Fear… “I Give You Back…”

ByJoy Harjo

I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear.  I release you.

You were my beloved and hated twin, but now, I don’t see you as myself.

I release you with all the pain I would know at the death of my children.

I give you back to the white soldiers who burned down my home, beheaded my children, raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters.

I give you back to those who stole the food from our plates while we were starving.

I release you fear, because you hold these scenes in front of me and I was born with eyes that can never close.

I release you fear, so you can no longer keep me naked and frozen in the winter, or smothered under blankets in the summer.

I release you. I release you. I release you. I release you.

I am not afraid to be angry.

I am not afraid to rejoice.

I am not afraid to be black.

I am not afraid to be white.

I am not afraid to be hungry.

I am not afraid to be full.

I am not afraid to be hated.

I am not afraid to be loved, to be loved, to be loved, to be loved.

Fear… Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.

You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.

You have devoured me but I laid myself across the fire.

I take myself back fear.

You are not my shadow any longer; I won’t hold you in my hands.

You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice, by belly, or in my heart, my heart, my heart…

But come here,  fear

I am alive and you are so afraid of dying.

Published on Diversity-Threads with permission from Joy Harjo, 2019

Published in How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems: 1975 – 2001 (W.W. Norton and Company Inc., 2002)

Similar Posts

Aboriginal Ritual Chant

Aboriginal Ritual Chant

ByJorge D. H. Prosperi

Aboriginal Ritual Chant – Anonymous
The spirits of native people endures and lives on.
Heritage and human dignity passed on through centuries of sacrifice, resiliency and perseverance.
Nature – the land guarding its ancestral treasures.
With each chant we hear anguish turned to eloquence and forgiveness.
How human to include those who only knew how to plunder.

Trenzas ~ “¡Yo soy!”

Trenzas ~ “¡Yo soy!”

ByJorge D. H. Prosperi

Trenzas ~ “¡Yo soy!” came to life during my youth watching my grandmother brushing and braiding my mother’s hair and my mother passing on the loving strokes to my aunts. Braiding was a time to ask and answer questions, for storytelling, sharing wisdom and always a time for caring and loving. There was an intimacy about it all that always finished with besos (kisses), lingering abrazos (hugs), and with a resounding emphatic ¡Cuídate! (Be careful! Remain cautious!) – The older “doñas” (elders) knew the reasons why caution needed to be ever present while “panzudos patrones” (fat cat land owners) roamed seeking their entitled desserts.

Every woman wore her trenzas with pride and dignity. There was a sameness and yet singularness as trenzas danced in the wind behind them with a story to tell. I remember how beautiful they were… especially my mother’s trenzas… how they made me feel safe and loved as they danced behind her.

The rhythm is gonna get ya!

The rhythm is gonna get ya!

ByJorge D. H. Prosperi

Ah… Sweet, sweet 🎶 We play it, fill our ears with it, go to sleep and wake up to it, a cappella to it, whistle to it, hum to it, dance to it, do back flips on ice and mats to it, attend standing-room-only concerts to it, Alleluia and Amen to it, protest and march to it, doo wop to it, Motown to it, rap to it, lull babies to sleep to it, provide a lady’s/gentleman’s choice to it, snowball to it, hokey pokey to it, scream it out loud (off key) in the car to it, shower to it, horses and riders dance Freestyle to it.
Maybe one day we learn to harmonize with each other to it.

” ¡Qué inteligente es mi mamá!” (How Intelligent is my mother!” Spanish Poem in Trenzas-Braids

” ¡Qué inteligente es mi mamá!” (How Intelligent is my mother!” Spanish Poem in Trenzas-Braids

ByJorge D. H. Prosperi

“Pretend Reading” differs from culture to culture. It was a tradition and intervention by mothers who did not have formal education but pretended to read to their child.
All it took was some crumbled papers and a mother who would not allow her past to become her child’s future.

Such a nurturer was my mother who never saw the inside of a school. So she pretended to read to me by way of the oral tradition sharing stories of ancestors, respect for elders, traditions, resiliency and perseverance – sometimes even without having to look at the crumbled papers.

Voices of Columbine: Echoes from Inside the Tragedy – Part I of II

Voices of Columbine: Echoes from Inside the Tragedy – Part I of II

ByCarolyn Lundsford Mears

“How could this be happening in this safe, comfortable middle-class neighborhood, in a high school noted for academic excellence; where arts, music, and theater were prized; where parent involvement was without equal, and graduation rates were among the highest in the state. It was simply inconceivable, and yet it had happened . . . here, at Columbine.” Carolyn Lundsford Mears