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It is always wise to examine the choice of words
of those who know not their power
Fix (\‘fiks\ ) – English verb of many interesting meanings To make firm, stable, stationary; to set or place definitely; to hold or direct steadily; to set in order; to repair or mend what has been set out of place, broken or damaged Now see…
How master’s influence still lingers in our minds Stand up straight negro! Let me examine your jaw line Be firm young negro! A tool you are to be mine Don’t move little negro lest I whip scars
down your back serpentine
Are we a broken people to be mended and put back
in place to fit in the box of white normalcy?
Am I broken? Or am I black? Let these
words not be bound by pact
I am not out of place, broken, or damaged!
My hair needs no fixing.
Grooming? Yes.
Care? Assuredly.
Deep conditioning? All day, everyday.
Fixing?
Miss me with that brainwashed type shit
If it means I embrace myself, I’ll gladly
embody this slave type shit
This be who I be type shit
See the beauty in me type shit
So, you can tell a blind mother to hush
with that ignorant type shit
“Fix your hair!” she chimes.
I replied
“There’s nothing to fix.”

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The post Let It Be Radical appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I came here thinking justice was a given if someone like
me were able to get in
But I was immediately disappointed when I realized how
little of me there was here
How little of me I could be here
How little I felt here
Unprofessional, unrefined, uneducated. The total
opposite of the old-white-men portraits whose eyes
haunt the corridors of my department
Reminding me that they never meant for me to be here.
At first, I hid behind phony smiles and masks of normalcy
I wanted to show them that I could be bougie too
But deep down the erasure made me angry
I never liked bougie people, because they reminded me
that not everyone knew what it felt like to open and
close your fridge a million times in one day hoping that
at some point some unknown black magic would fill it up
for you… taking the hunger away.
Not everyone knows the heat from the tears of joy that fill
your eyes when your best friend takes you grocery shopping
for Christmas… because ain’t that what privilege is?
I never liked bougie people, but I find myself secretly
wanting to be so free that I don’t even know what
freedom is because I have no captivity in my bloodline,
no chains wrapped around my veins, no epigenetic
transgenerational trauma pinned to my name.
Every time my feet hit the gravel on these unceded lands
I’m reminded of how my body beat every statistic that told
me that I could never belong here,
Every time a professor dared dishonor the existence of
minorities to my face in my own learning space, I became
more convinced that I did not belong here,
I became so angry… I found myself trembling at times. I
wanted to tear this campus to the ground. I want to relish in
the sound of its destruction and sweet reparation.
But suddenly… someone came and gave me an even
sweeter consolation:
They told me that anger was simply the lack of love.
And their love poured over me, oozing from their being, like
the persistent lava of Colombian volcanoes
To be seen, unconditionally accepted, and validated even in
our darkest moments of pain… That’s what love is.
Love uproots you from anger no matter how deep
Love makes revenge seem distasteful no matter how sweet
It may seem in the beginning, because in the end
My immigration turned activism was a journey from loss, to
love, to anger and back to love again
Del enfado al amor
Do things still seem unfair? Hell yes!
Am I going to stop fighting for what I believe is right and calling
people out on their bullshit? Hell to the mothafuckin nah!
But my fight is now rooted in peaceful assurance; a passion plight
I will not fight in a way that calls out my oppressor yet
destroys my well-being in the process.

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Don’t take away my chance to represent the women who fought for me
Because Slavs never sang
our African slave songs
Don’t tell me that you don’t see colour Because the world still colours me black even though I know I’m more than that

Would you walk into your grandmother’s home, see her 400-year-old curtains, cut them up to make a dress without even including her in your creative process?
Don’t you think she would
be devastated to see
Something she cared so much for re-appropriated so violently
By someone who didn’t really try to research and understand the true story Behind grandmother’s curtains?
But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself
So allow me to take you on a
journey to discover the story
Behind my grandmother’s songs
My great-great-grandmother held
me in her bosom before I was even formed. She knew the pain I would have to face one day, just like the
pain she faced in her lifetime.
So, she did all she could do. She used her voice, the only thing she could use She sang me a song.
It seeped deep into her body, split cracks through her bones.
It sank and settled deep inside. It crossed time and space to reach me.
She sang me a song.
A promise that she’d always be
there, like a faint call in the air, to
sing me her lessons of despair
Softly braiding, sneaking lullabies
of wisdom into my hair.
Whispering “don’t you cry for me child” because she’d never leave me lonely. That I would always have her
song in my heart to soothe me
She sang me a song
So that I could keep it safe for her in the new world she believed would come. Refused to let them beat it out of her Even though they tried … to beat
it out of her till she was numb
She sang me a song
That crossed hills, valleys and unknown countries, poured it into herself like a fountain, and nestled it deep into the safe soil of her body She sang me a song
And now you… you come along And think it’s ok to re-appropriate a sound so pure, so strong

Vous avez dit vouloir vous approprier ces chansons… Vous avez dit vouloir vous approprier nos chansons?

Well you can’t play theatre with our stories You can’t play theatre with our pain
My great-great-grandmother didn’t sing
those songs in sugar cane, cotton fields Send them to me through the ears and hearts of generations for you to use them in a way that does not feature my voice In a way that does not feature
my body, the only instrument that can sing her song true, Because…
My grandmother looked like me and not like you
Harriet Tubman looked like me and not like you

I may have held my tongue as
children pipelined into prison
chains after graduation
I may have lost my words when a racist president was named for my nation
I may have simply shed a tear while my brothers and sisters were (and still are) being shot like quarry

But I will not hold back my poetry
as privilege is used to twist, turn,
tell, retell this story … our stories
That can only be carried by our bodies, for only our bodies have been living them, carrying them through time and space

So, if you stumble upon a song and naively decide to make it your own without questioning the history, the present implications, and the journey of hardship that song went through before it reached your ears… please consult
and converse with the only bodies that know how to sing it with authenticity and honour… because only we truly remember how
She sang us a song.

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I am the daughter of migrating lionesses
My hair grows wild around my face like an unconventional halo of blessings, and memories, and reminders that I was born at the paradox of privilege and perennial plight. Although white privilege was mixed into the color of my skin I choose to embrace the side of me that embraces me back
White privilege does seem appealing at times, but honestly… color me black

Although I know how to dance and love among those of ultimate privilege,
This time my toes are getting unbearably sore
I can’t twirl, jump, sway, jive or thrive… like I could before. It’s comments like “why do you make everything about race?” that catch me off guard.
Drain me of my energy and force me to recharge
More often. Again and again and again and again
I must return to my core to heal the sores I have
From being put on trial for having an opinion about my pain I make everything about race because I am constantly made aware of my race.
Walk a day in my shoes. I dare you.

I am the daughter of migrating lionesses
So, I make myself a new home wherever my wandering feet lead me and I fill my rooms with sculptures and paintings that come to life, singing sweet serenades over my scars.
I lose myself in my art and find myself in the birth of every masterpiece
A reminder of my intelligence
A reminder of my worth
A reminder of the dedication to the dreams I hold deep Deep
Deep
Deep
Within my heart I feel outrage
The great grief that grips me as I open my eyes and witness the ghosts of genocides past
I’m in a classroom where history is being fed to me through the lens of colonialism
I want to scream as I’m taught to forget the black slaves of Quebec
I want fire to flare from my gaze the way Marie-Joseph Angélique set Old Port ablaze
In 1734, she longed to be a slave no more.
I want to protest as I’m encouraged to forget the Indigenous peoples who protested
The kidnapping of their children by holy men in black robes White men with black intentions
A cultural genocide that continues to haunt them today
I want to roar as I’m told to relinquish their pain to bittersweet happily-ever-after conclusions of Canadian history
But my classmates listen quietly
As the teacher paints a story
That’s begging me to forget, forget, forget
Forget? I am the only brown body in this room so pardon me not if I cannot forget
But once again I reach for my cigarette
To soothe myself of the second microaggression of the day

I am the daughter of migrating lionesses
And I refuse to let a curse kill my legendary enthusiasm
I got that caramel curse
That mixed girl melancholy
That melanin faded
That darkness evaded
That obscure clarity
But, my hair grows around my face like a lion’s mane.
I am the only lioness you’ll ever see with a crown that casts shadows lordlier than any lion’s mane
And like every good lioness I am a sworn protector of the weakest members in my pack
A pack of melanated bodies within which I find refuge from the fire of white fragility
I will soothe this pain
With the oils, waxes, herbs, candles, flowers and butters my mother taught me to use
I will break this curse
With the maps of migration my ancestors left in my shoes I will find my way
Step by step reconstructing my mental health
Finding refuge in sisterhood and in the art renaissance of this new age
Knowing that I’m not alone
Knowing that I’m not alone

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Or at least it would take a whole lot for me to feel safe in the arms of a burning bright white sun
As opposed to being cradled by the moon in a pitch-black sky.
I wanna date the black guy that works at McDonald’s
I wanna date the black boy reppin’ that broke life.
Not them boys screamin’
“Ay yo ma!” from across the street
Or them thirsty boys that’ll do anything for the gram
Them boys still playin’ dominos & uno for the fam like “this is what’s gon get me out the hood!”
No, not them boys… them brainwashed lost boys, them “you too pretty for a dark skin girl” type boys
I can only love them once they wake up from the fog
I can only love them once they’re ready and willing to love themselves; ready and willing to love someone who looks just like them
I want the black boy who’s got gardens of prose growing in his heart
That boy that looks in the mirror & has the ghost of Tupac, Mohammed & Martin showing him how to walk like he’s got places to be
The black boy helpin’ out his single mom tryin’ to be a man & son at the same god- damn time.
That black boy…
The black boy that walks into a room and everyone sees a monster, when all I can see is an innocent knight in onyx armor That black boy…
The black boy who was never told it’s okay to cry
Cindy Lao | Illustrator The black boy who was taught that when
he hears sirens he must comply or die That black boy…
Black boys like the ones I grew up with The one who had a crush on me in third grade because I would share my Vaseline with him
He knew I had his back when his lips were chapped and bought me a jump rope for my birthday with the 50 cents he got from beating his uncle at dominos because he knew how much I wanted to fly
I want the black boy who holds his tongue at work when a white boy looks to him and says “thanks my ni***a” as if he were still property
I want the black boy that can’t dance, rap, or play basketball for shit because he can be into Marvel, heavy metal, and anime if he fuckin’ wants to
Because he has the right to be an individual Because he has the right to not be a living stereotype
But I do want a black boy who loves watermelon because…
If you don’t love watermelon I don’t trust you I wanna date the black boy who works at McDonald’s because he knows life is hard and still manages to be soft on the inside

He knows that it took his mother twenty hours, ten nurses and five blood transfusions to get him here so he doesn’t complain

He knows that it took blood shed to birth him

But also that there will be blood shed if he dares look a cop in the eyes the wrong way

I want a black boy who’s willing to put in the effort to become a black man
An endangered species
Hunted for their thick skin and savoury crimson red blood that gives one the energy to build anything.

Momma I am willing to be a black widow.

Even if it means that I must spend the rest of my days befriending the sons and daughters of structural racism before ripping the hatred from their souls, swallowing it whole and letting it grow in my belly where I will kill it with kindness and education To give birth to a new day where the black boy who works at McDonald’s is free to breathe his glorious breath.
Dear world…
I can’t take the shootings and the lynchings anymore. My body has never birthed a black baby but every time one dies I feel the labour of having them ripped from my body, turned into a hashtag and then seeing them disappear from your memory as quickly as their souls faded from their eyes. I don’t know how many times my heart can break but I do know that so far has been far too many
The tragedy of the black widow
Is that she holds the secrets of the earth in her bosom
Her curves rise and fall like hills and valleys Her hair wild like the thicket of rainforests Her eyes brown like the sand at the bottom of rivers
So, when a black king dies, we weep with the strength of earthquakes

Because our bodies are the kingdoms of earth and water that they leave behind.

The post I Wanna Date the Black Guy that Works at McDonald’s appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Every black baby slips into life already soaked in oppression
The deathly pain that bathed them in the depths of mama dearest
It’s a pain that was gifted to us
A gift that comes with every black body but great- grandmama lost the receipt
This isn’t the kind of gift you can return to the store.
It’s a pain that comes with migrating to a country that destroyed yours, in the first place, and
then hearing the door slam in your face as they tell you to go back to where you came from.
But weren’t they the ones who told you that you were a colony of this nation?
Weren’t they the ones who told you that you were a part of this nation so, technically, if I’m not
mistaken, aren’t you already home? Isn’t this where you come from?
Your homeland be a jewel in the king’s crown so isn’t this your kingdom too?
When black women go through immigration, as the guardians of their culture, they must
navigate the reconciliation of the culture of the white man versus the culture of her home
land.

Tellin’ her kids things like “baby be proud and black but walk on the white path,”
Baby hold on to our cultural alliance but study the white man’s science
Don’t you know you can only be a doctor, lawyer or engineer? Where you think you goin’?
I gave you life, now you be owin’ me my happiness back
Cuz they stole it from me when they coloured me black
Coloured me immigrant
Coloured me uneducated
Coloured me survival salary
Coloured me to the bottom of the food chain
So, baby please, I beg you, be ice-cold smooth sophistication
Soft cashmere silky
Angelic sweet milky bright light right
Baby be white.
As white as possible so that I can stop havin’ to slave for the white man’s system. So that I can
be free
Physically and mentally.
Women of colour who immigrate are traumatized.
Don’t believe me? Look into their eyes. They’re decorated with crows feet at the edges.
So, as a fellow creature of the night, even the crow thought she should close her eyes to spare
herself from the hardships in store
Wrinkles and folds of her body hiding signs of neglect because she doesn’t even consider herself
important anymore
Too busy dealing with reality.
She refuses to acknowledge the fear, anxiety, and insecurity buried deep beneath the hustle
mentality.
Oh, she won’t let you see it at first, but it’s there. She’s become an expert at camouflaging her
emotions behind expressions of stone, an ice-cold tone and a smile made of recycled suffering
flesh and bone.
An expert at sacrificing her own health for that of her children, but she doesn’t realize that
her suffering bleeds into them through an invisible umbilical cord that connects them through
life, through mind, through body.
Like mother, like daughter. Hurt mother hurts daughter. Hurt daughter hurts daughter and
the cycle continues.
The trauma is passed down like family heirlooms.
The mental health of women of colour is an invisible ball and chain that desperately needs
breaking.
The strength for breaking it lies in healing their minds of microaggressive trauma
Healing their bodies from harmful reflections of who the world thinks they’re supposed to be.
Bodies of beauty made to believe they are beastly
Don’t believe me?
Women bleaching their skin in Ghana every day. You tellin me that’s not trauma?
Little ebony princesses fearing the sun won’t even go out and play. You tellin me that’s not
trauma?
When in reality, we be the only humans whose skin rules sun and moon at the same goddamn
time.
Meanwhile, daughters of third world warrior beauties deal with their family treasures by protesting
the system.
Meanwhile, when the moon rises to take over the skies they can’t seem to close their eyes.
Meanwhile, beneath the social justice activist façade their bodies are praying to God that she
slow the fuck down and take care of herself.
That she take the time and call it anxiety if it’s anxiety
Call it depression if it’s depression
Call it anorexia if it’s anorexia
Call it whatever you will, love, but don’t call it nonexistent
This shit is real. This shit is persistent.
Call it whatever you will, love, but don’t follow in your mother’s footsteps.
Don’t call it a white people thing. Health is not a white people thing.

So, take a good look in the mirror,
Don’t you see how they’ve etched a prophecy in our scars?
Don’t you see how the greatest revolution isn’t in the protests we organize to survive, but in
the acts of self-care we take to thrive.
Listen to your body. The vessel that carries your soul. She speaks to you.
With every ache. With every moan. With every cracked and broken bone.
With every drop of blood and act of self-care you postpone
With every chain, with every strain, with every trauma you retain
With every tear, with every fear, with every whisper that you hear.
With every feeling you ignore, although you feel it in your core.
With every shiver, every burst, desire or unquenched thirst.
Your body tells you…fuck reality, fuck the hustle mentality.
Throw away your superwoman cloak, it didn’t get mama very far, and it sure as hell won’t fly
you to the stars.

You already have wings.

But they be such vulnerable fleshy things, made of paper thin skin and breakable bone.
Your body be a strong yet delicate throne.
So take your seat … and take over the world with the way you take care of yourself.

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