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MAAFA TRILOGY
(maafa in swahili means terrible occurrence, and it is also refers to a
ceremony which honors to the ancestors who died during the midpassage and
slavery)
Holding you in the palm of my hand
I feel as close to motherhood as I'll ever be
Tiny fingers and toes,
Eyes sparkling with a sleepless innocence.
You are the girl-child no one wanted,
The problem everyone expected,
The drug baby, the addict
Your world controlled by D.Y.F.S. workers
Who reminded your mother that her hands were not safe
To carry you home.
I look into your eyes and see images of my mother, your grandmother
Baby on one hip, one in carriage, one holding her hand, one on the way,
Some round, some thin, some eleven months apart
All twelve of us pressed against her swollen flesh like dominoes.
We are her children.
I try to imagine what life must have been like for my mother,
But can only see through the tainted eyes of a nine year old daughter.
The whispered conversations of adults who wondered,
How could she possibly have another
That she has no right to burden the community any further,
And Oh God I hope she gets her tubes tied
Or stop fucking all together.
Their black and blue voices slide down my back
And wrap around me like the red snorkel coat
I hate to wear to school where I am attacked on the playground
By friends who ask me if my mother is pregnant again.
I deny the baby in her womb,
Tell them that my mother is fat and eats too much
They fall down with laughter, their souls touching the sky
And on that day, long before tampons and first kisses
I vowed never to have children ever.
Just then I am brought back by D.Y.F.S. hands
Who tap me on the shoulder to tell me that she has found a family for you
A couple who has experience with babies like you
That really it's okay that children like you
Are taken away from their families everyday.
Don't feel guilty she says
But you are my niece.
Don't feel guilty she says
But it isn't guilt that I feel it's
Baby on one hip, one in carriage, one holding her hand, one on the way,
Some round, some thin, some eleven months apart
All twelve of us pressed against her swollen flesh like dominoes.
In spite of the multitude,
WE are her children.
Inspite of the whispered voices,
WE are her children.
When my mother's fix becomes my own,
WE are her children.
And long after the laughter's gone,
WE are her children.
We are HER children.
We are HER children.
We are her children
And right now
You are mine.
- Marjorie Barnes