This was one of those weeks where I swear I heard/felt every gunshot wound, every mother's cry, every husband's blow to the face, every woman's trauma in the midst of violation, every child's neglect, every loss of job or eviction due to the oppressive state that goes as far as to steal from a poor man trying to feed his family. It was one of those weeks where I became aware of every past and present, hidden and overt, mental and physical act of violence that my people have experienced throughout generations, I experienced them all simultaneously like spirits conjuring up speechless words to remind me their stories. I crept up in my own dreams, becomming my own enemy. The world was hard to look at.. everything was a reminder of the still living conquistador.
The cracks on the sidewalks could have opened up to some hand, raised from one of the many sacred indigenous burial sites gone ignored by manifest destiny and the industrial movement, to grab hold of my ankle and take me further into the depth of all this. Every brand name hanging from shoulders, necks, waists, and feet were invisibible chains, the modern-day work world the plantation. I could have declared war with a one person army, myself, except I saw that the colonizer has crept within the depths of me as well. I was filled with anger at the fact that I have never known what it is like to be free or to even comprehend a moment of it, because having been born into a slave state as an enslaved woman, has never afforded me the chance to know myself, my potential, my love, my spirit, outside of the confines of mental, spiritual, or physical colonization. I was filled with rage at the fact that at 25 the concept of bringing forth life is such a sin and an oppressive state to be in, although my ancestors, having lived a day where children were celebrated blessings, are asking me questions about my life. Every tear that rolled down my face was a "fuck you!" to the colonizer that I could not vocalize, for there was no one tangible target to cap, shank, or tear to pieces. And I cried myself into war with myself, the enemy that has crept within me, wanting him out, wanting him exorcized, wanting the self I had never known, feeling I could never be genuinely loved without having known that true self to introduce to others and a true self to truely know.
I have been surviving since my mother's thigh wet with the ocean, and I have only known myself as a survivor, a warrior. A warrior ignited by anger, because violence was introduced at a young age and I began to know it well. The world has always been an open battlefield, always vulnerable to attacks, no hills to hide over except denial itself. Denial I think is what keeps people sane and in some ways complacent, because I could have taken up arms right there on the train, right there on campus or in class, right there on the sidewalk, in the supermarket, right there on the crosswalk or while jaywalking the freeway, right there in front of five Oh in the hood, right there in the classroom in front of my students, right there in my livingroom or in the bathroom while sittin on my toilet, right there on the papers they think I write for a mere letter grade... The war never leaves my mind. The war never leaves me.