Sis Things

Let us workshop this satire of the trite content and style we hear ad nauseum in black spoken word performances--a satire pushing us to do better than this lazy shit, this Disneyfied false black power

*My rendition isn’t the best, but you get the idea

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Sis Things

Throw tomatoes out. Throw tomatoes out. I am inSISting, but with no “please”—for once no “please.” A black queen speaks no “yessum.” I will be heard, I will be heard, because black is king. “Black is king”—a phrase of pride, but don’t believe the Disney lies. What lies beneath lies is that black reigns supreme. I am tired of insisting but still I am inSISting: no tomatoes. Black reigns supreme.

Tomatoes: Sis, you know who I mean. And you, Sis—will you asSISt in this thing? Pale monkey each day I am reSISting—I want them not eXISting. HomeostaSIS disrupters. PsoriaSIS—why do you think I flare my edges. PsoriaSIS—where do you think I got the flares? From the likes of white—yes, even from the likes of white. Stop with the likes. Unfollow me. I say it and then even more follow me. Do you think I stole something? Who can breath with all this white?

But this night? This night—black—is different. Dear white people—no, more like ‘listen up bitch-ass crackas’: this is a sis thing—‘sis’ as in ‘sisterhood’—emphasis on the ‘hood.’ Cuz when we peak under the hood, their ain’t no sister without no brother—yes, the ones who get shot for a hood. So this thing is for sisters and brothers, not for you or you or you. And if any of you or you or you calls me ‘hood,’ best believe ya’ll gonna see hood.

I’ll be damned if I remain at the hands of white power. They’ve been killing us—killing us, killing us—since white hand tied us in chains to their towers. Fuck their towers of ivory where they still let white Twains say ‘nigger’ and talk about Nigger Jim. I am not reading Huckleberry Finn. Fuck your curriculum. I am not your negro. I am not someone you can abuse.

This thing, like all things if things were right, is for sisters and beautiful—beautiful—chocolate brothers. No, its not for you or you or you. And it damn sure ain’t for my cracker mother. You come to support, but whiteness exploits. You call yourselves ‘allies,’ but whiteness exploits. I tell you this, but you can’t hear. Not for white cconsumption. Not for white consumption. This is not part of the show: leave! I’ll wait.

I’ll wait, but I’ll wait in vain. The world is swallowed by white. But against the white my blackness survives. Against the white I shout: ‘these are sis things.’ In the mirror I say: Cry, cry if you have to, SIS. Here—amidst cri-SIS, the world spins and spins on its a-XIS—they think they got access, ac-CESS, to the essence of me. Their tiny dicks in my ancestors I feel in me. Trauma passes through the genes. But look at my jeans. My jeans are not for Becky. They are for someone with ass, and this ass ain’t taking no more shit! Look at these cheeks. No tiny dicks can access. No more passes to the divine in me, Nu-bian deity. No more glimpses into the essence of a queen: a New Being summoning you to listen.

Listen to what? What’s the lesson? We are more than bodies. White degradation only touches bodies. But we ascend. We transcend mere body. A black sister made for more than catching bodies. ‘How many bodies? What’s your body count?’ White questions should be bodied. Divinities are more than bodies. Why the fuck do we reduce ourselves then to bodies? Why do we mimic the pain, the disdain, the filth the white swine fling at our bodies? Their thin lips, their pale skin, their vile bodies. No body will again perpetuate a vile cycle against my bruised black blackened body.

They attack the very black of our bodies. And yet they tan. Just think about it: and yet they tan. Fuck my white mother. Baby oil out in the sun—fuck you and your jungle fever, your colonial slumming, that brought me into this antiblack hell. No I will not say ‘Good morning’ to the likes of you. I refuse to say ‘Good morning’ to the likes of you. I rebuke you. I yell: “Get the behind me Satan!”

I stand, a chalice, on the brink of overflow. When waters surge, levees break. This we know. The levees are about to break. Say it with me now: the levees are about to break. Katrina I guess ain’t teach whitey nothing bout black folk. Did Katrina's whispers not reach their ivory towers of nigger-talking Twain? My people stay drowning. My people stay drowning and yet I have to read Huckleberry Finn from this nigger-talking Twain.

We still drownin as they laugh—laugh. Go ahead and laugh, but—ya’ll damn well know them levees was built to crack. Them crackers planned the attack. They were not built to last.

I’m not your pawn, not your plaything. I will be reborn. I say this but—my nights are mournings and my mornings have become me mourning. I will not stop mourning until we stop the hiring of whites, the birth of whites. I will not stop mourning until we put a stop to imprisoning black men, each morning they stare outside through bars.

Turn, turn—turn to me mourning my people submerged. And here I am ironically spitting for you again, reminded—reminded of Eric Garner spitting for you and you on youtube. And here I am fucked by white eyes again and again. That Caucasian gaze. Can we not have a space that’s or is it in your nature to infiltrate?

Reminded—how can we not be? Reminded of Brianna Taylor’s eternal slumber. I say her name to white applause from white hands who, after this very show, will be the very white hands quick to dial my executioners. Say my name now. Say all the names, lost.

So many names. Much much more than seven. But how can the names not remind me of seven—yes, the seven of that saint who was killed under lies and now lies in heaven. His choke was seven—seven minutes, lying, not seven seconds. I can’t get the sacred seven out my fucking brain no more than I can get white out my damn space.

Let me be direct. Why are you all here? I don’t want you watching. These are sis things. Why do you make everything about you and your comfort? You and your comfort. You had your comfort long enough. All my energy is spent on surviving your presence, your poisoned tomatoes. Let me breathe. Let me breathe. Let me breathe. Let me breathe.

My suffocation brings tears to your eyes. But they are of joy! I, for one, have had my fill of white tears. These are sis things. You are not worth my ink, my time. But I have to fight you. I am too angry to stay silent. I am a testament to the resilience, the resistance of the black soul against colonial oppression.

The world spins on its a-XIS, each day I give you access ac-CESS, to me—to me. But today no more. No more whiteness. I will wade—yes, I will waaaaadddde hand in hand with Harriet's ghost through waters that will cleanse, that will set us free—no longer hostage to the devil’s hoax. That, in the least my sisters and brothers, is my final hope.

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