Blue Dream (I am just a descendant)
Photo by Dazzle Jam from Pexels
I
Last night, I dreamed a dream that I was floating on sounds of trumpets and flutes, declaring my arrival to times of survival. It felt surreal and almost real simultaneously. We exchanged gaze and for the first time in a long time I had a dream, not a nightmare. And it was me -
blue,
and
living,
living on sound,
living on few melodies,
that I too can be free,
and that someday I can feel what liberation
should feel like.
II
My blue dream –
a space
promised,
punished,
bodies blackened
in the burning brewery of
sweat dropping like
bullets from the guns
of the red coats
and whips lashing for encouragement
as we trod.
We trod through mud
trod through hills and valleys,
trod through indigo
in tanks
for you.
You are the bullet
I bite blistering my lips
and my tongue calling
You, enslaver -
affectionately called masa
or suh dem seh
Inna mi dream -
a blue dream,
where we
trod through tanks of indigo
years upon years
with paddles,
hands wrinkled
bodies being burnt,
like your tar babies,
born out of wedlock,
because all of us
are property
freely disposed of
when needs be
freely deposited in
when needs be.
I am a descendant.
A descendant of slaves,
A descendant of black women,
who birthed babies
out of wedlock
out of consent
out of knowing,
Their place and right
To live uninhibited,
With two fists pummelling
Their backs
Breaking and unbreaking repeatedly
In fields of saccharine produce
Golden now,
We harvest.
Wanting gold for you,
Wanting gold on my body,
To be seen like you
And heard.
III
The year is 1944
and the blue of the Union Jack
flutters in the sky aimlessly,
clinging on remnants
Of a fragmented past…
Jamaica was granted full adult suffrage on November 20, 1944. Prior to that, the right to vote was determined by the amount of wealth or property a man held, and women were not allowed to vote at all.
4 years prior to the birth of my grandmother.
There was no freedom.
Women birthed daughters
Who were property,
Who remained unseen,
Who remained unheard,
Few lives documented.
Their eyes looked up towards many blue moons,
Between unwavering hills and valleys,
Green against skin,
Running towards freedom
Against the picturesque blue hues
That remind me of the boats
thrusting against littorals
In 1662,
300 years prior.
Now,
White women
Welcome us in white homes
With arms outstretched,
With tasks ready,
To break the backs
That pushed through blue,
Fusing magic to produce hues
For your blue dresses
You wear to picnics on green grass
Against the blue mountains
Where fugitives fled
To live in mountain-tops.
Blue was never enough for you.
You wanted servitude.
Years of serving tea,
Coffee, with sugar or no sugar?
Orange juice picked from our fields
In Bog Walk,
Braiding and cane-rowing
Straight roots with
No curls or volume,
Wiping shit from white toilets,
Cleaning pearly beaches,
Pristine white sand against
Blue shores with strong tides,
Where we first met,
Grinding grabba
For your pipe,
For your sticks you wave in the sky,
Two fingers clenched,
Two hands in a chokehold
Holding my freedom.
Wanting dreaded cocks
For pleasure
To fuel the heat that
Devours your brain.
Who feels it,
Knows it.
Who felt it,
Knew it.
IV
The first inhabitants of the land,
Had high regard for women.
No fixed gender roles.
No fixed symbols.
No signs
Of being
Womxn
Mxn
Non-binary.
We’ve always existed.
From 2 spirit
To Māhū
Or Muxe
And the Hijras of the orient…
We’ve always existed.
Yet we’re confused.
Is it because we don’t fit the mould?
Is my skirt too blue for you?
To fitted?
Are my eyes too powdered,
Painted with indigo…
My voice too deep,
Yet I look like womxn,
Yet I look like mxn…
Yet I’m neither.
V
You tell us,
Tone it down.
You tell us,
Live your lifestyle,
But don’t shove it down my throat.
Yet,
You’ve consumed greater things
Than me.
You tell us,
You don’t deserve to be here.
And day by day,
The list of accepted ways of being grows,
Shrinking us into the shadows.
They call us
He-she,
Man weh dress like ooman,
Cross dressa…
Crassis!
You beat us.
Bruised,
With bullets,
Blue.
In time,
Who fi know will know…
Dem always know.
They call us
He-she,
Man weh dress like ooman,
Cross dresser…
And you beat us -
Bruised,
With bullets,
Blue.
We call them,
Conquista
Evangelismo
Civilizacion.
300 years an’ counting,
When it aguh done?
Yet,
I am just a descendant,
Just like you.
I’m just a descendant,
Just like you.