The Enslaved master—whom We all call, wicked white devil—relaxed all of his heavy, over 300 pounds of sweaty funk onto my slight frame. I could barely breathe. I was afraid as I lay under this thing, that this is it, this is the day I will surely succumb. “I can’t breathe, sa.” Groans. I wasn’t a real person to him. Grunt.
I am afraid—all of the time. In my 13 years, I have lay here, day after day, week after week, year after year, buried in violent, suffocating rape, as wicked white devil, wicked white devil sons, all the wicked white devil relatives and friends pound out every bit of my innocence. I can tell they hate me by the viscerally violent way they pound into me, by the hateful way they regard me. They look through me; and if our eyes do meet, they lick their lips, growling like demons on the hunt. One day, surely, they will murder my body by tying a whip around my neck until I stop breathing—once and for all. I cannot breathe, I promise.
As I permeate in the unbearable dampness of the wicked white devil’s musky, funky sweat—sweat that drips into my eyes and mouth, nasty drip drip drip, I go someplace else, to survive, to give my 13 year-old self a chance to live to be 14. I go someplace
else to help me cling onto sanity. I cling to sanity. I promise
Eventually I give birth seven times, starting at 14 years. When Sophia, my first child, is born, I tell her, telepathically, to remember who she really is, a descendant of a culture of Peoples who are divine and who began this harrowing tale of humxnity. Her skin is milky brown because my innocence was savagely stolen from me by wicked white devils, who hate Me, Us. Don’t forget who You are; do not forget You are divinity, complexity, and nuance. Hold onto Your strength, Your softness, Your genius, and Your beauty. They will lie to You and try to convince you that You are nothing but ugly, wasted space. Do not believe their vile trickery; they are the Earth’s first liars. And remember, You are not beautiful and important and worthy because My rapists, Our oppressors, have forced their cells into Me, thus, into You, Your children, Your children’s children. You are beautiful, important, and worthy, because one half of You, is Me—Daughter of the Night, One of Many, that is most high. Divine. Erika X
(Inspired by an Instagram post & photograph shared by Jamilah Lemieux)
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