hi hello,
welcome to the eighty-third issue of somatic semantics.
today i am thinking of ntozake shange’s bocas: a daughter's geography, of which an excerpt was read by jaimee a. swift yesterday during black women radicals’ black feminist writers + palestine.
bocas: a daughter's geography
i have a daughter/ mozambique
i have a son/ angola
our twins
salvador & johannesburg/ cannot speak
the same language
but we fight the same old men/ in the new world
we are so hungry for the morning
we're trying to feed our children the sun
but a long time ago/ we boarded ships/ locked in
depths of seas our spirits/ kisst the earth
on the atlantic side of nicaragua costa rica
our lips traced the edges of cuba puerto rico
charleston & savannah/ in haiti
we embraced &
made children of the new world
but old men spit on us/ shackled our limbs
but for a minute
our cries are the panama canal/ the yucatan
we poured thru more sea/ more ships/ to manila
ah ha we're back again
everybody in manila awready speaks spanish
the old men sent for the archbishop of canterbury
"can whole continents be excommunicated?"
"what wd happen to the children?"
"wd their allegiance slip over the edge?"
"don't worry bout lumumba/ don't even think bout
ho chi minh/ the dead cant procreate"
so say the old men
but i have a daughter/ la habana
i have a son/ guyana
our twins
santiago & brixton/ cannot speak
the same language
yet we fight the same old men
the ones who think helicopters rhyme with hunger
who think patrol boats can confiscate a people
the ones whose dreams are full of none of our
children
the see mae west & harlow in whittled white cafes
near managua/ listening to primitive rhythms in
jungles near pétionville
with bejeweled benign nativess
ice skating in abidjan
unaware of the rest of us in chicago
all the dark urchins
rounding out the globe/ primitively whispering
the earth is not flat old men
there is no edge
no end to the new world
cuz i have a daughter/ trinidad
i have a son/ san juan
our twins
capetown & palestine/ cannot speak the same
language/ but we fight the same old men
the same men who thought the earth waz flat
go on over the edge/ go on over the edge old men
you'll see us in luanda, or the rest of us
in chicago
rounding out the morning/
we are feeding our children the sun
ntozake shange, 1983question(s) of the week
how have you invested in flat futures? futures that end at the edge of empire, futures that uphold the fictions of nation-states, of meritocracies
how is your selfhood entangled with citizenship? with the obtention + corresponding dismissal/withholding of rights
how does this contribute to your resentment of those who see beyond the edge? those who reside in (your) impossibilities
how many times have you called upon punishment + confused it with justice?
how many times have you conflated (good) fortune + theft? as you gleefully declared “we’re so lucky to…” or “we’re so grateful for…” (the opportunity to) take
how will you let go of the myths that hold you? the myths that draw lines around you + cast out all inconveniences
how will you respond to the call of a future that demands you jump over the edge?
“from where you reside, in this time, what can you do?” — breya johnson, black feminist writers + palestine
i leave you with beverly glenn-copeland’s a spell for the present moment:
with love + light,
nènè