the eerie,
bone chilling, ‘hee-hee-hee.
No, I Don’t Speak Swahili (Private Collection)
50 × 60 “, Acrylic and yarn on unstretched canvas
Do You hear it?
The echo
of the manic, high-pitched
yip
You can’t miss it
Here it goes again,
the eerie,
bone chilling, ‘hee-hee-hee.’
It’s unmistakable.
Gets louder and louder
intertwining with—what’s that?
a crackle
of bones
beneath your feet?
You try to swallow,
but a giant lump
fills your throat.
You move back slowly,
one step at a time,
eyes locked forward.
Your gaze darts side to side as hyenas begin to flank you.
Their echo bounces throughout the Savanna.
‘hee-hee-heeeeee’
Inhale, exhale.
My chest rises and falls
rapidly,
up and down,
anxiety is spiking,
everything is spinning,
unrecognizable.
My eyelids close.
I take one more breath
in and out.
My eyes open slowly.
I am no longer in Tanzania,
Nor the savanna.
The eerie high-pitched yip
Has faded,
As I’ve been transported back to
a sterile
white classroom
I still hear it—
‘You’re black ‘cause you’re from Africa
and you speak Swahili!’—
And can’t unhear it.
The echoes sound and resound
like the cries of a hyena,
A mocking tone.
I calmly state,
‘I’m from Georgia
and no, I don’t speak Swahili.”
His face is blank.
Then puzzled as he wrestles
with the facts
that
I am black, but I don’t speak Swahili.
Deep cleansing breath.
I’m reminded
of the journey
I’m embarking on,
the exploration of finding your ‘whole self.’
The weaving and piecing together, much like a patchwork quilt of identity:
What does it mean to be a
Biracial woman, adopted by a white family?