This is a moment for weeping.
Your tears are welcome here.
They will not devoured by the heat of indifference or the desertic mountains and ranges of hopes unfulfilled. No, here we celebrate like Lucille:
“won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.”
Lucille Clifton, 1991
“won’t you celebrate with me”
The life that remains. The life that continues to defy certain removal and dismemberment of self from self from his/herstory from family from truth from gods from us–of old, new, now and tomorrow–we celebrate, that even still our death has not been won, paid for, laid claim to. We celebrate that at least, for us, the power to die remains the province of the flesh hold the beating heart in its crevice.
This is still a moment for weeping. We weep not for presidential or electoral happenings–we have no love for the contest of death dealing–but the universe of bodies whose ecosystems will face further assault, if not extinction at all times, even in the mourning. We weep for the threat and reality of deportation–not from Amerikkka–but to another space of violence we are ungirded for. We weep, not for access to empire, but for violation of home, our sanctum, that space of renewal by state and state empowered parasitic peoples, called to feed from bodies born free, and melinated.
This is still a moment for weeping, for those awaking and long since alert. The violence of waking from an eight year coma of false promises, black anti-blackness and beloved melinated skin thrust upon the face of the empire–while black and knowing–is only rivaled by the terror of knowing you had the audacity to sleep, whilst your family had been massacred by someone you let in, playing kin, to your household. Complicity.
This is still a moment for weeping. Many have warned of the Age of Obama. Where black access to state (read: white) power is read as our arrival to freedom from chains reaching back to the banks of the Atlantic, as opposed to two-step of violence, moving from field to home, where violence itself is changed, not lessoned; where freedom itself remains evasive, if decorated.
This is still a moment for weeping and out of these tears come the clarity needed for organizing, rebellion and resistance. There can be no more investments in diverse faces on hands holding both noose and whip. There can be no more excuses noted as political reality, for the brutality of bodies imprisoned, commodified and shipped across borderlands of districts and nations. There can be no more conflation of security and safety; or false ideologies that safety must be based in the distribution of violence. There can be no patriotism, no respect and no honor. . . spilling blood does not clot on such pronunciations.
This a moment for weeping. Do it loudly. Hide your false smiles. Rage. Burn. Allow your soul to speak and dane to believe, that you too, deserve to live some day.