[this poem was updated to include a title the author, @ithinkimgettingthefear, shared when asked if there was a title they wished to include. Original submission did not include the title, but we wanted to make sure that opportunity was offered and the piece was represented as the author desired. Please make any updates/changes if you can to what you’ve shared/reblogged. Thank you! Bianca]
What kind are you
You’re Native American,
Says the lady as she sits with
curlers setting her hair,
looking up at me, bewildered
as to why I am slightly bewildered.
I am the native whose history has no copy right laws
protecting its existence.
I am the native whose
grandfather has lived almost 100 years
cutting sugar cane
on imperial plantations.
I am not what she wants to hear
for it would make her uncomfortable.
She is waiting for the generic response
a cheerful exclamation of the name of an Indian nation
that hopefully she’s heard before
so she can maybe tell me she knows someone
who has 1/8th parts of it.
My blood is mixed with the
pain of the rape of West Africa
the diseased bloated bodies of Tainos and Incas
the deeply buried songs from Israel
And Serbian voices singing hymns to show their love
for a Jewish man.
She sits, discomforted by my lack
of emotional gusto to her curious nature.
She rolls her eyes, touches that diamond,
princess cut, with all the
lil’ extra ones on the band.
I wonder how many young lives
stained that stone before
it was bleached
cleaned off to glisten under florescent lights
for a set of big ol’ eyes
to look upon it and pay that ultimate
of a few thousand bucks.
Worth every explosive penny.
I am the type whose roots
dig beyond the concrete of the mall
you get your weave, excuse me, extensions done at.
I am beyond classification, a color,
a modernized nation built on stolen land.
I am not simply an idea, whatever it
is you tell yourself what you ‘consider’ me as,
comfort food for your mind and guilt,
as if to say I am a generic brown woman
void of any complexities and experience.
My life, my pain, not mine to have ownership over,
because you are afraid to admit
that I am a constant reminder
a stain on your throne called white privilege.
I am not the homogenous female experience,
I don’t simply fight for the right to wear my hair natural
and have political, social status and recognition.
I scream for the liberty of
my blood from the destiny
of this manifestation
the history untold
that lays buried under the waters,
chained and shackled to the ocean floor
and silenced by the guilt
of tryanny’s great-grandchildren.
I am the kind who is asked by a
handmaiden of white supremacist patriarchy
what type of native she is.
I am the type
who pisses out the toxins from this
racist corrupt society into a fancy cup
for good presentation for when I must
serve it to you
and asks you if your shit tastes expensive.
submitted by @ithinkimgettingthefear
posted by Bianca