8. (The Tranny Ritual)

Welk geschiedenis citaat moet je herkouwen om je mede 11 jarige te overtuigen een andere bijnaam dan rasta of neger te gebruiken?

Hoe hoor je te reageren wanneer je docent jou ff uitlegt dat jou inkapabel zijn toch echt in je genen zit?Shoutout juf Marga, jou stem zit nogsteeds echt in mijn hoofd gegrift. En wat als je een spek en bonen stage loopt, want koffie rondes bij de oudjes klinkt veel leuker dan zweten in de gym les… Wat zeg je dan op de vraag "Spreek jij nederlands?", behalve wat gegiegel en "ja tuurlijk man, ik kom uit Amsterdam"

Want als het ging om voor mij maar verwarrende situaties, herkende ik vaak de oorzaak niet. En als ik wel een link legde met hun woorden, en mijn complextie, dan was de oplossing nog ver te zoeken. Ik lette echt op bij geschiedenis les maar moest mijn ouders vragen wat er niet benoemd werd in de boeken

There is distance within me
I feel how made up I am of separate entities
This body holds history

Mine has been shaped by different countries, cultures, ethnicities
And so my face, to many remains a mystery

The closest correct answer I get is generally -ISH

We learned to adapt to your customs,
your habits, your traditions, your presence.
We learned your anthems, your religions,
your languages, your rules and standards.

Darling, you must remember
that patience is an art too,
and we must wear it while time piece us together

The Walnut trees are cracking 

from the children's throwing of stones

How wrong were my throws?

How I was thinking of that pretty girl Fawzia..!

And that pretty girl was near me, feeding me nuts and fires

That pretty girl was near me, asking me whether my absence, a presence desires

she ran, so I ran

and my long black hair plucked the daisies

and we soon became one

- To where? she asks

- To you.

In this country everybody is welcome.
Maar waarom ben je hier? Why are you here?
First question that comes to mind when you’re a newcomer in strange lands.
Faced with endless lists and bullet points to track and measure their demands.

When nature is hurting and the Earth is crumbling
they say the only way is onward
When we cannot stop or else everything will collapse,
they say the only way is onward

I have the voice of a coloniser 

I know

When I speak in my mothers mother tongue and say 

حبيبي عيوني اقعدي جنبي 

بحكيلك قصة وانت بتحكي لي قصة

انت متلي وانا متلك

They know I am not 

I am both the coloniser and the colonised 

A messy fraction of a third culture 

Smokes and mirrors carrying both privilege and pain

But I am more than a voice I am more than the memories left upon this body, 

I am cute

I’m humble and I’m arrogant 

I’m a messy fraction of a human 

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been running 

The iron hand of my father, never missing its mark

 I’ve been running

The words hurled at me from a culture I never asked for

I’ve been running

Veiling me in the fabric of a rhetoric that insists my existence is a mistake

I’ve been running

They wanted to cover me from head to toe, when I never asked to be covered 

I’ve been running 

At eighteen, I walked out of our home and never went back 

I’ve been running 

Into the arms of lovers again and again, lonely nights spent in rib cages that didn’t belong to me 

So I started running, towards myself, 

Somewhere along the way I found a pack of wolves, queer, savage, soft

They protected me like an injured pup. Circling until I built my own home, bone by bone.

Now maybe I’ll stop running.

Fuck you 

I’m tired of using soft words to sooth your tender ears 

Fuck you

I’m tired of putting things in a neat little box for you to understand

Fuck you 

For making me shape shift and change into a mailable unrecognizable thing until you find me palatable 

Fuck you

For every time you say cover your hair, Take your that thing out of your nose, have some modesty 

Fuck you

For everytime your existence is celebrated with cries of joy from our Syrian aunts, uncles and family, while I’m erased 

Fuck you 

For telling me to be understanding and cut them slack when my bitterness has no place to turn

Fuck you

They say blood is thicker than water, yet with a thousand small cuts you keep drawing blood from my body until there is nothing left

Fuck you

For trying to contain my rage and projecting your narrative onto me 

Fuck you

Everytime you tell me it could have been worse, or I’m entering their space, or I need to accept it and move on

Fuck you 

My acceptance runs on my time not yours 

Fuck you

Let me fucking feel whatever the fuck I feel 

Fuck you 

Everytime you roll your eyes when i interject into one of your monologues 

Fuck you

You want to be heard and silence me while never actually listening yourself 

Fuck you

For having to make me write these little words into a little poem because my little feelings have nowhere to go

Fuck you

I will not be erased 

Fuck you

And fuck me 

Because I love you and hate you all at once 

I’ve never really known how to answer that. 

Do I like falafel and hummus enough to be considered one of you?

I swear I can keep in line with the dabke only a few stumbles here and there. 

I can hold a conversation with only the occasional glance towards a word just out of my reach. 

But I was never quite modest enough

I’ve been looking at my phone for the longest time of my life.
Being addicted to likes,
and pretending to live a perfect life that I don’t actually have.

And I feel safe in this limited space,

There have been countless times that I cried in your arms.

I felt so silly back then.

You could make me sad with so little,

and I actually felt a bit guilty.

Because I knew that it would make you sad too

Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore—

Somebody once asked me: “Why poetry? What's the deal with it? What's so special about spoken word? The world doesn't need another poet”

I told them: Well, hold up, sweetheart, let's get it together, because 
I’m about to drop all of this on you:
You see...

Words can create
Words can uplift