Leaves of Poetrees

[faeriehana]

[faeriehana]

In response to Yrsa Daley-Ward’s writing prompt.

[faeriehana]

For my brown beauties <3

This is a poem I wrote several years ago reflecting on shadeism/colorism in the Desi diaspora, though it resonates across other cultures as well. 

[faeriehana]

Let him try to push your name out of his mouth with another woman's tongue. He doesn't know she can't do the work for him.   Burrow into his teeth and leave cavities to ache after you, holes he cannot fill with another without first drilling you out. Make sure your lost sweetness leaves the aftertaste of blood.

12.14.2015

[faeriehana]

We didn’t ask, but we received

Browngirl tears form in the Indian Ocean, fill the Bay of Bengal, flood rice paddies and bloat bellies floating down the Podda nodi. I tried moving against the current but forgot I could not swim, like my Dadi who was swallowed by a boal fish the night before she drowned, as legend goes. Browngirl dreams are dipped in warm milk and bleach, turmeric on the weekends and before weddings; henna'd hands and red feet, dust and dusk. I wear bangles so that you can’t break my wrists, line my eyes so you can’t steal my vision like you did my mother’s and my motherland. You tell us to forget. To wash the coconut and blood out of our hair, the melanin out of our skin. We will keep singing the war stories, trauma necessary to heal the splintered nation of a heart split halfway across the world. Roots ripped and replanted in ground swollen with grief.

[faeriehana]

Dark knees and lemon wedges know each other intimately— skin, jaggery; My body, lemonade.

The Bengal famine was man-made, as was mine. Razor blade terrain, hills and deep valleys too treacherous to deliver from hunger. Maybe if it would only shrink a little, lose some of its mass to the sea. My body, a small country.

There was that time I clawed an uncle's hands off of me— twice, actually.   Ammu said this was just the way some men are. What else is there to say to your daughters so they don't spend the rest of their lives straying too close to loneliness? It took ten years to trust softer hands (though they were less than gentle with my heart). My body, carrier of memory. (My heart, another story).

Flesh solid, flesh giving. Burnt lungs and still breathing. Have you seen lightning dance through a storm? Chase the clouds and you might catch me. My body, electric.

I spent a long time trying to disappear, erasure always the encouraged option. Roots pulled out of a homeland and a mouth like shattered glass. Too small and never small enough. All rib-bones and my mother's gold bangles rattling to the sound of the train I never hopped on or in front of as it sped by our little apartment for years. Sorry slips out easily even when I'm not, but,

My body, is not an apology.

[faeriehana]

Intentions

Every year I forget to string the fairy lights for Ramadan and Eid, gestures meant to fill eyes a little, to make up for empty stomachs and brighten these nights meant for worship. Mostly I sit in bed scrolling through a screen, waiting for someone,   maybe God, to pull my hands away and onto holier scriptures, but my hands remain where they are. At least, (I tell myself), I don't let them stray towards the lighter and ashtray, or even between my legs— sometimes guilt looks a lot like prayer, but I hope there's still something to say about intentions. 

[faeriehana]

Eid Mubarak!

[faeriehana]

[faeriehana]

[faeriehana]

Did you know: Because dark skin has more melanin pigment in it, if you scrub it with a washcloth or wipe it with alcohol the cloth will appear darker because the skin cells that have transferred onto it are darker. If you wipe lighter skin, the cloth will not appear darker because there is less pigment. School children (and adults!) often discover this accidentally without knowing why there is a difference. Often the conclusion is that dark skin is "dirty" and light skin is "clean", which leads to perpetuating racial prejudices or internalizing self-hate. Most people have probably never given this a second thought, but if you have melanin-blessed younger family members and friends, teach them this fun fact in case they encounter ignorant people (kids can be vicious). Teach them self-love and that brown is beautiful! :)

[wocinsolidarity]

thinking about online PoC spaces from a place of love

(By Jennifer)

Before you start reading this, I want you to pause. 

Think about the first person who helped you build your politics. How did you meet them? How did they interact with you? What kind of resources did they point you to? Did they make you feel safe? Did they hold you accountable for the oppressive things you said? What kind of environment did they introduce you to?

I didn’t meet my people like this (because there were a few) until I got to college. Even though I’d always been aware of different forms of oppression, and even though I could talk about the oppressions I’d experienced up until then… my analysis was nonexistent. I was an adult by the time I became an activist, all because of the care and love of some older students of color. They took me in wholeheartedly. I learned in spaces where folks took the time out to give me readings, explain shit to me, let me rant, and gave me space to figure out my identities. I learned in spaces where anger was validated and I was taught how, and expected to, deal with it and learn when I fucked up. I was called in, constantly. I guess what I’m getting at is that I learned my initial analysis in a space where people cared about my growth. My mentor-friends cared about institutional, interpersonal, and individual revolution. 

Even though I first joined Tumblr when I was about 15, I actually wasn’t exposed to online activism until after I was an adult, and after I had been doing anti-oppression and social justice work in offline spaces. And all I can say is that I’m incredibly thankful for that. Because I look back and read some of the stuff I believed - because of assimilation, because of ignorance, because of a number of things - and it makes me glad that I only had about 10 followers for most of my teenage years. I’m pretty sure I would’ve gotten torn apart otherwise. Because rather than understanding that folks are all at different places, there’s this culture of violence (tbqh) where everyone is expected to be at this unachievable 100% social justice analysis 24/7. It’s like someone will say one thing - mind you sometimes it’s not even oppressive - and then it’s just “you’re problematic, you’re a horrible person, you’re not here for other PoC, I’m not going to give you time to apologize or work through things, bye.”

This is not a new concept I’m talking about. Calling IN: A Less Disposable Way of Holding Each Other Accountable is just one article that really explains well what I mean and is probably one of the most quoted BGD articles I’ve seen. It’s a necessary read, in my honest opinion. I’ve been thinking about this whole piece a lot lately, and this portion in particular:

And it is seriously draining. It is seriously heartbreaking. How we are treating each other is preventing us from actually creating what we need for ourselves. We are destroying each other. We need to do better for each other.

We have to let go of treating each other like not knowing, making mistakes, and saying the wrong thing make it impossible for us to ever do the right things.

And we have to remind ourselves that we once didn’t know. There are infinitely many more things we have yet to know and may never know.

We have to let go of a politic of disposability. We are what we’ve got. No one can be left to their fuck ups and the shame that comes with them because ultimately we’ll be leaving ourselves behind.

Cause damn, I’ve been seeing folks get called everything under the sun for making one mistake. For not saying one thing. For saying something in the wrong words. For honestly not knowing something. And sometimes it’s for just speaking their truth, not even saying something that’s oppressive. And it happens to everyone, from PoC who are known for their social justice work to like, 13 year old kids of color who just don’t know. 

And this feels dangerous to me because more often than not, it feels like those call-outs aren’t coming from a place of love, change, or anti-oppression work. It just seems like it’s coming from a place of thriving off of it when others mess up. Like it’s a competition of who can be the Most Unproblematic. There’s no space for anyone to get tired or be ignorant or make a mistake. True life: no one’s analysis is perfect and no one is on their shit all the time. Like there’s such a difference between holding each other accountable and holding folks to this impossible (made-up) standard. 

Folks never stop growing and learning. I promise you. Sometimes I look back on the shit I posted (and believed) when I was 15 and I cringe. Sometimes I look back on shit that I posted two years ago and I cringe. Sometimes I look back on shit that I posted last week and I cringe. I promise you that in 50 years I’ll still be looking back and I’ll still be cringing.

This of course doesn’t only happen in online spaces. I’ve been in physical “safe spaces” where other PoC have been actively pushed out for a number of reasons - for not knowing something, for questioning popular rhetoric, for saying something that’s not “as important” as other issues. And there’s no room for conversation, no room for learning, and when something painful and oppressive is said - no room for healing.

But this just feels exacerbated on Tumblr. It’s like one person will constantly be berated by 100,000, and almost none of that 100,000 say anything that can be restorative. Like I know that’s the public nature of the internet; but these responses almost always come from PoC who have definitely said similar things at one point in their lives. Like wtf kind of anti-oppression rhetoric do  you live by if you’re dragging up receipts from 4 years ago and sending abusive anon messages without looking at OP’s page to see where they’re coming from and/or if they’ve learned? (This is just one example, and not even one that’s extreme).

It’s like folks just forget that once upon a time someone took the time out to teach them. It’s like we just forget all the interpersonal love that goes into revolutionary work. It just makes me think where would I be if the folks who taught me had screamed at me instead. And as someone whose (paying, offline) job it is to teach social justice analysis to high schoolers, it’s incredibly troubling to me to see grown people doing this shit to young folks. When it was my job to educate, I learned to balance being triggered with empathy and care and transformation. That’s something that’s become a part of my everyday life. Some of you act like your analysis was fully formed at like 3 years old and that everything you say is SO ON POINT and SO SHARP. I’m thinking specifically of Amandla Stenberg right now, who said she needs a break from Tumblr. Like so many folks (rightly!) praised her analysis - but then expected a 16 year old to be some kind of savior? And now so many people are coming at her, and for what exactly? Cause she “doesn’t recognize her class privilege”? like lmfao what is even happening?

I’m not talking about tone policing here. Of course there are times when I do (and when I have) gotten so angry that I’ve yelled at someone who was just asking a question or making an incorrect statement. It happens offline, on my personal blog, and here - even though part of both my paying job and being a co-mod here is building safe space for WoC. I’m all for anger, I’m all for bitterness. I’m all for everything that helps us learn, educate, and heal. But that’s not what’s going on in my opinion. So I’ve been moving back a lot and wondering… Why are these my reactions? Are they justified and coming from a true place of pain or are they just belittling someone in my own community? Am I expressing my anger and discomfort or attacking another PoC? Is this person actually hurting me and/or others (intentionally or not)? There’s a difference between critiquing someone and abusing them.

Radical politics and anti-oppression work can’t exist when it doesn’t come from a place of love. And it’s so bizarre cause all of the Black and WoC womanist/feminist ancestors actively preached this, but it’s like the one take-away that we just… Don’t take away. In All About Love, bell hooks says, “For me, forgiveness and compassion are always linked: how do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the same time remain in touch with their humanity enough to believe in their capacity to be transformed?” I think about this a lot. It has helped me grow. 

It helped me to build conversations and coalitions with family, friends, and strangers instead of just shutting out people. And tbh, it also helped with my own self-care and anxiety. Knowing I was in spaces where I would be held accountable for fucking up AND that I and my learning were still cared about is transformative. It’s like folks forget that everyone fucks up. That everyone gets tired. That everyone is constantly learning.  

[faeriehana]

Important.

[faeriehana]

Hands henna'd and earthy, hands cramped from the hour it took me to perfect every paisley and flourish, after years of a sun centered in each palm, fingertips dipped in red-orange, the moon rising in my nails.

[faeriehana]

Rebirth brings poetry, stitches together the pieces of the prelude, fills the spaces where we lost sleep or gave portions of our hearts to others to keep. Slowly tongues learn speech again, spill honey and sing again.

Dirges were my grandmothers' medicine, over the loss of white sharees in the war, used to wrap their husbands and children in. They filled hunger with faith— taught us the essence of survival.

Living is inheritance, limbs and hair and pearl-teeth on a string, light from a distant sun that sends kisses long after it's gone; and prayers are poems, and madness, and lovemaking; dancing wild in an ocean, remembering God and why you crossed the bridge without stopping.

To keep walking takes conviction and I'm still trying to find the words, newly learning this language of wholeness.

[faeriehana]

Stood in congregation and didn't hear nine bodies fall. Must have been the black night weeping her beloveds and the church bells ringing in Charleston.

The sun still rose in the mourning, though outrage and rain could not have washed the blood off his hands, the white paint off the devil's face.

—I thought this was a holy month and that the devil was in chains

[faeriehana]

Hunger

Last year I went in search of God to a land that wasn't my own but still felt like home. First, to Konya where the night wind carried the azan and poetry to salve the freshly broken heart I thought I was escaping. I was exhausted of love. But I kept praying. Once, I even stood in front of Rumi in his turquoise türbesi, embarrassed and pleading God to show me the love that the poet wrote of, and for days I felt beauty and cried too much. But that too went away. The scholars didn't give me answers and I tried too hard to be okay with chasing love and watching it retreat. I've slowed down long enough to see the distance from which it waves, can still make out the shine of a smile.

I once confused a boy for God and tried to give him my heart. I wonder if God is still angry about that (He's always angry)— But I didn't kiss the stranger who fell in love with me over coffee in Istanbul, still sipping on the memory of God-boy, still tasting the lonely on my tongue. God knows I didn't try to forget it, that I would rather take the bitter than starve.

This year I've finally begun fasting from him, an hour here, a morning there, stretching daylight as long as possible. Dusk brings back the hunger and his mouth. I have to retrain mine to form prayers instead of his name. Prayers of replacement— You can have the pieces of me you've occupied, they are yours. But you left these spaces that only the divine can fill now and I'm still waiting, bewildered at how loss can feel so heavy.

[faeriehana]

My fuppis call me moyna, darling starling flown back from America, hold my small frame that reminds them of their mother, my Dadi, who drowned and left me with a longing for water.

Sharee pore kaj kore, sun-baked brown and radiant, with songs in their hips and prayers on their lips. I paint them rosy, they hold my hands against their cheeks, show me their cracked fingers and still braid my hair, still make me bread in the morning.

These women who have learned to sleep with an eye open, keep their villages running and my spirit flying. Their arms are homes but my wings lose their way, years of promises and phone calls across the ocean.

Moyna, abar kobe ashba?

Eyto, someday.

02.21.2015