♪ (singing in a foreign language) ♪
This is for the days
when poetry becomes reconstructive surgery
for a gaping spirit,
where prayers go where our hands cannot,
where my black may be the color of reason
and my name can snap a trigger
for all of the loved ones who did not come home,
for all of the times I had to undo the hurt,
how I became my own church
and my eyes cried a new religion,
for all of the times they told me to pray
instead of at least asking, "Are you okay?"
for all of the times I had to learn
how to offer myself back to myself again.
There will be many of these days
where you will feel beaten down
by the weight of your own galaxy,
like you are a shooting star emptying its clip in the sky
on a celestial drive-by.
But can't nobody tell you how to defy.
Can't nobody tell you how to be fly.
Can't nobody try to clip your wings
when you've never needed them to leave gravity behind.
See, this world's favorite song will try to dance your flesh
into an illusion,
but your skin, your skin is made of dreams
that turn into songs, that turn into laughter,
that turn into a song.
So sing, y'all!
Sing for all of the times they tried to silence your thunderous cry,
and if they throw you shade, peel back your name,
and show them how it is a sunrise.
It is a reason to wake up every morning.
You are always a reason to wake up every morning,
because the morning ain't always been kind.
The morning ain't always been faithful.
But Momma said, "Speak through your actions."
She said, "Speak through your art."
She said, "You came from me,
so you've been celestial from the start."
Know that when this world feels like a flood,
your tongue can be the ark.
So learn their streets and their languages,
but never forget the language of your heart.
(speaks in a foreign language)
English is only my fourth language.
It is the baby of the family.
It is the one my mouth spoils, favored by default,
who may one day be sold off by all of its siblings
in hopes to never return
because all of my other tongues have grown so jealous.
In my country,
in my country of Cameroon,
we have over 200 dialects.
That's over 200 ways to say "love,"
to say "family,"
to say "I belong to something that does not want to kill me,
and does not want to siphon the gold from my flesh
or the stories from my bones."
You know, I was a house once,
full of stories--
one for this American dream,
the other is me still trying to translate the catacomb accents
of my parents' tongues when it would say,
"You have become so American now."
I know what they really mean to say
is deport all of that tribe from your mouth.
You talk like them now.
You walk like them now.
No more of that Yaoundé, Cameroon stuck in my teeth.
Now, everything tastes like the steps to unbirthing a country,
which is to say that America has a way of killing everything it comes from.
A passport can feel like a smooth step death sentence.
So I learned early
how to fold myself into a flag,
how to stitch myself a newly striped name,
a new set of stars.
I was always able to pass through customs,
but my tongue had to stay behind,
which is to say,
I remember when I was too black for Africans
and too African for blacks.
But all a meaningless story in America.
My name was thick in chemically enhanced amendments.
My name was wishing for a white picket flesh
while living with Section 8 bones,
which is to say that you can be a house,
but America has a way of reminding you
that you're not a home,
you're only the debris, the aftermath,
the constant reconstruction, the projects.
They will say that you don't belong
in the country that doesn't even belong to itself.
But oh, America! I mean, show us your papers.
I mean, who documented your dream?
I mean, can the attack dogs still smell the unalienable
right from my brittle and marginalized skin?
Because I know,
I know that the bullet does not care which side of the ocean I am from.
It will swim through my body all the same.
It will try to make a home of me
until my name is but a salted exit wound.
But I know that my tongue is still patiently awaiting for my return.
But I wonder if I will only feel like a stranger in my own house,
which is to say
that I know that one day I will grow up
to become a language that is always worth coming home to.
How are y'all doin', storytellers?
(cheers and applause)
Y'all so beautiful, y'all so beautiful!