Written By: Zoe Elise Rivera, 16, New Jersey
What is a nation, birthed from between the legs of immigrants, to do in the face of the white narrative — unfettering in its self-absorbed ornament — demanding it to be subservient, “presentable”, and “one under God”?
The answer has been presented to us in the form of the worst political discourse and polarization regarding the dynamics of America; the “fire and fury” that President Trump tyrannical prescribed as the remedy for North Korea’s rapid nuclearization is not one conflagrated from the unification of American ideals, values, and its peoples — it has become a wooden stake that is inflamed with spite in our own backyard. The fury born from systemic divisions and misinformation, as well as the fire alight from hotly contested issues of morality, sovereignty, and the traditional markers of humanity, have effectively turned America — a nation that was intended to be the embodiment of liberty — into one riddled with fractionalization and the perpetuation of toxic Eurocentricism: the white narrative.
In these times of sociopolitical strife, we tend to flock to what emulates us — egocentrism and selectivity in its raw form. This causes the formation of our own stubborn ideological echo-chambers, sewing the seeds for tribalism and the “in-group” and “out-group” dynamic that has slighted American society for centuries. Out of reactivity and misconceptions, we shut out oppositional viewpoints and citizens only tune into the demagoguery that they wish to listen to; what else originates from this rigidly self-righteous complex except for irrational fear, wanton disrespect, and the complete and utter disregard for marginalized groups?
I am a queer woman of color in America. My very existence is controversial. I am the tar that is haphazardly splashed against the white canvas that American society capitalizes, epitomizes, and fantasizes about. The world watches me with acquisitive but angered eyes as if I am the lone dancer in an auditorium, silent save for the sake of my own internal song — a song that is the rallying cry of the downtrodden, disenfranchised, and derogated — guiding my bare feet against the spiteful creaking of the floorboards. With every twist and turn I make, I wriggle out of the omnipotence of predominant white culture. The refusal to be complacent, the refusal to be derailed, the refusal to be the master’s toolkit — that and all the furrowed brows, bloodied fists, righteous protests, political declamations, and unruly demands to be seen and heard in the highest law-making bodies of the land embody the civil dissent of marginalized people in America.
Look at my face. Behind my ruddy cheeks lie the wrinkles of my ancestors — shriveled like raisins in the sun — trekking from distant land and high seas to be shining the shoes that white America recklessly dirties on their way to work. Behind my owl-eyes lie the ablaze ones of Angela Davis, Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, W.E.B DuBois, Frederick Douglass, Malcolm X, Dr. King — purveyors against the spitfire of the white vindictive — who wore their afros, their skin-tone badges of the South, the North, and Harlem, and their unquenched desire for a revolution of racialist theory so proudly that their incandescence has become mine. Behind my browned skin lies the resistance — crisped to perfection after years of layering batter, deep-frying defiance, and seasoning much-needed antagonism against the inherently antagonistic — enveloped in amber light with a hopeful shine so bright that my sun-kissed ancestors would be astounded by it. My face is the ever-aging, ever-growing, and ever-present narrative of the queer and the black in a vengeful white America.
We have all been embroiled in a new national and global conflict which strikes paranoia in the hearts of complacent first-world citizens; civil liberties and rights are being trampled upon while the banner of white supremacy remains unscathed in the turbulence. Inclusion has been preached but not practiced. Ethnic fractionalization, the forgotten intersections between race, ethnicity, and the queer community, classism, misogyny, disenfranchisement, systemic repugnance, and the suppression of self-determination has lead to the creation of massive crevasses that widen the divide between the parochial, the oppressors, and the oppressed. “Post-dystopian” beliefs have led societal elites to resume drinking their cup of coffee while reading the latest contemporary digest over the garbled shouts of the impoverished — one planning to use the same newspaper as a quilt. Bigoted world leaders have sidestepped all manners of checks and balances and kicked down the pillars of democratization, paving the way for an unceremonious union between a tombstone and the emaciated bodies of the same citizens they are supposed to serve. Traditional insignias of what it means to be “human” are up for the taking, and the global community is paralyzed, haplessly watching the youth of their nations assume mantles of responsibility, utilize constructive dialogue, and demand revision.
The Civil Rights Movement — the one that history books claim was resolved long ago — has been revitalized by the younger generations. The proactivity, the desire for inclusion, and the reluctance to cave in can be seen in the exponential increase of youth activism. My people — the young people — are engaging thoughtfully, moderating actively, and changing intentionally; we no longer will be involved in the schemes of power that the older generations play with a nonchalant flick of the wrist. We are reasserting the power of demonstration and allyship, no longer shouting over voices from the frontlines or sidelines that wish to edit the narrative. We are changing the social constructs that have been deemed primordial but reek of ignorance and misrule, no longer allowing the entrenchment of insensitivity and bigotry in our laws and institutions. We are reclaiming our power as scholars and inheritors of the establishments that serve us, the nations that house us, and the earth that sustains us.
White America — no, the white world – I oppose your discretion. I oppose your insurrection. I oppose your overprotection. For too long, my blackened skin has been seen as mediocre target practice for your battalions made out of red, white, and blue. For too long, my queerness has been seen as a mental affliction that you must rectify with serrated words, impassionate lechery, and corrective penetration. For too long, my womanhood — complex in theory, personal in practice — has been subjected to smears, bruises, and stretch marks that have defaced not only my thighs, but also my character. For too long, I have been seen as the inferiority of humankind.
My nation, birthed from between the legs of the marginalized, the disenfranchised, and the condemned, will laugh in well-intentioned defiance when met with the face of the white narrative — monolithic and silent. We will eat, we will drink, and we will rejoice — strengthened by our ancestors’ filling meals of faith and diversity, we will enter their halls of privilege and reclaim the lounge chairs, libraries, and tables. Sitting down, we will extend an olive branch, for our oppressors are no less shackled by their bigotry than we are. Condemnation serves as a temporary justice. Our message responds to a higher calling, not one based on giving into carnal human desires. We must have fortitude in the face of our oppressed anger; we cannot afford nor can we become synonymous to those that have wronged us. However, my nation’s manifesto — the minority manifesto – is not one that remains unresponsive to crimes against humanity, nor one that absolves the entitled’s guilt.
My nation is one that will rise like a phoenix from the ashes, born from what the white world has left our institutions to become. My nation is one that remains resolute in the face of adversity, both from the oppressors and the oppressed. My nation — one of all peoples, practices, and faiths — is one that demands progression, demands equitability, and demands to be truly indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.