by Nasra Ali and Namaka Auwae-Dekker
A conversation between brown brother and light skin sister
Don’t come home in a body bag
I tell him
A quiet promise I know he can’t always keep
Please come home with most of yourself
I tell him
I cant he says
For this country always finds a way
To butcher brown bodies on the
Sidewalk,
In grocery stores
And county jails
And on channel 7
And on and on and on and on
White people have swallowed us whole
Left no solace or mercy
You can still live in our whips, they say
And offer poison berries as reparations
Tell us to find comfort in the flower beds they have made
Some would call them mass graves
Or the bullet wounds
They gifted us when ship first hit sand
A premature eulogy from light skin sister to brown brother
This promise made gasoline of your body
And a white man’s discomfort waiting to lodge itself
Between your ribs
This country sewed a pen to my right hand
Your tombstone to the other
Said “be prepared for when we reap this melanin. Make flames of his body”
You have not died
But every police siren can almost
Carve your name in its steady rhythm
maybe if white men didn’t fuck the color out of our people
maybe if trauma didn’t make homes in our lungs
Maybe my mother wouldn’t be splintered
Beaten by men who learned from their fathers
And their fathers
And the pain that followed the pillage
But white always finds a way into rebirth
Our skin bleached like our streets
We are choking on ghosts
My mother and
Her mother and
Her mother are crawling up my throat
Begging for a home that isn’t rusted with brown blood
The hills have eyes where i’m from, refuge is almost impossible to find
Except in the white swan wings of whitified norms
Its chains transcending the tests of time
+It wraps around me like a comforting blanket, whispering sweet nothings into my ear
Welcomed by the impressionable mind of a young girl unaware of the history of her pigment
She yearns for the milky skin, for the things awarded to her white peers
For the chains to turn to silk and fall from her form
She yearns for freedom
The hills have eyes where i’m from, this city never sleeps
That is a euphemism for someone who will always be watching
Always there to see, never to help me breathe
They are slowly snubbing out my native tongue like a cigarette
And massaging my roots with chemicals
And chemically lightening my skin
And continuing to tell my people their skin will never win
But they love my melanin
The splash of color i bring to their blank canvas
I am covered in the dust of crushed pearls
Crafted from emeralds and the darkest type of light found
Their teeth ache with rage cause they know this.
They know they need the fruits we produce
They love to fall in love with our flowers without once glancing down at our roots.
Split open again and again and again
We learned to mend ourselves
We made a new kind of home
Where the taste of our ache reminded us of a strange fruit
One with a thick skin and impossibly sweet juice
We turned our noose into a ribbon
We got that homemade type of love
That cornbread that ain’t soft
Or sweet
Or white washed
We got that I hear god in her voice type gospel
That never miss a beat type soul
That family vibe you wish you could buy
We got it, you can’t have it
They took our people with their weapons
We took a knee
They tried to constrict our throats with their systems
That only taught us how to breathe
They wanna keep us under, thinkin they can drown us in the rain
You may have brought us here, but we still the best that ever came.
Nasra Ali and Namaka Auwae-Dekker are members of the Youth Leadership Council through Young Women Empowered. Based in the Beacon Hill neighborhood, Y-WE is a 501c3 non profit dedicated to providing young women and non binary youth ages 13-18 with an intergenerational community of support of mentors and teaching artists, and the opportunity to grow their own leadership.
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