DIAMOND. Yes I am.

Hello again! As previously mentioned, I will have a new post up at the end of this week.

Today I just wanted to share this poem. It’s by ALPHAMAMA, and it is Divine ❤

 

WATCH HER VIDEO HERE ON FACEBOOK.

 

These are the words:

Love is a decision, and some decisions are wrong

But when are you gonna learn girl, that you can’t make them meet you there

When you’re giving 100% but they don’t know the value of your wholeness

Guess what – he doesn’t need you, he needs himself

If you are a strong integrated magical being who can stand up and look anyone in the eye with power and pride

And he can’t rise above the sum of his experiences

Then how would he begin to know what you could add to his life?

It’s not his fault; you just don’t know what you don’t know

I know you see the best in him, but you can’t deny the rest of him

And you can’t continue testing him and measuring his answers when they don’t add up

It’s not that he’s just not that into you, it’s that his not into himself yet

He’s scared of his own power and greatness and wants to stay small, and that’s okay

But not for you.

You’re offering a starving man a diamond

But he can’t find the opportunity there because, you can’t eat a diamond

And girl let me tell you this – you. are. a diamond

Endured the condensed weight of your process and experience

That transformed your darkness into brilliant resilience

In a trillion, you are ONE

But some people still want to feel numb and you are Life itself

So go give your life to the sky

Go shoot your beams to the moon and grab your kisses from the stars

Go love the trees and let their leaves stroke your face

Go tell yourself that you’re free and then dance naked to the beat of your own racing heart

Your rhythm is too perfect to slow down for anyone

Your dance is too expert to partner with a beginner

Your life is too precious to waste, waiting for someone to step up and meet you where you are

No Queen, you do not need a King, you do not need a thing

You have all that you are, and that, is enough.

 

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It’s not personal: critical thinking and the ‘angry Black woman’ fallacy.

Props to Sista Zai, storyteller and thought leader, for introducing me to this passage – follow her on Facebook here.

You best believe I’m adding this bell hooks book to my long reading list.

“Even though feminist thinking and practice focusing on connections between racism and sexism helped generate awareness of the way in which black womanhood is devalued in an imperialist white-supremacist capitalist patriarchal culture, individual black females must continually work to challenge and change negative perceptions of our being and our behavior. As teachers, we struggle to resist students and colleagues placing us in the role of mammy caretaker because they have been unconsciously taught that this is a black woman’s place. When I began writing and teaching about the connections between racism and sexism, I was often told that I was so angry. I refused to accept this projected identity. Instead, I would challenge audiences to consider why analysis of race, gender, and class that called into question accepted ways of thinking always appeared to them to come from a place of anger rather than a place of awareness. Often, the individuals who accused me of being angry were masking their own rage at being confronted and challenged.” [emphasis mine]

~ bell hooks, Teaching Critical Thinking: Practical Wisdom

The passage I bolded is of particular interest me, observing the way liberals respond to critical thinkers, and how people take critiques and analyses that are not personal, really personally. I am questioning what is wrong with being angry, if the anger is about a very real injustice. But I am also thinking about how critical thinkers need to do continuous work on themselves to ensure that the critiques they do offer are not coming from ego (ego-related resentment, envy, etc). Sometimes, that does mean reflecting on the anger we feel, making sure it’s coming from a pure place within us. And if it isn’t, doing the work to release that shit so we can focus on what is essential.


Speak Up and Bloom.

A holistic counsellor recently gave me this intuitive advice and told me to “uncage the Tiger” 🙂 To reject the stifling projections of the male egos who populated my youthful years and influenced a pattern of self-denial and self-diminishment I am only now starting to become aware of. To SPEAK, WRITE, EXPRESS MYSELF CLEARLY with all the courage, conviction and power within me.

So I am learning right now to say “Boy Bye” to anyone who tries to induce my silence, who inhibits my evolution, and who due to fragile egos are intimidated by my expressions. Here’s to speaking unadulterated but loving truth, from the soul.

Here’s to LIBERATION ✊🏾


‘Intersections’

BELOW is the second piece I wrote then “performed” at ‘Fifty Shades of Blak: Performance Night’, inside Blak Dot Gallery last night. It was an intimate, energising evening of performances from a beautiful, powerful and diverse group of women of colour, and I am really lucky to have been invited to be amongst them. You can read about the Fifty Shades of Blak Exhibition, and the first piece I wrote then performed last night, right HERE.

A brief intro for context: There is an American scholar named Kimberlé Crenshaw who coined the term ‘intersectionality’ to describe the study of how different forms of systemic oppression can intersect and overlap. This is concept that I think about frequently in terms of the world at large, but also in terms of my own lived experience – because I’m not just Black, I’m a Black WOMAN, and a Black DISABLED Woman, so I have and do experience both racism, the specific kinds of misogyny and sexism that Black Women face, and Ableism. This piece is about what it feels like to move through the world in a body that, even though I love it, and the people who love me love it, comes up against multiple kinds of marginalisation on a fairly regular basis.

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INTERSECTIONS

(© 2016 Pauline Vetuna, All Rights Reserved.)

Living in a body that is marginalized for three different reasons feels like this: like constantly watching the traffic lights rapidly change from joyful green to halting red, and feeling the joy wane inside you every time.

GREEN light:

Black friend sends out an invite. “We’re having a party, at this place, all welcome!”

AMBER light:

Black friend says, “oh, I  forgot to ask if there’s access… I think there’s only one step…”

RED light:

Black friend says, “sorry it’s not accessible! The venue is already booked and paid for. But we’ll make sure you can be included in the next event.”

The next event is not accessible either.

This scenario repeats itself five hundred times.

I convince myself I have better things to do than be included in society.

I drive on.

NEXT GREEN light:

White feminist friend sends out an invite. “We’re having a discussion, at this place, all welcome!”

AMBER light:

White feminist friend says, “no, none of the panelists are women of colour, but we’re talking about universal topics like breaking the glass ceiling, leaning in, and women on boards.”

RED light:

White feminist friend says, “yeah I hear what you’re saying but we want to stick to topics that affect all women; you can stage another forum that discusses issues affecting Black women and Disabled women another time.”

All women means white and able bodied women, too often. It does not mean me. It probably doesn’t mean queer or gender non conforming people either.

This scenario repeats itself five hundred times.

I stay home and read Angela Davis books.

NEXT GREEN light:

Black male friend says, “I’m pro Black… I love my Black mother and my Black sister and Black women in general.”

AMBER light:

Black male friend says, “I just think you can be pro-Black and still have a preference for lighter skinned women”.

RED light:

Black male friend says, “I’m just saying that darker women can be a little masculine sometimes, and that isn’t attractive.”

Beware of the white supremacist who lives within Black skin.

This scenario repeats itself five hundred times.

I have to remind myself each time, “yes but not ALL Black men…”

NEXT GREEN light:

White male colleague says, “just so you know I am a huge champion of women of colour.”

AMBER light:

White male colleague says, “I’m just saying that being against someone’s culture and someone’s skin colour are two different things.”

RED light:

White male colleague says, “I think our military should airlift every woman out of that third world hellhole so that those men can’t reproduce.”

This sentiment is echoed by western supremacists five thousand times across the media landscape.

I remind myself of who I am, of my cultural roots, of the beautiful Black men who loved me into existence, and draw strength from them. I send love to all the innocent Black and Brown men in the world who are deemed guilty before the trial they will never have.

Then, I drive on.

NEXT GREEN light:

Former white male boyfriend says, “racism is stupid. You and I are basically the same person. And you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

AMBER light:

Former white male boyfriend says, tears in his eyes, after the illness that would lead to me becoming disabled, “I love you so much, but… I don’t think I can handle this, handle your condition.”

RED light:

Every institutional structure says: “Whites rule. Lights rule. Males rule. Able Bodies ONLY.”

I build up an armour, train myself to spot and avoid the supremacists around me and work hard every day not to internalize any of it, whilst staving off the aloneness that marginalization often forces upon you.

This scenario repeats itself five hundred times.

I drive on anyway.


‘Blak On Both Sides’

BELOW is the first piece I wrote then “performed” at ‘Fifty Shades of Blak: Performance Night’, inside Blak Dot Gallery last night. It was an intimate, energising evening of performances from a beautiful, powerful and diverse group of women of colour, and I am really lucky to have been invited to be amongst them.

‘Fifty Shades of Blak’ was an art exhibition held as part of Melbourne Fringe Festival this year – and it just took out the Best Visual Art Show Award!!! Curated by force of nature and Blak Dot visionary Kimba Thompson, ‘Fifty Shades of Blak’ highlighted the voices of fifty visual and performing female artists, each addressing issues of stereotyping, colour coding, racism, identity and societal perceptions of First Nations women and women of colour. It was the first exhibition in the gallery’s fantastic new location at 33 Saxon Street, Brunswick. Support Blak Dot!!! Pay them a visit in person and follow them on Facebook here.

Congratulations to the ‘Fifty Shades’ visual artists: Atong Atem | Cora-Allan Wickliffe | Dulcie Stewart | Frances Tapueluelu | Georgia MacGuire | Gina Ropiha | Ira Fernandez | Jasmine Togo-Brisby | Julie O’Toole | Katie West | Katherine Gailer | Kirsten Lyttle | Lily Laita | Lisa Hilli | Maree Clarke | Megan Van Den Berg | Paola Balla | Sarah Hudson | Shona Tawhiao | Tania Remana | Texta Queen | Treahna Hamm | Vicki Couzens | Ying Huang.

(Side note: In 2012, another Blak Dot Gallery show I co-curated with Leuli Eshraghi took out the Melbourne Fringe Festival Best Visual Art Show Award that year; I feel lucky to have even a peripheral association with the second winning show haha!)

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BLAK ON BOTH SIDES

(© 2016 Pauline Vetuna, All Rights Reserved.)

 

Many years ago, I made a little film called ‘Coconut’.

The uncomfortable coconut in question, was myself. It was something I was called as a young person many times. But the larger question I sought to explore through the film, was this:

“If there is such a thing as being Black on the outside and white on the inside, what does it mean to be Black on the inside?”

This is the question that plagued my entire adolescence and young adulthood; when I was tortuously straightening out my beautiful big natural afro, that both my Tolai father and my Tolai mother blessed me with, and wishing I didn’t have all the thoroughly Melanesian features I am proud to have today.

It is the question that rang in my ears as I would deliberately stay out of the sun, because the ever present hum of non-Black racists, and Black colorists, all around me, let me know pretty unambiguously that my Blackness was too Black. That my Blackness needed to be watered down with whiteness both in colour of skin and in content of character.

It is the question that lingered in the background when I was being affirmed by friendly, kindly white racist “friends” for not being like the only other Black girl in the schoolyard (who by the way was my best friend) for being more Martin Luther King to her Malcolm X, for quietly integrating and assimilating before I even knew what that was or that assimilating meant erasing… starving… myself.

It is the question that pained me, deep inside, when white people would say “you’re a different kind of Black girl”, and mean ‘coconut’, and think it was a compliment. When Black people would say “you’re a different kind of Black girl”, and mean ‘coconut’, and know it was an insult.

It is the question that represented the void within me that used to exist. The void left by the absence of a home, language and culture that can haunt Black immigrant kids growing up disconnected from a motherland long left, with indigenous immigrant parents also feeling the pain of that disconnection, and living in a colonial illegal settlement that will only accept you if you reject an identity you are strongly yet subtly encouraged at every turn to never fully develop… to instead stay cocooned and never become the butterfly.

I used to think that not developing those wings of identity would serve me well, somehow; at least allow me to live and pursue my watered down dreams in this white colony to some degree, accepting a second class reality of never feeling at home in my surroundings let alone my own skin and features. A wingless existence. In some kind of spiritual way I felt like turning myself into colourless WATER would allow me to flow into any space and become anything I needed to be to survive in that time and place.

That is true, to some degree. And I know now that this was lesson PART A in the wisdom syllabus that my Tolai Melanesian Black ancestors passed to me as I grew, through a vital and alive INTUITIVE GIFT that only in the last few years I have realised is my genetic family legacy… the gift of being indigenous, the inherited gift of my Black genetic lines on both sides. Guidance from my ancestors.

In the midst of a “rational “white supremacist culture it took me years of honing that intuition to even trust it, let alone to recognise its true origin being my indigenous cultural roots.

But now, I know. And that is my birthright identity. I claim it now, every single day.

Some years ago, a friend sent me a short story she found about the necessity of struggle as a precursor to wholeness. Sadly I don’t know who wrote it, but there is this passage in it that talks about how a restricting cocoon and the struggle that the emerging butterfly has to go through to break free of it, are the Life Force’s way of forcing fluid, WATER, from its body and into it’s wings, so that the butterfly can be as strong as it can be… and be able to fly.

In other words, the WATER came before the flight. So, today I like to think of my coconutty struggle through the confusing wasteland of whiteness and pervasive colorism that I went through, as having empowered me to be as strong as I am today. That struggle, ironically, gave me wings.

Because my ancestors whispers to me were right. Water is LIFE. Water is powerful, and forceful, it animates us and fills us and although colourless it reflects every colour we can see. It is a shape shifter, an adapter. It is an important element to understand, and master, and in some cases become… in order to survive. But once it is mastered and contained it must be directed back to the roots, to our cultural roots, to feed and nourish them,WATER them, so the life of our people can continue. In the person, the water must be forced into the wings, so that they, the butterfly, can fly.

~

I live so far from the land where my ancestors bodies returned to the soil yet I see with such clarity now that they have reached through time and space every day my whole life to give me guidance, even when I didn’t yet know their names. This is the gift that I say with embarrassment now that I almost forfeited to be accepted into a world that lacks the wisdom that my ancestors – my people – embodied. The gift of being Black on both sides.

Why would I ever want to be anything else?


I AM the witch that wouldn’t burn :-)

Appreciating resilient Black womanhood, with 3 poems.

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First. In the clip below, poets Crystal Valentine & Aaliyah Jihad name and shame the misogynist/racist toxins I bled out of my system long ago to be free, whole, and at ease in this temple I live in. 

After the bloodletting, my inner voice spoke thusly:

“Unconditionally love your body, Black Woman – your proud existence is defiance. And be grateful for the men that won’t come your way.”

Echoes of those words are in this poem.

Second. A celebration of the creative, destructive, regenerative, fiercely protective POWER of the Goddess and all the female bodies she animates… disguised as a defiant clap back to period shaming. Mother/poet Dominique Christina is astonishing and her swearing is divine:

Third. This poem of body acceptance as a skinny Black Woman, by Alyesha Wise, illustrates how avoiding body criticism as an everyday Black Woman is damned near impossible … any self love defiantly flourishes in the depths of some serious shit: “I am not here for the non-believers; I am not here for those who cringe when they see me seeing all of my self. This bodily prayer is strictly between my sight and the sun; and all the good folk who enter the presence of this church with no other words on their tongue but ‘AMEN’.”

AMEN.


Watch: munchies, chilli balls & an airbnb.

A quick post about something funny, moving, and entertaining.

After many recommendations, I finally watched the web series ‘High Maintenance’; it really is a thing of beauty.

Below are three of my favourite episodes so far, in the order you should watch them in (the first two episodes are related).

First up, ‘BRAD PITTS’:

This second one kind of struck a nerve – and features the hungry lady from the video above. Dating after recovering from serious illness, in my experience, can be a little weird – you just hope for someone who isn’t completely freaked out by the realness of your life, and there are many people who don’t want to deal with that. But exposing that reality to someone on the second date isn’t as challenging as having chilli on your… sensitive areas. ‘RUTH’:

And I enjoyed this one about a couple doing the Airbnb hosting thing, putting up with grating house guests (including a couple of Australians) to pay the rent (incidentally the recent episode of ‘Broad City‘ in which they rent out their apartments to international visitors for one night to make money made me laugh so hard). This scenario is really my personal nightmare – I hate people all up in my stuff and personal space. But maintenance guy really helps a brother put his foot down in ‘TRIXIE’:

 

New post soon, as mentioned.