Africa is a stranger, even – especially? – to the African American; a dark blot on the page in history which signaled the *shameful Middle Passage; a claustrophobic “Dark Continent” of literature modeling colonialism; a shotgun shack porch onto which the awkward mixed child is tossed; a crowded box into which many are stuffed, stamped, Return to Sender; the place we’ve never been and aren’t sure we have the means to discover.
Africa is the uncomfortable sibling, the ignored twin, from whom too many of us wrest clothes and custom, accessories and art, rooting thoughtlessly, tossing her things without looking, without asking, without first knowing her, or her true name.
A continent, not a country. A continent not a country. Shall I say it again?
A choir of many voices, a volume with many pages, a series with sequel after sequel after sequel. Like us: original. Like us, similar. Like us.
Africa is…
Africa is.
New music I have sampled and surprised myself into tasting again, and again – African. New voices, poets I have discovered and rediscovered – African. Picture books! Fashion. Philosophy. Innovations. African. After years and years and years of turning away, of cringing discomfort, of outright shame, I am grateful today that of the many inner worlds which we inhabit, there is still something new to discover in the outer one, and that I have finally developed respect and affection for the continent from whence – even centuries ago, even not knowing the country code or address – I came.
This poem by Kenyan-born Somali poet Warshan Shire is popping up around the internet this week, and goes nicely with my thoughts about the ubiquity of African talent being noised about in the world which uses without acknowledgement of Africans.
what they did yesterday afternoon by warsan shire
they set my aunts house on fire
i cried the way women on tv do
folding at the middle
like a five pound note.
i called the boy who use to love me
tried to ‘okay’ my voice
i said hello
he said warsan, what’s wrong, what’s happened?
i’ve been praying,
and these are what my prayers look like;
dear god
i come from two countries
one is thirsty
the other is on fire
both need water.
later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.
The poetry of Kenyan born Somali-British poet, Warsan Shire, can be found on her blog and at her Tumblr.
*The “shame” of Africa in American history is that Africa’s presence was shown to many African American children ONLY in terms of colonialism. Africa was NOTHING but a place from whence came slaves, and of which there is no story but of amusingly naked tribal folk in thatched huts with innocently godless ignorance who barter cows for wives and can be bought, like tiny children, with bright pieces of worthlessness, of mindless violence, dire poverty and/or famine. That is a lie, and a source of shame to many black students and a missed teachable moment for EVERY student, and darn it, teachers, you must do better, no matter what curriculum you’re handed. < / rant>.