I see you from across the room with your question mark brows,
arms crossed in expectation,
head on tilt.
Watch you come slinking towards me,
and before we've even met, before you've even asked my name,
before you've even said, "Hello, what a fine day we're having,"
you stare at my face like a map you cannot read,
like a puzzle with centerpiece missing,
like a game you will play and will win.
"Your eyes," you say-- and here comes the grocery store list.
"Almonds," you say, "with a spoonful of mint jelly."
"Honey," you say, "with the zest of a lime.
The inside of a Tootsie Pop mixed with green apple Pop Rocks.
What are you?"
(audience) Hmm!
Words so familiar yet sharp,
like the pain in the side after running a mile on a full stomach,
like an old pocket knife, handle worn smooth in your hand
but still dried in blood after all these years.
"Well..." I say, but already you are gone,
turned on your heels, retreating to safe spaces.
This is not what you wanted.
You want a one-word answer. But friend, this is not a one-word story.
There is a child whose ancestors came from across a salty blue sea.
She is one half of the world's population.
She is multiplying by the second.
She is unstoppable, yet on this soil she is taught to be silent,
to never raise her hand, never make too much trouble,
never make herself known.
They fear her for the magic she holds between her ears,
for the magic of momentum that will not be still.
(audience) Yes!
There is a child whose ancestors have always lived here.
They crossed borders that were created
only out of some colorless man's imagination,
yet within these lines, she is told she does not belong,
to go back where she came from,
as if where she came from is not where she is,
as if her limbs were not birthed on this land,
as if her toes have not always known the feel of this earth.
They fear her for the magic she holds in soft places,
for the magic of her seeds spreading like wildflowers in the spring.
There is a child whose ancestors came on ships.
They were kings in a land we all came from,
before we even knew what white was,
before we set it on an altar, apart and above.
Yet here she is told that her scars are too loud,
that she must hide all evidence of building a country on her back,
that she must be content
that things now are better than they have been,
though every breath and bullet would tell her differently.
They fear her for the magic she holds in the bones of her memory,
for the magic of her song that will not lay down quietly.
You ask me what I am and hear my words as mutiny,
igniting fires you are not ready for in your comfortable home,
surrounded by your books and your friends,
not even noticing when you look around the room
that your skin is all the milky same,
that you have learned how to keep out anything
that may dirty the walls of your castles,
that may challenge the sovereignty of your thrones.
And where does this fear come from?
We all run when we're scared, or turn with fists up and fight,
or drop to the ground to find solace in the earth,
or find some sense in the smell of the grass.
I can tell you my history in terms of trauma,
or laughter, or scars on my knees, or books on my shelves,
or the number of times my heart has been broken.
I can tell you my history by the things my eyes have seen,
but you learn nothing by the shape of them.
You ask me what I am and search for safety in the answer.
There is no safety here.
There is a child whose ancestors came from opposite ends of the earth.
They met in the middle in a land where the air is sticky and sweet.
She loves Malay and eating ice cream in bed,
and the way her body feels when covered in mud and in sweat
and small living things she can hold in the palm of her hand.
She is too young for stillness.
She is too old for silence.
And her eyes...
her eyes change color with the wind.
(cheers) (applause)