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letra de tsunami rising - meshell ndegéocello

in the balance of human biology all bodies are created equal, every body, exactly, 70% water. regardless of race. religion, gender, s-x. s-xual orientation. we all die after seven days without drink

but the idiots obsessed with category have decided that a double x chromosome designates me subordinate to all those with an x and a y intersect those two x’s with thе fact of my blackness and my existencе is coded as dangerous hostile a direct threat to the endurance of the white patriarchy. white men have spent centuries perfecting appropriation, taking what they want when they want. the gold they found in africa was not enough, so they packed our bodies, human bodies, head to toe submerged in a swamp of our own urine and feces. they dragged us across violent waters, drowning our memories, our histories fading to fractured stories of dark-skinned women washing blankets and rivers we have never seen

500 years later, most black people in the diaspora, have only dreamt of the waters of the east smaller than the ones that brought us here, kinder than the waters in which many of us drowned or young rather than let them live in captivity. at the mercy of those white men and their sons and their grandsons and their grandsons’ sons

for centuries the lineage of whiteness has made sport of cutting open the flesh of women of color tearing our skin with whips using all manner of doctrines and ticks to forcefully enter our bodies, our very minds splitting, our bellies ripping out what they desire

after that, many of us had to become one-dimensional. unable to display all of us. we had to become one thing or the other, spinster or mother, virgin or victim, damsel or wh0re, we were made to choose. lose some. so we could keep some

most of a solid multitude of sorrows, bartering silence for safety. we learn to lie, still in the putrid water. we decided to mark death with sleep. most of us let go completely slipping away into the sunken place, others jumped and drowned overboard never to be seen again. others crawled through the sewage and built cities in other countries

in brooklyn, on the planet of brooklyn, i spend my nights reading tales of the nubians bathing naked in the nile, kush-te queens equal to kings all of them praying to isis, the most powerful goddess among gods. mother of all the rulers. if i were her, i would use my might to smite every motherf-cker whoever looked at a little girl, with l-st in his flesh, i would exact vengeance on behalf of every black woman who was disproportionately boring the weight of s-xual violence. everyone has turned a blind eye to her silently mouthing #metoo, #metoo, #metoo, for centuries, for centuries, rape was a word we only whispered in private

then the richest whitest women in america began to say #metoo, too. never mind that this whole #metoo movement was born from the brilliance of a black woman’s word that inspired a wildfire of telling that telling has pulled the conversation about s-xual violation from the shadows shoved it onto primetime tv. 12 years later, black women are still missing from the public dialogue. we are so tired of being slave to the invisible. we are not made of stone. black women also carry the weight of these violations. we have been here for centuries screaming #metoo, #metoo, into our hands into our flesh into the black echo of silence

even as we seem unaffected, our sorrow sits inside our bellies, our very bones, even when we cannot conjure the words to admit how much the memory of it hurts? we are still saying, #metoo, #metoo even as we refuse to show you exactly where or how or when it hurts, or how we were tore open

we are only holding our tongues so our hearts do not explode. we are exhausted from holding everything in, and we are fast losing faith in the future we always believe would come

for centuries, we have endured the culture of rape and racism combined, for centuries, the world has stood silent while black men were beaten and bullied by black men and white men and white women, for centuries anyone who wanted to hit something or own someone they could decide we were it, tag without consequence. anyone could tag the black woman, tag the dark girl, tag the universal punching bag, but this crazy mad gaggle of global brown b-tches and hands are done braiding the needs of silent acceptance. women everywhere are rising like an angry tide, our collective rivers are full from the tears of all the women, all of us who are sick and tired of weeping, we are now roaring like an ocean, come back to take back what was carried away by the brutality of men without my permission. touch me one more motherf-cking time and see what happens. this time your apologies will no longer shield you from retribution

every act of breaking and entering every unwanted fluid that was ever emptied into or already full cup will be made public, will be made public, will be made public

and while we’re here talking about confessions i might as well tell you. i don’t give a f-ck that you never really liked me. my mouth, my black mouth, black like my mother’s ass has not quite endured me to most. this is not a popularity contest. what you hear me say, this is not a popularity contest. i am only here to call black women to their own actions
and if you happen to be black, if you happen to wear the label of girl, if you dare to live long enough to become a woman, if you ever had to argue that, you are no less deserving than your white counterpart if you have ever been inspired by the magic of a black woman with thighs, and asses that move mountains in their stride. if you speak from the thick lip of your own tooth, if you have ever been called girl, like it was a dirty word. if you have ever been called a b-tch, then you step forward. if you are itching to light a f-cking bonfire in the house of the white patriarchy come stand with us now

if you want to be free like harriet tubman, weapon in hand, waiting for unfriendly waters, her power compelling the freedom of even those who did not want to be free. if you desire to be confrontational like sojourner truth, if you wish to be audacious like audre lorde, antagonistic like angela davis, gangsta like winnie mandela, angry like assata shakur. come roar with us in the corner, sit beside us in schools, chant with us in church, vote with us and for us at the polls, travel with us in public, in the virtual, in the flesh, over these waters they have used against us as weapons across the lands of this rock we all call home

let us use our fire to crack this ground wide open with an uprising that they have never seen before, that they will never see again, that will never ever die down

no more water, the fire next time. no more water. the fire next time

wanna say, no more water. give me the fire next time

- meshell ndegeocello

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