own wings and be sure to ask for strength between these wings so they don’t split into pieces and halves cause child, i’m raising you to be whole paint your life’s everyday in ways not forced on you but reflections felt by you cause none but ourselves can blow up a true self that is everything there is to be raise your story’s voice to go beyond any beyond and beat any ghost that could suck out your way up to clouds of choice have sacred communion with the past that knotted to you your present cause child, any presence that lacks a past is part of the lost so listen up child listen close child cause you’re a sister, and i’m a sister remove your walk from exhausting arms of men-talities who can’t take a strong sister and white supremacies who still believe we’re strong enough only for taking instructions and child, i’m still tasting the bitter truth i’m learning that not every woman is a sister so, listen up gal listen up, bloom of my belly infant of my skin never step into boxes these aren’t enough to hold our stories alive rise to the knowledge that our people and theirs are tapestries sown long and wide enough to hold you up till you can uphold yourself never forbid your truth in spaces that strangle our realities rise child your vision is our voice i have laboured to challenge convention beat conviction on my soul, scrubbed the floors of my heart tended the soil of my womb so the fruits of my garden would be like you child of mine beautiful beyond magic herself i stood guard at the entrance to your ride to usher you into these arms bosom and back that i’m raising you to fly beyond so listen up child i’m raising you within the rain you were made of walk to the knowledge that you are everything that is musical…” . it is important to learn & to reflect & to mourn. it is important to be thoughtful & intentional & critical. it is important to sit in the discomfort of it all & it is important to keep on journeying through it all. it is important to know their names. here are a few : Anene Booysen Karabo Mokoena Uyinene Mrwetyana Leighandre “Baby Lee” Jegels Janika Mallo Meghan Cremer Jesse Hess Lynette Volschenk Natasha Conabeer it is important to know their stories & it is important to know their stories are more than their deaths & it is important to know their stories are unique & yet, they are tied together by common threads & this is one of them : every victim was a daughter & every daughter was a child & every child is born into this world with intrinsic value & worth that belongs here & is needed here. the injustices that have happened & are happening in south africa are all too well-known in every corner of the world. the narrative is incredibly familiar. may it never become normalized. it is complex & it is staggering. may it never become simplified. there is more to be said & there is more to be done, but i believe natalia molebatsi was onto something of power & of change for us all when she wrote this poem for her daughter. may we all, if we have a child or know a child, hug her. hug him. celebrate her. celebrate him. listen to her. listen to him. may we tell her & may we tell him — if not by our words, then by the way we wholeheartedly respect, cherish & love them — as natalia wrote : rise, child. your vision is our voice.
0 Comments
9/10/2019 5 Comments building a home in september 2019 on september first, ben & i started to build our first home. that day, we walked in it & around it — excited & aimless — tossing ideas back & forth about where to hang our jackets, how to arrange the couches, where to declare the coffee station. the second day, we hauled box after box inside our new home, bumping our armfuls against the doorframes & exhausting the phrase : “we’ll put that there, for now.” (“that” is still “there,” by the way)
& it wasn’t until the first morning we woke up in our new bedroom it hit me : we’re building a home. we’re really doing it. this is it. we’re actually creating a life that revolves around this central word : home. so here we are : making berry smoothies & pumpkin muffins, figuring out household chores & the most cost-effective way to buy just about anything & trying really hard to understand each other — like why i prefer our deep conversations to happen at the start of any NFL game. we’re creating habits & rhythms, priorities & preferences, that embody what we hope our home will continue to be & we’re celebrating this. every day, we’re celebrating this. & yet, i’m incredibly unsettled about the fact we’re building a home in september 2019. because in the same moment that i’m putting sunflowers in a vase & arranging them on my windowsill, thousands of people are grieving all they lost from hurricane dorian. i am sitting on my front porch, which is next to my neighbors’ front porch, which is next to my other neighbors’ front porch & “nearly three out of every four homes on Grand Bahama are under water” & i am wondering why the water pressure in my shower seems lower than usual & in another part of the same world there are “approximately 70 percent of the homes underwater” & i am about to walk down to my local coffee shop & “entire neighborhoods have been wiped out, with houses turned to rubble” in a place — a home — that is not mine, but is someone's. (the washington post) i don’t have answers, only more questions. what can i do? read more articles? buy a flight? put the dishes away & thank God for my home? raise awareness? send an email? pray for the people who are living this moment in devastation? then go reheat & finish my coffee? of course, there is a larger question looming under the surface of these words : how can i celebrate _____ when another human is grieving _____? i don’t know. & although i don’t know the answer, or whether there is one, i do have a poem : “the slippery green frog that went to his death in the heron’s pink throat was my small brother, and the heron with the white plumes like a crown on his head who is washing now his great sword-beak in the shining pond is my tall thin brother. my heart dresses in black and dances.” // after reading lucretius, i go to the pond // by mary Oliver // i revisit this poem often. incredibly — almost embarrassingly — often. because it seems the longer i live, the more i am convinced that being human is less about tirelessly racing up the mountain so we can reach the peak & stay there & more about holding two handfuls — two hands. full. — of celebration & of devastation. & this is how we go about it : we give in to celebration & we give in to devastation & we do not hold one handful above another. we embrace them. we unify them. we live them. we share them. then, we press on. together. we build & rebuild. together. this september & every september. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
October 2020
Categories |
RSS Feed
