I wrote this in May 2020, but thought I’d share it here today:
When the Master Narrative Speaks
By Vijaya Sundaram
When the Master Narrative speaks
In its loud, important voice,
In the valley where I meet it,
I’ll reply, undaunted, in a soft one,
Make a choice to offer it peace,
But turn every statement,
Every assertion,
Every argument,
Every incorrect version of
Reality cowed and contorted,
Every loud, ignorant ranting
On its head. I will retort, and
Make the Master Narrative recant.
When the Master Narrative shouts,
“Muslim Terrorist!” I’ll reply,
“Oklahoma City Bombing!”
When the narrator says,
“They are lazy, and don’t work!”
I’ll point to migrant workers
Who pick their fruit, mow their lawns,
Clean their offices in the dead of night,
Pick up their trash, and prop up
Their sorry behinds, just to have
A chance at a better life,
A new dawn, someday.
If it sneers, and say in my ear,
“Brown and black people
Are uneducated, lesser than us!”
I will point to Sonia Sanchez,
Jimmy Santiago Baca,
Jericho Brown,
Langston Hughes,
Nikki Giovanni,
James Baldwin,
Toni Morrison,
Ta-Nehisi Coates,
Jhumpa Lahiri,
Arundhati Roy,
W.E.B. Dubois,
And counter, “Ever read a book, turned a page?”
Were you dropped on your head that you
Don’t know where to look, and
Hear the voice of Truth?
Have you learned nothing in youth, nor in age?
When the Master Narrative Preens itself,
Puffs itself up, and declares,
“All y’all should bow to me,
‘Cause I am white, and God
Put me here to rule all of you,”
I will hold the mirror up to it,
Rough and scratched though it might be,
From repeated attempts to shatter it,
But Truth matters, and will not break.
Perhaps, the Master Narrative will see
How pitifully unawake, and small,
How painfully emaciated,
How sadly walled-in
How mentally inebriated,
How morally bankrupt,
How lacking in hope it is.
For I will disrupt its world,
And open the doors to this, the outside.
If it stands mute and says naught,
I’ll simply reach out, as one ought to,
And I’ll say, in gentle tones,
“Would you like to see the other side
Of this valley we’re in, so you’ll
Know we’re not alone?”
I’ll take its hand,
Lead it there, so it can
Stand and stare,
In peace.
Perhaps, it’ll see past its own lies,
See that there’s room in the world
For everyone, that the mountain
Blocks all views.
Perhaps, it’ll release
Its rage, which is sadness
In destructive guise.
Caged all this time, rage will
Flutter, then fly away,
To vanish into air,
And, who knows?
The sky might weep,
Enough to make it
Feel it’s drowned.
If the Master Narrative stands
On that mountain, sees the skies,
And buckles to the ground,
I’ll know it finally sees
That feeling tall can happen
Without the expense of making
Others small.
You just need a good view, and eyes
That can see far to where you glimpse
The steady glow of a new-born star.
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