#zatrip

[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 #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]

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?