As I write this
my legs crossed on the chair
my fingers tap gently on a keyboard
my lips take alternative sips of orange juice and a berry smoothie
both reminding me that neither fruit was ripe or birthed from this soil
I attempt to warm my hands in my partner’s comfy sweater
it’s incredible how rubbing our hands together,
much like the fireboard and the spindle,
can start a fire
it’s incredible how enough friction between
your positionality and your oppression
can ignite a deep passion for justice
The justice of our peoples,
our communities
our nations
the Earth
are like threads of a tapestry
inherently tied into each other
and divided even if one piece frays
I was born with a longing
to be
longing
for belonging
like roots belong under a tree
there’s no question about it
no imposter syndrome
just flowing with the tide
like ocean water kissing a sandy shore
The Earth carries with her memories
seeped into our DNA
imprinted on our hands and feet
reflected in the skies above us
I think of how much we have erased and ignored
I realize that
remembering is the most defiant act of vengeance
remembering how cold this land is
remembering how this land is now hidden under layers of snow
waiting in stillness for warmer days
Letter #1: Turtle Island: Guilty of Colonization by Association
Dear Turtle Island,
I am writing to let you know that
I’m sorry your heart is broken
I’m sorry you have no say in the matters
which deeply affect your longevity
I always thought the Earth was a vast place
after all, I came from an incredibly small nation
until I lived here, I assumed white people were the standard
little did I know that they aren’t even the majority
Dear Turtle Island,
I have not known you for very long
I have never experienced nature’s harsh cold
until my feet met your snow
While making snow angels
I avoided socks for as long as I could
but here, my feet can’t stand on their own
and here, my body’s heat is not enough
not as strong as the flames ignited within me
to further understand my relationship with this land
one that I am trespassing on by virtue of
living under patriarchal capitalism
Come to ‘Canada,’ they said
It’ll be a better life, they said
I’m here, and so far, I’m not impressed
I catch myself feeling sorry for people
who have to leave their nation to go on a vacation
or to experience ripe fruit all year round
After all, I am just
a creature of love
of habit
of compassion
After all, I am just
tired of running
tired of moving
tired of hoping
for better
Letter 2: Malaysia: An Ode to Land Lineages and Memories
Dear Malaysia,
My mind wanders back to the ranch
North of the Peninsular
where two generations of my maternal roots lie
acres of land spilling over with bountiful fruit
the taste of fresh coconut water and its flesh off the land
freshly fallen durian cracked open
between crossed legs on newspaper on the ground
The inside reflected its old age and character
reminding me of simpler times
knuckles rubbing between clothes and soap on bathroom floors
reading beautiful pages on the swing set with ammachi
Years later, the same land that has fed us for generations
has been maintained
technology and electricity have now improved it
yet it remains our family’s nucleus
our roots overlapping under the ground
In this moment, hope swells up my heart
and reminds me: this could be us
a beautiful paradox of the preserved and the improved
Dear Malaysia,
Whatever caucasity inspired the exploitation
of lands, histories and cultures
believed the rich legacies etched into our veins and
exhaled out of our mouths in sacred tongues
were nothing more than theirs for the taking
As they toiled the grounds our ancestors fed on,
their efforts sought to choke our roots
to eradicate our lineages
the dirty trick of privilege
convinces them it is a lack of our power
instead of an assumption of their dominance
they tried to bury us, cover us up, build skyscrapers over us
but we were seeds, whispering our growth beneath the Earth
undercurrent waters quench our thirst
as we grow, growing stronger with every drop
learning the vertical curves of the buildings on top of us
Generation after generation
we extend our branches higher and higher
as close to the sun as they would allow
let them see us in all our glory, grounded
for this land has always been ours- rather, we belong to it
Letter 3: Tamil Naddu, South India: Do You Remember Us?
Dear Tamil Naddu,
I don’t even know if you’d want to hear from me
After all, we don’t speak the same language
You might remember my grandmother, who was born on your soil
Or maybe not; she had to uproot and move to South Africa at some point
Do you remember?
I don’t, but I sorely wish I do
I don’t know how to stake claim of any connection to this land
when my roots have been planted in Malaysian soil
for three generations
three generations of family members
three generations of remembering
three generations of forgetting slowly
that which we came from
So maybe I’ll share my grievings with you instead
Dear Tamil Naddu,
Among the Tamil people I’ve met in my home country
I never felt enough
I guess I don’t have much of a say
when my own kind have decided I am better than them
before ever speaking to me
I guess all is assumed fair when you’re dipped in light skin
in a fair and lovely world
I can’t blame them in all honesty
because to ever assume such a thing of me before even speaking to me
meant that they were first assumed as less than before even recognizing
the depth of the melanin dancing in their skin compared to mine
I remember Tamil people identifying me as a South Indian
just by looking at my skin
and as a Christian, just by looking at the way, I dressed
I remember thinking even they remember for me
and yet I don’t
But do you remember?
How do I grieve that which I don’t know?
I ask myself this question until I remember that
grief is a memory being felt, within or outside the limitations
of one’s physical presence
and I feel so strongly connected to you
Dear Tamil Naddu,
Grief is all I have of you, of the ones who came before me
I feel my ancestors in my veins
every time I am reminded of the anxiety, the shame
of childhood, of womanhood
every time I am reminded that I am chosen
to break these generational curses
and to embrace the generational blessings
healing generational trauma is not for the weak
so while my feet may have wandered off your soil
my soul knows its path only started here
Sincerely, the cycle breaker chosen for this lineage
