fvckcolonialism

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal 14

Something that is on my mind is my poetry. I came to South Africa with a vision of creating new work with a new perspective. I imagined it would come, all most naturally, as if my presence here would generate a muse. What I bear witness to now is the stretch of distance between the imagined effect and the actual. Actually, until today, I only wrote one poem. It was after our first day trip, to Robben Island. Today, I scribbled several. Nothing felt sufficient. Substantial. Sure, there was mild catharsis in expressing myself. Yet, I can’t escape feeling that those small things are useless to the world at large. I remarked during our discussion after speaking with some of the Unemployed People’s Movement (UPM) members, that I am not the one who needs to be okay, but the family of Alton Sterling, Stephanie Hicks, and Philando Castille. Emma reminded me that it matters that I feel okay too. Even so, self care aside, I realized that I want my writing to do more. I want it to attain a power of healing that extends beyond myself. That feels like the truer purpose of my writing right now. So, I’m thinking about ways to do that,  what to express and represent in my work. I think that’s hope, a stay against the press of pessimism. Kendrick Lamar’s radiant smile in the final shots of “Alright”  is often the image I think of when I imagine articulating hope. I don’t want to share my writings about Black pain. It is so prominent across social media, mainstream media, art, and public discourse. I want to capture Black Lightness. I want my people to empathize with the heartening breath of laughter inside the songs of my poetry. It’s about getting free;  transforming the weight of Blackness into wings. This is why I loved 1976 the musical. Every person on that stage freed their spirits dancing, rapping, singing, acting, playing/ making music. I felt it. I couldn’t help but exclaim a rapturous YES! As the lights fell on the stage of twenty-something actors and actresses holding the Black Power fist high, after absolutely slaying the final number – which included about 10 different songs and several choreographic spotlights. That is what I need to capture in words! That is what I feel is the next stage of my writing. I’m sick of seeing us killed on replay. I don’t want our pain recycled more than it already is with every death. Show me how we lived! I know we die. I know it’s horrific. I fear for myself and my family in this reality. When I die, remember how I lived. Is this not what we all want? Would you reply my last breaths at my funeral? Or recount the times we laughed and danced, eat too well or drank a bit too much. I say that because I’ve shared a great many hugs and laughs over drinks. I’ve lived well. For a moment, if not more, so did they. Share that. Remember that.

[fvckcolonialism]

Notes in the wake of the news of Stephanie Hick’s alleged suicide in police custody and the deaths of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling by the hands of police back in the US. Written during our meeting with the activits from the Unemployed People’s Movement in Grahamstown. These notes were taken with a lot on my mind. Really, it was just an attempt at leveling my own feelings regarding the heaviness of the day, which included these deaths, as well as watching the play Tshepeng, in a grossly limited summation, it was a play about child rape is South Africa. Heavy day. My thoughts here reflect my largely my own pessimism and frustration, through free-written poetry. It’s currently unedited and so much of my raw emotion given words, that it seems better to say, nodding to the South Africa writer James Matthews, that these notes are truly a gathering of feelings. Here they are.

[loladupre]

Robert Oppenheimer, paper collage on panel, 8.2 x 11.6 inches, SOLD

twitter.com/loladupre

[fvckcolonialism]

I woke up this morning to the news of four Dallas police officers killed by snipers at a peaceful Black Lives Matter protest, rallying for solidarity and Justice for Philando Castile and Alton Sterling. 11 more were wounded. read about it here x This is so senseless. Disheartening. Counterproductive and unnecessary. I can imagine what the shooters’ motives might be. I can reflect on the tenants of Fanonism and C.L.R. James’ views about the inevitable, reactionary violence of the oppressed against the oppressor. What does that really about to? Catharsis in death? It’s revenge politics. As much as that can be studied, understood, explained, and contextualized as the cyclical nature of violence between the oppressed/er, it amounts to more death. Often of innocents. 

There was a time when my own anger called for the death of Darren Wilson and George Zimmerman. Would I be upset if this happened? not at all. Would that make it right? Would that mean there is not a family left behind missing a piece of itself? no. That I don’t wish on them. I hate that so many Black families were not given the same consideration. I hate that these police officers families were not giive that consideration. Violence is not an cannot be the final answer, no matter how predictable or ‘necessary’  that violence is, as a cleansing, cathartic force. Nigel stated this during his talk about Fanon and Biko at the Biko center on Wednesday. We need a fresher imagination examining the nature of justice. It is not revenge. It is not a police officer-turn murderer escaping conviction. We don’t need more blood to be spilled. I don’t yet, know what to do about this. I’m ready to go home only because I need to make a difference back there. I’m scared to go home because it’s so hard to fight for something like life and justice when there are so many, with and without badges willing to take that away.

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal 11

On the second night in Grahamstown, we saw 1976, a musical coming of age story propelled, narratively , by the Soweto Uprisings of the same year and I had a spiritual experience. The musical drew parallels between the need of the youth in the 70′s to rise up and right injustice with a need for the same today. The show’s main character, Freedom, struggles with the desires of remaining a consumer, his hopelessness for a better future, and a need to “become a man”, in order to change the world. It incorporated traditional Zulu dance, gospel inspired songs, hip hop, some spoken word too. It had its problems. The narrative was not so clear as I described it here as it was when I watched it. There were some technical errors too with sound. Now, that I think back, I can’t remember the other problematic aspects. Perhaps, I’m too tired.I should revisit this. At any rate, I loved the show. I was engrossed the entire time. The acting, dancing, singing, it was performed with limitless energy. It was loud! it was big and spirited. Even at points where the position of teh plot was unclear, the emotions were conveyed perfectly. I felt the anxiety and frustration of a generation expected to take on the world’s faults, the hopelessness of a struggle that seems endless, the joy of making it to the mountain top, or finding oneself, I also felt the fear of losing one’s purpose. Above all else, I felt the entire cast get free! In song and dance, everyone of them seemed elevated about the oppression described in the play and in real life. I saw in their faces, in the sweat that collected on their foreheads, the way they belted out each note. I Loved it. I love seeing my people do this, set themselves free of our burdens. What better way than to dance? to sing? These things are a part of our cultural fabric. The final number was unforgettable. They crammed like 10 songs into it, and every body got a chance to go OFF. in groups of 3, 4, 5, 6, just spotlights on them moving, dancing, stomping, jumping, dropping, flipping. It was beautiful. My jaw was to the floor. Every one was getting it. Even the Dj and an older gent in the way back, off the main floor was jiving. The show gave me life, it gave me a concrete image of heaven. It’s walking through the gates, feeling accomplished and blessed to have made it home, while everyone around you family, friends, loved ones, new faces, are all in white singing praise and welcome and dancing their hearts out. I could relive that scene or the final number again and again. I will relive that scene every day until I die. If nothing else, this performance gave me and hopefully everyone else in the crowd a glimpse of one kind of freedom, for there are many chains upon us. 

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal 10

So, we made it to Grahamstown and the National Arts Festival. So far, we’ve seen two productions: A musical and a dance production. The first show we saw was Sold! By  Themba Mbuli which was a collaborative dance performance that included sound and spoken text to in English and I don’t know the other language spoken. It was a fantastic piece, though, admittedly I had some trouble getting in to. It was hard to place where and when the narrative is established in modern dance pieces at times. The performance was a conversation between the dancers, I believe 6 or 7 women and 2 men, and the skulls of the unnamed dead of the German colonial genocide in Namibia, 20 of which were taken from Namibia for “science”. The Germans wished to prove racial superiority by studying the remains. When the remains finally returned to Namibia (at the beginning of the show) an elaborate ritual is performed that evokes a conversation with the spirits of the dead, represented in the skulls. The entire show seemed, to be a prolonged process of mourning, closure, and reclaiming the dead. It also worked to express the hardships that come from a history of colonization and war, particularly these put on women, who give life only to watch it snatched away—their own or their children’s--, then, they are expected to shoulder all that weight and carry on. I wish I could see it twice. I would be able to better articulate the entirety of the piece. There was so much said in the movement, and the spoken text just blew me away. I hear the echoing of statements like, “I don’t want to die a photograph. I don’t want to Die a postcard. I don’t want to die with my hands up or my legs open” Speaking to the injustice of the past and the present where women are killed, sometimes nameless, reduced to photos, killed and/or raped by police and soldiers. One line that I will never forget, during one monologue, a performer read a spoken word piece and said, “the memory says let us go / the massacre says remember us / the blood says the graveyard is no place for healing” Wow. I wish I could see the performance again or get a hold of the text. There were several points of spoken text which elevated the performance even higher than what the incredible choreography had already done. 

This performance excited me about the power and versatility of story telling. I enjoy spoken word because for me, it combines poetry with performance, it takes recitation a step further. It’s a kind of theatrics, dependent equally on the body as it is on the voice. Of course it could lend itself to dance! I’ve seen it before, by the Haley House Slam Team, Boston, MA reigning 2015 National Poetry Slam, Individual World Poetry Slam, and Women of the World Poetry Slam champions. Check out their group piece here Grinding : x So, now I’m thinking of greater ways my writing could deliver a message, I could give it a greater, more dynamic body than my own. I could put it on a stage, I could have it speak alongside a narrative of the bones and flesh and breath of a dance troupe. I could simply write a poetry-play. I play on seeing Ntsiki Speaks tomorrow night, which is a one women Poetry play. This is an intriguing medium I want to see explored. When I do, I’ll surely write you all about it. Keep an eye out :)

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal #...

A return to reflections, with a line in my head: “Everything is Near and Unforgotten.”-- Paul Celan This quote introduced Tarfia Faizullah’s inaugural poetry collection Seam, a work exploring the tragic and destructive 1971 Bangladeshi Liberation War which resulted in the rape of between 200,000 to 400,000 women, through chronicling the stories of the Birangona, the women survivors of the war. The collection used the elaborate, evolving metaphor of the Seam which connected Tarfia, a Bangladeshi American women, with this history of her people, which previously to her travels to Bangladesh she only connected with through the stories of her mother and grandmother. This quote resonates with me through my travels in South Africa as I think about the connection I have and lack with the people here whom I consider, my people. I reflected on this more and more after our discussion with Ashraf Cassiem, a local activist working with the Western Cape, Anti Eviction Campaign. During our discussion, he called us out for being students learning how to enter and operate in the global capitalist system. For some of the students this came with slight offense as they considered themselves fervently against capitalism. My gut response was to feel the same, but then I realized that he was speaking a fact about the system in which we were socialized, not attacking our socio-political beliefs. This is to say, that in America, from a young age we are taught that the purpose of grade school is to get into college in order to secure a job in the labor market and thus build a life. What must be acknowledged is that the American capitalist-industrial complex is a global institution that systematically oppresses and exploits people across the world. By entering into this system, we as individuals actively, and in some ways passively, perpetuate this system.  This is why I’m reflecting on the Paul Celan quote and Seam; there is a global interconnection of all people. What we do and don’t do here, what we fight for or ignore, has real world effects in other places. With that in mind, I can’t justify to myself any one reason for not acting against injustice and oppression. Still, I fear complacency, the dimming of the flame of struggle. I am anxious about which battle to fight and when and how, I still need to survive (work), go to school, take care of myself. It’s so much to take on but people have done it with less. So again, I find I have no excuse. This is interesting, because in my mind, it still plays somewhat into the”American Savior” narrative, but only if I go about this wrong way. The question now is how I effectively enact change in my own home and around the world? I think firstly, it will be a matter of discussion, learning from people like Ashraf, Niren, and Richard on their individual impacts. Secondly, it will take thinking creatively. There  is a sore need for innovation in the struggle against injustice, compromise only suits the middle class and sustains the upper classes, war seems infeasible, because the people don’t have the firepower. SO what can we do?? I’m thinking. I’m thinking.

[fvckcolonialism]

There is so much to talk about.  I think I’ll begin with my initial aspirations for this trip involving my own evolution as a poet. I thought, I’d be more heavily invested in writing poetry to document my experience. Instead, it’s been mostly these journals and that’s alright. I managed to supplement my desire for poetic expression in other ways, I bought several books, found 2 open mics, performed in one of them, and received several recommendations for other books and artists to look into. As I remarked to my friend Wesley, in an attempt to articulate the complex feelings arising from our conversations with Ashraf Cassiem and watching the documentary Dear Mandela for the first time, that in studying resistance and apartheid, my thoughts have gravitated around my own position in the resistance movements of the world. I feel like I have not been doing enough. I feel that I want to do more. I know I do. I’ve been stifled by complacency, by fear of putting my neck on the line, by feeling inadequate and ill equipped. 

----

A new day, fresher thoughts on the subject: Affirmation. What I’ve tried to articulate was the pressing anxiety arising from wanting to join the movement. Fight for something. This was hard to say? somehow. I doubt myself, so I don’t want to make the claim and not live up to it. I recognize the nature of a flame,  to burn and burn out. It’s conviction I fear I don’t have. I feel confronted with a choice that will define me and wow...I’m scared and excited. I want the frustration and the outrage and pride and joy to manifest into something more. Being here crystallized that feeling in me. I want to enact change in a meaningful and  I need to be so much more creative and committed to my principles-- I need to solidify those as well. I’d shame my father to join a fight and not know what I’m fighting for. 

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal #7

Thoughts on the District 6 Museum: FUCK THE TIME.

I need to come back here, point blank simple. I’m returning to this country and I’m retracing my steps because we’re so busy here that with all we’re exposing ourselves to and trying to digest, I feel there is so much else I’m not seeing. Generally, when I got t museums I prefer to go by myself or with one or two other people and explore from open to close. Obviously, that won’t happen here and that’s alright. I’m trade the singular experience for that of something communal and far more structured than what I would have done on my own. In terms of structure, I found myself a bit lost in the district 6 museum. An entire community of culturally thriving folks, with extensive history in that space was trucked to various parts of the country and their homes, shops, schools, what have you, were demolished in order to recreate a space for White South Africans. That is a sanitized and over-simplified account of the tragedy that occurred there and other places in the country. Nonetheless, walking through the halls of the museum, over the map of the District 6 filled with the names of families next to the street names where they once lived, underneath the tower of former street names-- originally ordered to be buried after the deconstruction of district 6, so that no remnants of district would be recognized-- felt like walking through the pieces of a memory, a mosaic containing the various shards or various histories and experiences. That feeling was very ungrounding. I spent a lot of time in the writers room, as that is my common interest. Here, people from all over the district contributed poems, short essays, journal passages, etc, which were then painted and fired onto the tiles that constructed the floors and the walls of the space. I spent so much time here, soaking up the words of some of these people, that I inevitably missed out on other parts o the history. Which made me realize, that even if I come back, there will never be truly be enough time or space really to read and research the lives of the people in this community, because so much of it is already lost. What we  were lucky enough to view was merely the rubble-memory of a demolished community’s history. What’s more, since the entire  museum is comprised of the possessions that the former residents contributed, I wonder how much of their own home have they kept for themselves?

Loss is an old narrative and a recurring one.

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal #6 pt. 2

To continue, briefly, with my journal entry the other day I would like to talk about the lyric I had in my head. I want to make this brief, because much has occurred in the subsequent days which deserves my time and though too. The lyric is from the rapper, Jonwayne’s song “I’m a Poor Man, but Rich in Mind”. The first verse begins with a question: What’s in a name anyway, except the data? He continues, “I’m tired of this life / been playin’ it since the beta.” The extended metaphor throughout the song contains allusions to the film The Matrix and the song discusses the nature of the stagnancy in his life/career, but I digress. The initial question resounded in my mind because I was also thinking about the nature of the slave trade in South Africa; it was standard practice to strip an enslaved person their birth name and rename them upon ‘ownership’. Such as it happened, the workings of the naming system has been documented fairly well. Names of enslaved people commonly consisted of the month in which they arrived or were purchased, their location of origin, and/or various biblical and other such names. Ex. Rimera van Mozambique. This practice was a gross erasure and it stuck in my mind because of June’s thoughts on ‘Lalela’ and loss. If it is proposed that people make the effort to listen to one another, then we need to engage the weight of that which is loss and allow for the voice of that experience to well up. Thinking about the “data” of a name what that could mean, consider the term ‘nommo’. It was coined by a scholar, Moelfi Asante in 1991. It described the African cultural belief in the “generative and creative power of the spoken word. As this happened to translate, culturally, that in some parts of Africa it was/is believed that children are empty, sort of lifeless beings until the parent breathes that life into them by giving them a name. As I understand it, words, names, and language are regarded as bearers of life. So, in that context, what is in a name? data? Life itself, for some? Imagine that is stripped away, along with your language and your homeland and family. A name then, becomes a final anchor of the self before enslavement—a memento, a mental stay against the tide of forced assimilation and the suppression of self into order to comply with the nature of enslavement. That’s all I have right now. It is something, I’ll continue to consider.

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal #6 pt. 1

One of these days you all will get a massive photo dump. Preferably before we leave  or Grahamstown. We’ll see what happens though. On to reflection....

what’s on my mind? Two words and a lyric. Lalela and Loss. Lalela is the Zulu word for listen. It was also the name of Professor June Bam’s current project. She is working to have the people of South Africa, and indeed the world at large incorporate listening not only into their vocabulary but also their ways of being. She asked us what does it mean to listen in South Africa? This was when I began considering loss, as June also prompted us to do so. So much of this country and its people was and is stricken by the grief and weight of loss. There has been the loss of body, rights, language, material conditions, family, home, heritage, voice, burial ground, and so much more. When I consider loss, I think of what arises to fill the space. I imagine its a song. Always a song. Why? because I’m always thinking of voice and language and the power of tongues. Furthermore, I can’t dissever my connections between the cataloged struggle of the enslaved people in America through the sorrow songs and the literal and proverbial song of the South African people and their own history. 

The oral tradition is indeed strong on the continent culturally. So, I envision a song. The song is comprised of the hymns of the Khoisan people reclaiming their language in the castle; its the raucous chant of the youth: “Fees must fall!” “Rhodes Must Fall!” It’s Mario, a Protea staff member, and his guitar, his gift to Open the Blue Sky, to give the people what he has to offer. It’s Asande and Ivy singing the click song and welcoming new friends into their homes. It’s praise in the Delft Township, a promise to accelerate, past what? injustice? the resistance of ourselves? towards heaven? Any and all or perhaps none of these things. It is the song that holds center here. So what could it mean to listen in Africa? I think it would in fact, mean dancing! So much dancing. For two reasons, one, if we are truly listening then we would here the songs of every people on this land and with patience we might understand the plight so many face. Two, if we could hear the songs and move past the sorrow and pain towards a shared respect, and sharing of space, we would arrive at “joy in spite of everything”, I hope... If I’m correct about these two things than there would be no other choice but celebration, of unity and movement beneath the multifaceted light of a true Rainbow Nation.

to be continued...I have more to say on loss and the lyrics on my mind. 

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal #5

Another winning day folks! Quick highlights: we made new friends, ate nothing but delicious food, celebrated again and again with music and singing and dancing! The day was full and rewarding,

When I last left, I was rushing to get to the van for the church service. We took part in a baptist service. The service was at once familiar and new, and in a way distant. The distance was a feeling I thought of often throughout the service. Hearing the choir sing the blend of traditional hymns and xhosa spirituals brought me back to the Sundays of my childhood. The step was easy to get into, the spirit within the rising choral notes beckoned a few vocal praises from me-- the band’s drummer, in particular, imbued me with energy with his performance. I noticed, for the first time in church, that most of the congregation was wearing black and red. I never knew a church community to have a set of colors; this was new to me. Speaking on distance however, I grappled with the feeling of being an outsider in a place where I wanted to feel wholly included. There were several reasons for this feeling, it began with the reading we had on townships. How tourist companies promoting township tours are simultaneously promoting a voyeuristic culture around tourists, eager to learn about South Africa and the legacy of apartheid in contemporary times and creating an ethical excursion that intersects township community engagement with a global community, interested in a fuller scope of South African life.

I will say that I want to feel included, particularly because I am Black, and so, feel a kinship towards the Black South Africans here. Even so, I’m American and our experiences are certainly not the same. This is a gap that won’t be bridged in 3 weeks. I did hope to feel the distance close at the service though. As we entered, we world welcomed and asked to “come, worship with us.” Yet, we were designated to sit in the “tourist corner” to the back of the room. I understand that this is not my space to lay any claim upon. Accepting that was difficult with the opposition it posed to my expectations. It did not help AT ALL that we all left early as a group to go to lunch at Ivy’s. The ENTIRE congregation, including the pastor, ice grilled us as we left. It felt terrible. It felt like any foundation for the bridge I envisioned collapsing. Interestingly though, the community that I could not find the church, I found in Ivy’s home. She is lovely and lively, and gracious, skilled cook. I will admit to my apprehension about this part of the trip at first. I was not quite sure what to expect. I thought that maybe we would have lunch in a shack. Images of a stereotyped South Africa played in my mind from time to time. Of course, as reality is wont to do, the images were refuted and what was initially anxiety became a comfort like being home. The food was a huge part of that, but so was Ivy’s and Asande’s personalities. They had an openness about them and desire to make friends, so they did! Loyiso, put on one of his playlists, and before lunch we were already moving, dancing up a small appetite and enjoying ourselves.

When I travel, I look for these experiences with the locals. I want to feel like a member of a community, which is hard because, in fact, I’m not. I’m a visitor. It’s hard. Perhaps, it is that I want to see and be a part of how a community lives. Share in the moments of their joviality. That prompts the question of privilege, however, to be able to step in as visitor for the fun, and leave before the trouble. How much of this is privilege and how much would it be my own effort against carelessness? The pastor yesterday, perhaps would have commended me for making a careful choice (the message of the day was to strive to accelerate beyond carelessness, as that was the root of most, if not all of an individual’s problem).I think the two are intertwined. Privilege is constant. That is a fact of reality, that I need to navigate. That being said, I’m honored and so happy that Ivy was willing to allow us into her home and feel like friends and family.

I think that if township tours are considering a way with which to ethically and organically introduce people live in townships, that tours and interactions should be small and lead by community members like Ivy. Tours should stop trying to mystify townships and acknowledge that in areas like the Cape Flats, roughly a million domestic tourists are invited into people’s homes annually.If people are looking for authenticity, that’s about as authentic as it gets. Also, if there is an interest in history and an awareness that White South African’s rarely visit these communities, that should be talked about. Dialogue is important everywhere, and township tours should work to educate tourists and offer a space for communities members to speak about their lives and how perhaps the visitors can further engage legacy of apartheid in the now, in a manner that is constructive and inclusive. When profit isn’t purpose, but community engagement and building is, I think such a reality will be made.

As for the rest of the day,  it only got better. We, Rraine, Indigo, Chu, Tori, Anne, Emma and I, all went to dinner at the Buena Vista Social Club for Tori’s 21st birthday! It was lit. the tapas were bomb. The shots were cheap (and small). Sadik, recommended we try the springbok, it was amaralu(?) and some mint liquor. It tasted like peppermint hot chocolate. :D We also danced some more. it was salsa sunday. It was a great time. Tori agrees, she had a pretty good birthday. How could she not? with this fun group of people in this beautiful and exciting country? I’m lucky and beyond  happy that we’re all shaing this experience together. Also, I’m pleased to say that Ivy and Asande sang her happy birthday in Xhosa and happybirthday sounds the same across the world haha Anyway everybody, another good day was lived. I’m eager for the next. Until the next entry. peace.

[hennkim]

| Shooting Star | by Henn Kim

Go Get Art Print

[fvckcolonialism]

cool art work because I’ve yet to upload any photos /finger pistols

[fvckcolonialism]

Journal Entry #4

Good morning everyone! I overslept an have about thirty minutes reflect on yesterday and get dressed and get breakfast before church so we’re hitting the highlights!

Briefly, oh my  dear lord what we’ve been lucky to see of thiscountry is damn damn damn gorgeous. The landscape just rolls with color. The water is gorgeous, the mountains are breathtaking the architecture is so stylish. Having drove along the coast to get to cape point, I wish I had a go pro to record every vista. I found myself searching for any poem that would come and nothing. i was fine with that. Writing poetry about landscape is not usually my go to. I’m beyond happy I was able to experience any of it. Aside from the beauty of the days excursion, I will note, if I haven’t already that the food here is delicious; the AfricaCafe was an experience :)

There was so much more to the day and when I finally upload pictures, you all, who visit this blog that are not already on the trip with me will see that.

Before the beautiful trip to Cape Point we sat in on June Bam’s lecture on the history and contemporary experience of the Khoisan people. She spoke about thee identity, heritage, and culture of the indigenous people of South Africa; how those things were rewritten, in and out of history, claimed and reclaimed at different points in South AAfrica’s history. What stuck with me the most was how she and others were trying to reassert their Khoisan identity and claim it once again. It is being done through language, in song in particular. She mentioned that a part of the Khoisan revivalist movement has been to Occupy the Castle and teach classes on the ancestral Khoisan languages so that people who want to learn about thier history and culture from the heart of it, the language, they can.This is important and powerful to me, as a writer, because my whole art, expression, occupation is with language. It is at once devastating to hear about the suppression of a people -- the loss of their language because to speak it during Apartheid would be to risk becoming a 4th class citizen and uplifitng to hear that they are reclaiming it through the ancestral hymns of their own religion(s). This is a wonderful segue into our trip today to a township church. I’m very much looking forward how worship is conducted by some in South Africa.More on that later! gotta run. :)

[fvckcolonialism]

It's 12:56 in Capetown. I'm tipsy. I'm listening to Hop Along, about to read by the Fig Tree, excited for tomorrow but afraid for the future. Turbulent times ahead, always.

[fvckcolonialism]

The Poem: Untitled

Your story -- a sanctioned letter in my mouth,  A picture of a relic recalling history In hand & too far removed.  What I carry home is not whole.  I departed in silence &  Silenced you in return.  Could we speak a moment longer  To share  The whole truth?

The world is listening -- still.  Still.

[fvckcolonialism]

From all of my frustrations today, I was able to write a poem which I am happy about. I haven’t been able to upload photos though, because I don’t have an sd card slot on this nextbook, which was something else that frustrated me. The poem is written with a specific prompt in mind, which my friend Lihi gave me. 

the prompt is: What words have you swallowed in front of someone that needed to be spit up?