Transcript:
Another white person has written a poem about racism.
Another man has written a poem about sexism.
Another dog has written a poem about the hardships of being a cat,
And the room is educated SO HARD,
Its moans swell into the belly of an ocean.
There is no subtle way to explain that I am sick of this shit.
Or that voice is just misdirected guilt.
I find it difficult to stop laughing at my fear.
It is watching an hourglass pour blood into its better half and knowing there will always be more.
I find it impossible to snap and moan to the story rising in my lungs
Coming from a bystander's mouth.
They say the first step is pointing fingers.
As if the danger didn't exist until it hit the headlines,
As if the violence had no name until the white man named it.
Took his tongue, twisted it into a waiting noose,
Named me ch*nk.
Like the click of the grenade I hold in my mouth
Named my skin, different
Named my story, poem,
Gave my parents the word to name me Jennifer, which the baby dictionary says means white.
I carry my story in someone else's mouth.
My grandmother's taught me the language I forgot.
She does not know the slurs I do,
But when you say "bitch," you are talking about her, about me,
About every other woman.
When you say "ch*nk," you are talking about my parents,
These words are meant to be cages,
Remember, history is written by the victors,
Each word in the English dictionary is a trophy.
Survivors have the right to pick up their rubble, but not the right to put it back together,
Because in this story, there is no aftermath.
No struggle. No legacy.
In this world, our stories are someone else's to claim.
This community of survivors has been keeping its head above water long before anyone came to tell us of the flood.
We have learned to float, to grab hold of one another,
Together, we refuse to drown,
And YOU, poets, mistake yourself for a lifeguard, or a raft,
And you are neither.
You are the water trying to swallow yourself.