BLM

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Lulu Nyirenda

Is this a revolution?
Have we finally found a solution?
We can’t erase the past
Hiding behind masks
Injustices rejection discrimination
World wide condemnation
Your Judgement bashing venomous words
You Left us bleeding on the kerb
I am black I am proud
Ssshhh I am being loud
We are exhausted we are hurt
Now our voices will be heard
Can you see what I have been through?
Systemic violence perpetuated by you
You will never fully understand
I do accept the extension of your hand
Stand with me walk with me
Only you can help create peace

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

My Brownness and Me

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Ranu Uniyal

My mother is from the interiors of Sumari.
Forgive me, I am brown
and I speak Garhwali – a dialect
from the hills. I once sat on a
hurricane of love and travelled
far, as far as Haworth, to be flanked
by the Brontes; long dead.

Cobbled on streets, touched the moors
having left Heathcliff in Srinagar
I walked towards the Humber bridge
and settled my feet in Scarborough,
where my favourite Anne Bronte was buried,
after an illness, which then, had no cure.

My Brownness I shared with my
mates from Thessaloniki.
How beautiful are these women from
the Mediterranean, said my Welsh boyfriend.
I pinched his cheeks and swallowed my curses
with a lyrical smile. This much of decency
I clung to, but it weighed me down.

Years full of spit and shame, scabs and screams.
Hey bog! How brown! Ugly frown!
Where’s your town?
I let them be.
This space that I called my own
I held in my squatter’s palm.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

What are you?

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Munawwar Abdulla

Who cares about identity!?
Are we here for a fun time?
The run time for this movie is
Three hours and twenty-eight minutes:
A long time even if we’re on time if we
Unwind and confide
Remind one another
The high tides and the low tides
And the show times and the sun dried
Tomatoes get better with some thyme.
All we have are one-liners and stop
Watch timers.

I am a bit red from the sun I am
A bit unwell and undone and
Unhinged, on the run from
My crisis, what crisis? Really, there was naan.
I was the one who mixed and mixed
From pure bread to pun. Intentionally,
Or unintended maybe, they asked, where
Are you from? I said down under, I was from
The south of Australia. Centre, the central
Steppes of Asia I said under there, you know,
Under the cloth there is a sloth who
May be too lazy for fun. From lazy eye
To lazy eye we questioned conundrums. We
Sat in circles and created referendums,
Sought markers from PCR runs and
Shook fists at PRC guns, hid behind
Great wonders and drank red serums,
Hoping for an answer to our mind’s deliriums.

But who cares about identity?
Are we here for a fun time?
I’m here to place an arm around her, I’m
Here to go on a verdant adventure
With people to whom food is the greatest pleasure
With people who throw the greatest treasure
Into the pits of the fire, face still hot with desire
Isn’t that fun?

In the orchard of apple groves
She waits for her lover by an apricot tree
I think she drove herself to madness deliberately
A transcendental madness, lovingly
Wondering where on earth they could be
Together, together with no identities.
They spoke until the end of time, until
The sun burned a hole through the sunnier climes
And we stopped watching the clock to dig deeper into
This soliloquy. Who cares about identity..?
I just came here for a fun time and
Honestly I’m feeling so attacked right now.
I say, perhaps I’m wired this way, always
Tired this way, always inspired yet
Dismayed to see what transpires in
Me.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Fluid

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Daley Rangi

why you big brown bearded boy wear a dress
they press me, and dispossess me
soliciting clarifying address on this repressed mess of largesse
it’s in their blood to suppress you see
make me undress and acquiesce you see
my blessed intersectional existence seems not my own you see
like many of your own, my kin, our ancestry a sin
interrogated, assaulted, destroyed, and then censored in history
those who are like me cannot thrive, deprived, and buried alive in discourteous antiquity
emboldened men, full of gobbledygook, spreading lies, stealing land, starting wars
i just know you crook Captain-Cook looking fuckers will Endeavour to make me all yours
gotta profess that many public queries are quite cruel, some benign, some curious
the fact to depress is that most are quite furious
why you big brown bearded boy wear a dress
you’re not allowed to express
gotta confess, these reservations bring me real stress and distress
despite my visage, scraps of privilege, me too have been pillaged, body trauma, sacrilege
they think we’ve made progress in excess, claiming minor success
that is but a half-truth, scribbled down in many a book
unless we come out and assess
as one tribe, admit they mistook and forsook, and they took and retook
nevertheless, i digress, i speak of one grisly peak, not unique for this freak
informing this bleak poem, and all that i seek
one particular repugnant street specimen tried his best to transgress and oppress
some studderin scum of a white brutha from anotha motha
just like all the otha that strived to smotha my greater than thou
my great greatest grandmotha
as much as you tried, she lives on in me
and you are left empty by yours, a husk of dead air
now hollerin trashy white noise, fat fist raised high to scare
cheered on by his bad boys, beat, butcher, burn this trash queer
why you big brown bearded boy wear a dress
in that split-second i split, racing thoughts coalesce
see to me, i decree, this body flying carefree
in the midst of all the hate that you give
or the death you might bring
i will be spillin on your lap my black tea
the politest reply to your enquiry
my friend not a friend, but i portend that you’ll mend one day
the message i’ll send before my end, is that i’ll do it my way
you see
my gender is fluid; it is akin to water
it slips through my fingers and takes many forms
it is a destructive force of nature, is a wonder to behold.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Valimai

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Niki David

Sometimes I wear huge sweaters like my Amama (grandma)
The mix of itchy wool and polyester wraps around me
Her presence engulfs me as I sit on our rickety front porch
Sipping her famous masala chai, I reminisce
The flavors of the sweet cardamom and zesty ginger take me back to a place I’ve only been
in my head

In this place, I try to imagine what her life would have been
What battle scars she has been forced to carry

Why is strength always portrayed in destruction?
The weight of the sun must be heavy
But yet, every day, twice a day, God is able to carry its weight
Does that not take strength? Does that not take munificence?
I have learned strength is not only what you did but why you tried
This is why silence has become my new mother tongue

There is strength is silence
There is strength in vulnerability
I fight fear when my hair is being braided and oiled in the laps of women
Women who have fought fear to survive
Fear I won’t ever have to experience because of their strength

I think of my Amama, cooking in the tiresome kitchen
Melted ghee making golden sizzling lakes
Her callused hands working a million miles a minute
What made her who she is?
Who forced her to grow up?
Was is the fact she had to walk hours in the blistering sun to get a single bucket of water for
her family?
Or maybe it was the fact she taught to hate her rich brown skin because of colonizing British
beauty that caged her mind and spirit

Behind her hard exterior there is mountains of pain
Pain she could never show
Pain she feels because the proclamation of being a woman was stolen from her

When she tells me these stories, I hear the throbbing dejection echo from her voice
But I admire her for it
Not only because she went through it, but because she lived to tell it
She is my only definition of valimai

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

The Face of Evil

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih

Someone painted the face of evil
with the exposed brain
(or what looks like the exposed brain)
of a Predator, thinly camouflaged with hair,
dyed blond, swept back and patted down
like the pompadour roof of a tongkonan,
where Torajas keep the dead before their burial.
Someone said the face has eyes almost blue
like the Night King, however,
with puffy under-eye bags, veined and greyish,
it looks more like a four-eyed monster.
The nose of a pig would suit it better
than the nose of a WASP.
But worst of all is the mouth, always twisting,
in scorn, in derision, in rage, in hate,
spewing out a lava flow of lies:
‘War is Peace
Freedom is Slavery
Ignorance is Strength,’
climate change is a Chinese hoax,
nuclear arms are lucrative deals,
windmills cause cancer,
unsavoury truths are fake news,
and on and on…

The face of evil is not
‘a cancer on … democracy’;
it is not
‘a cancer on the presidency’;
such a face is the beginning
of the end of us all.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Nearly Brown

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Phoebe Lupton

small child/grown woman
mother/father
white/brown.

a girl was born
not white/not brown.
nearly white/nearly brown.

in the winter her skin was white
like the snow/like her mother.

in the summer her skin was brown
like a nut/like her father.

children asked her where she was from.
australia/sri lanka.

dichotomies the world made for her
melted at birth/vanished through growth.

nearly white/nearly brown
but she was always human.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

For Backstreet Boys Selling Their Kites

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Nnadi Samuel

“Warning: Black boys are in danger of becoming extinct” — trey anthony

black, tossed to a scattering brown.
how does this even tuck in?
chaffs they kite into stars,
brittle as a badge chewing a whole brand— me & my teenage boys,
known for all of our queer bodies.

we shove to flight,
& die with white greetings.
knifing phrases, like “negro bears no ego, so what’cha gon do bingo!”

we sponge it into our loin:
glyphs that trace their letters to our ribs.
black can’t mat his skin for holes to breathe,
the imams would kill him on their kneels.

prayer kills faster than grief,
makes you a preying thing:
like loss barreling through your skin,
poisoning your boyhood.

black foamed like white heavens,
mealing from shack to shack,
bright & faded,
like an elder skein.
how does this even tuck in without a song?
chants, to prune our skin & seduce it colors.
& teach it not to die,
& not to be equally yoked with white believers.

& not to believe that the sky do not believe in our craft;
how it wave says I’m one amongst dust till I groom my skin.
like how does this tuck in with all blacks,
when we fold our hands to fake flaps?

why should it be us selling our own kites to main boys, living in principal streets?
the slum should love our records,
if all that’s here is fleeting.

I parent my body into adopting a boy skinny as me,
barely shaved, with an accent for grief:
a language blacks knew before they knew their skin.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Hyphenated

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Thuy On

Cognitive dissonance is an Asian woman
who has to carry her grandmother’s special Phở
in her lukewarm blood to impress at dinner parties,
be after schooled in strings and numbers:
a hothouse orchid with no outside breeze

She has to be an ingenue unwise to the ways of men
who largely want her for her smallness
the wriggling cheongsam the flutter fingers
then stillness: bamboo waist and water lily serene
lickable caramel against their burly chests

Everyone loves a happy migrant story:
leaky prawn trawler to valedictorian
a seam of jade trapped in ancestral dust
to be extracted and rubbed to sheen
she is blazing a trail to prove her worth.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Daughter

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Rashida Murphy

Now that we are
Two brown women
In this country that still asks
Where we’re really from

There are so many things
I wish I’d told you

Your great grandmother shelled peas in a steel bowl
Your great grandfather sat on park benches with invisible signs
Your great aunties made magic in the kitchens of my childhood
Your great uncles carried imperialism in their bow-legged bodies

Now that we are
Two brown women
In this country that still
Can’t pronounce our names

There are so many things
I wish I’d told you

Mustard seeds only pop in very hot oil
Summer rain makes me cry
Round chapatis are hard to make
I still smell death in marigolds

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Triptych – Past Present Future

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Janaka Malwatta

Produced by Dr BigF MC.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Pantoum for My Parents

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Eileen Chong

My mother listened to my poem,
and it filled her with shame.
My father asked me to explain it.
I was both sorry and afraid,

and it filled me with shame.
My poem is about racism—and how
I was sorry to see it, and afraid.
She says nothing, and watches me.

My poem was about racism. How
else can we speak of our pain?
She says nothing, just watches me.
They have learned to be silent.

They don’t speak their pain.
My father cannot explain it.
They learned they must stay silent.
My mother is listening to my poem.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Banished

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Saba Vasefi

Except for my bootlaces
that gaze at me captive to
one other; except for my hair,
which once fell to my waist,
is cut above my ears now;
except for the knot between my eye-
brows which cannot be untangled;
except that home is silent and sombre
and you are not here
to take the bag of fatigue
from my scapula, or ask
if you can pour me tea or coffee—
everything is tranquil and tolerant.
Only, without you, the world vetoes me.
The cup explodes
In my hands and tea floods
the window, and my insomnia
meditates on melancholia.
No one injects tramadol
into this torment. Perhaps
since we escape from home
the kettle has revolted, has turned political,
and burned the knife’s fingers so the lesions it
incises are vapourised and banished,
and separation fills the holes
they leave in our flesh.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Sunday Picnic

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Ema Bell

brown bodies turn black on a spit
skin turning crisp
still alive

laughter from pink mouths
as the eyeballs pop and turn to liquid

pieces cut and dissected for souvenirs
posed pictures taken like they shot good game

white children take in the spectacle
as their mothers lay out their
picnic baskets lined with gingham

and pale little feet covered in soot
play hopscotch till dusk

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

White Lies

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Mukund Gnanadesikan

The bovine smile upon my brown-skinned face
Covers fear and anger’s boiling broth

You greet me as you blow upon your broth
You don’t desire a genuine response

For many years I’ve sought the genuine response
Of actions matching full intent of eyes

But deeds themselves discern intent of eyes
And feed the senses poisoned nectar

Thirstily, we drink of poisoned nectar
Savoring the blooms that slowly perish

At different speeds, we all slowly perish
A thorn of truth pierces joyful anthems

Sing lustily your joyful anthems
Before last breaths depart my brown-skinned face

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Automatic for the People

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Lawdenmarc Decamora

Shoppers, take this time to please your companions.
Right, left, right—obviously they take your attention
via clockwork sales talk. A drop of discoloration
is being processed when you talk to them—
lover, robber, gender, industrially colour blind—
magical are their actions to repeat the blooms
of <magnolia on marginalia>, high-price of intentions
under duress. If all good shoppers are careful enough
to be attracted to the whiteness of the lights, or to something
strange like Mambrino’s Golden Helmet, I would like
to think that life in a crowded place is clueless
about the appeal of mass nouns to the art
of small things like undeclared birthdays
and acupuncture points. Inside the fitting room,
there’s a hunk of love, all spruced-up with a groovy
sense of purpose; this I’m referring to all types
of clothing as professionals, feeling the way
we feel right now, are available on site to serve you,
always. But what is fake measurement if everything
at this moment can only be claimed with payment,
starting from the alteration fee, tape receipt, invoice,
the repaired item with accompanying stub—
to your free time to talk to strangers, that is building
a relationship brick by brick? Bonuses, oh you see
dripping their milk nutrients to the floor
the inert clerk would love to suck clean
with his mouth-knitted shoes. All for customer
service and store convenience, for Professor Paper
Machine’s shiny happy people honouring the dance Sufism
of sutra lights, a teetotaling fallacy of tropes
for crab paste to not junk the scent of earth,
shoplifters of hearts hardwired into the machinery
of healing, of entrances and exits space-altered
by their ethnicity as the spell of philosophical
flowers embraces a technē that’s automatic for
the people under the shade of the Plasticine trees.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

semente – seed

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Daiane Moret

.
She was born in favela da maré
slum of the tide
on the outskirts of rio de janeiro
alongside avenida brasil
.
once a meeting place
of river and ocean
home to the first nations
tupinambás
later to fishermen
dreamers
afro descendants
brazilians
.
houses were built upon the mangrove belly
in a time when thunder was the biggest threat
children would watch the tides dance
through rotten wood floors
as the waters ebbed and flowed
they quickly learned how things come and go
but their civil rights would take far too long
.
for now
all they wished was to go back outside
ball rolling on the wet gravel
bare feet over puddles
collecting mud under their nails
to bite off during thunder
.
i have always wondered
how many goals one has to score
between broken promises to make it in my country?
how many young boys have dreamed of a way out
if they played in the world cup?
who doesn’t love a story of glory?
the ones turning struggle into success -‘just do it!’
.
nothing fair about this game
the boys licking snot from their lips
never had a chance
surviving past thirty as best they can
.
after the waters had been drained
to make way to progress
palaphitas on the brink of collapse
gave way to cement and stone
the mangrove surrendered to the roads
.
storms aren’t a danger anymore
fear lives in the barrel of a gun
the crack it makes when it cuts through air
the way it only paints the pavement red
the emptiness it leaves in a mother’s chest
.
the official story always goes
he had drugs on him
he was carrying a gun
he ran from the police
one more shot here
one more dead there
who was counting them anyway?
one more body left in this alley
one less in a family
who was counting them anyway?
.
children still play soccer
still dream
within the line of reality and war zone
to kick goals for brazil
.
dreams
that taste like gunpowder
like revenge
like becoming a drug dealer
because you had never been given another chance
or being invisible
until you hold someone’s life in your hands
.
they call it war on drugs
while 500 kg of cocaine is found in a politician’s plane
while the police sells guns to drug dealers
and militias are connected to the president
.
every 23 minutes
a young black life is taken in brazil
killing more than the wars in iraq or syria
wars never won
like hers
.
Marielle Franco
.
born and raised in the trenches
watching criminals endorsed by the government
walk her streets like gods
deciding who gets to live
who gets to die
.
eu sou porque nós somos
i am because we are
she used to say
.
she didn’t run from them
she ran to them
hands lifted
not in submission
wrist raised in power
she touched the tower
of the untouched
.
her hands were ours
for an instant
.
the frail moment between
the finger and the trigger
between
the breath
the death
.
do jeito que suas sementes se espalharam
quando a bala atingiu sua coroa
the way
her seeds spread
when the bullet
hit her crown
.
.

In memory of Marielle Franco – a black queer politician executed in Rio de Janeiro
on 14th of March of 2018.
May her seeds flourish and may we find justice for her.
.
.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Skin Pain

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Luoyang Chen

Do you want it — my
Skin? You can have it.
I peel it off for you.
It’s free. I am voluntary.
I dress you with my skin.
To ensure that it doesn’t fall off,
I sew my skin over yours.
Does it hurt?
I am sorry but it must be.
To inherit this skin,
You must also inherit the pain.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

… but not like that

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Tahlea Aualiitia

Speak out… but, not like that
You have to fit in… but, not like that
You have to do everything how they tell you to
Or, they’ll drop you… just like that

Say your name… but, not like that
Where are you from… but, not like that
I don’t know why you’re getting offended when
I treat you… just like that

Walk down the street… but, not like that
Post online… but, not like that
If you put one foot wrong, it won’t be long
Until they target you… just like that

Tell your story… but, not like that
Do your dance… but, not like that
It’s diversity day and, we’re here to say
That we need you… just like that

Tick the box… but, not like that
Affirmative action… but, not like that
The status quo won’t let you grow
So they’ll keep you… just like that

Do your hair… but, not like that
Wear your clothes… but, not like that
You won’t be seen, on screen or in magazine
Unless you look… just like that

Eat your food… but, not like that
Share your culture… but, not like that
They’ll only cave, when a profits to be made
And then they’ll take it… just like that

Say your sorry… but, not like that
Tell your joke… but, not like that
They couldn’t care less, their systems oppress
Because they built it… just like that

Be yourself… but, not like that
Use your voice… but, not like that
They’ll try and break you but, keep going
Because we need you… just like that

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Everything Brown Is Everything To Us

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Tukur Ridwan

I have been in the woods long enough to speak the language of rebirth. every autumn, a doorway of colours, the beauty of death on the body of a fallen leaf— the heroism of baobabs and mahoganies, of seasons holding storms together from ravaging our suburb. a native knows of pristine sands, like the one I built my garden with, or the ones my daughters build their sand castles with. a stranger loves the synonym of trees and shrubs on our skins— we rhyme with our forests in seasons like this— the furs of wild cats, the caramel of our bee honeys— medicinal and sweet, like the drip of the woman after my heart— my daughters relished the motherhood on her areolas as babies, or of the nescafé she creams with her eyes like a full moon, or of the chocolate in my tongue from her tongue, or of my favorite jacket made of fine leather— the musketeer, or of her favorite song by Beyoncé. for a strand of nature that is green was once brown, I bask in patience at the swamp of brown waters when I smell autumns in the dryness of arid lands. I haven’t called this woman brown sugar for no reason.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE, POETRY | Tagged

Sabong in Taytay

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Harold Legaspi

Kristo’s outstretched hands
called wagers
from memory.
Loot for luck.

Slasher’s clamped to draw blood.
Right-feet sharp,
steely & divine.
Double-edged.

Gallus gallus, pretty as
Miss Universe
strut with raised feathers:
crimson & black.

The clamour dies.
A perfect bloodline
of currencies flying over heads.
A battle royale in the circular pit.

Soltada! Presto! Logro! Pago!

Sentensyador’s verdict as cruel.
A bird’s eye as traitors.
Two cocks fighting: striving
for Christ and the palm of glory.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Filipino

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Miguel Garcia

for Heherson Alvarez (16 Oct 1939 – 20 Apr 2020)

————

n. an identity, referring to the people of the Philippines

n. a doughnut-shaped chocolate-coated biscuit popular in Spain

————

Filipino,
or have you tasted me?
Not this sweet child of brown
coated with half a thousand year of colony,
but this Filipino
you have tasted,
This sweet skin of brown chocolate
huddled together inside a vending machine.

Filipino,
or have you smelled me?
Not my cologne blossoming a clove
of spice, but had since been perfumed with colony,
but this Filipino
you have smelled,
You smell the biscuit baked from
stolen spices, where it used to be my country.

Filipino,
or are you talking to me?
Not the salt screaming as a rising out of me
while my feet blister bowing asparagus in El Dorado,
but this Filipino
you are talking to,
This halo orbiting around your mouth
with Midas touch on jawbreaker forming as my head.

Filipino,
but why so shocked?
Not that The Baptist’s severed head reminded
me of your severe tongue chewing my umbilical history,
but this Filipino
that had shocked you,
That when you chew the ring until it halves
a moon, underneath the body of brown had a flesh of white.

Filipino,
or have you ever seen me?
Not this body you named after
a King to relieve your future Francoed body,
but this Filipino
you have seen,
a biscuit you have named after
my body, relieving the ghost of Franco’s body.

Filipino,
or do you even know me?
Not this body coated with history
upon history of perfumed colonial drowning,
but this Filipino
you have known ever since,
This body coated with history upon
history of a poison you have since yet to swallow.

Filipino,
or have you touched me?
Not this sharp sandpaper skin that blunted
your swords drawing lines on our sand long ago,
but this Filipino
you have touched,
This smooth coat of brown biscuit grieving
relief to the belly of your Franco-colonized body.

Filipino,
or have I eaten a Filipino before?
Not the Filipino body encased in this plastic casket,
but the Filipino of my body, and yes I have,
I, Filipino of my flesh
on flesh, bone on bone,
I, cannibal of my body, and I will eat
me now, I starve, I eat me now, again I starve.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

daughters of the sea, sun and sand

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Maya Hodge

My mum was the one to hold me tight when my spirits got caught in metal fences, dust
storms, our leaky house and dying dried lawn. She taught me resilience against the kids at
school who said hurtful words and later in the wide world. Resilience like love for my culture
and my earthy skin. Even on days when I felt ashamed, she would rain down on me to be
proud because how could I hate

The skin I was given from my Grandmother and my Great Grandmother. She gave me
Maya’s words to live by and to “dance like I’ve got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs”. To
feel that high as a strong woman in a world wanting to beat us down. Our beauty isn’t
defined by you – our beauty is from within and radiates from our skin. Our skin is a map of
the terrain of the mountains and rivers and the dreams of our people.

Memories of Sunday night roasts in the sticky Mildura heat, I would sit with my mother and
think; women have raised me despite the violence outside our front door. She taught me to
rise like the sun in the muddy red sky and to rise like the milky kirdikur.

Many people don’t like it when Blak women get angry. But I am an angry Blak woman and I
feel the pain, joy and healing from generations ago. I look up to kind, intelligent and angry
Blak women who encourage me to harness my power and use it. Whether it be through
writing, music or art. It’s crucial to start pouring all our love and energy into the lands beating
heart.

I want to speak with grace laced with fire like Sacheen Littlefeather saying “no” to a sea of
hate.

To walk like every step has a purpose on this land. Every footprint I leave behind I hope will
inspire the future women in my family to continue to reach for their dreams. I stand strong in
Country. Even when stopped by a white passenger reminding me that “this is first class”.
Even when people laugh in my face when I tell them my race. Even when I walk down
Swanston Street screaming at the tops of my lungs that someday our people will take back
this place.

Our women are daughters of the sea, sun and sand of this old Country. When I emerge from
the ocean’s embrace the salt clings to my thighs and nestles on my face. The red dust of
crumbling cliffs encrust my fingertips and settle at my hips.

I remember these conversations with my mum in the softness of the orange sunset. About
things like the boys at school who made fun of me and of feeling insecure about my body,
mostly my skinny ankles and arm hair. Like Kathy Freeman who held her culture on her back
and ran laps with a smile on her face and a fire in her heart.

“Be proud” she’d whisper to me as we sat on the concrete steps. Shadows in the sun’s
burning glow. Recharging our energy so we can continue to grow.

Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged

Small Talk With My Supervisor

Posted on February 1, 2021 by Victor Chrisnaa Senthinathan
Hey so I’m Victor and I’ll be working with you today.


Hey mate. Where are you from? Where are your parents from? Oh Sri Lanka, I’ve heard of that place. My son went last year on his holiday. Beautiful place.


I’ve never been to Sri Lanka.


Really? It seems like a beautiful place. My son has the most beautiful pictures on Facebook of him riding elephants, ethically of course, at dawn with their trunks wrapping around the sun. So you’ve never been?


No.


Well have you been to the north of the island then? They’re still recovering from the war and the military checkpoints can be a bit ominous at first. But my son says there’s these beautiful abandoned beaches and waterfalls where it’s just you and the silence and the world. Have you been there?


No.


Why haven’t you been yet?


Should I want to go to a place that doesn’t echo with the breath of boys like me
to a place where the white vans drove in the dark to disappear boys like me
to a place that has tried its best to forget the once-upon-a-time existence of boys like me?
My parents never took me, I don’t know why.


Oh, that’s a shame. You should go one day.


Yeah, I will. So what are we doing today?
Posted in 100: BROWNFACE | Tagged