Rant (After Saul Williams)

by Phloe

I will not rhyme on tracks
Orientals workin on the railroads used to do that
Way back
I will not rhyme over tracks
White men who owned the railroads used to call that
A chinaman's chance

Although my forefathers and great great great grandmothers were a
Malaysian Indonesian Negrito Muslim Hindu hybrid raped and laid by the claim of Spain
Mestizoed with chinese and japanese occupations that got had by british colonialism
Topped off with an atomic cherry bomb saved on the tip of amerikan phallocentrism

I am pinay
Which means I am american and
Which also means that I am
Not

We stand on proverbial soapboxes spitting bloody symbolism
For more than fourscore and seven years ago
When their fathers brought forth a new nation
For all our Others who were brought here turned and tricked as freemen
But then blasted like they were not men
Brought them to promontory point although their names were never mentioned
At least twelve hundred sets of bones whose souls remain nameless
Like
At least twelve hundred brown detainees sit in camps who remain faceless
There will be no Maya Lin memorial for any of them

We talk in yellow blood that spilt
Like sweat splitting railroad ties
Split families apart brought men to the place where they became nothing more
And everything less
In a country paved with fool's gold
Our dreams still remain meaningless

In recent times the strategy has been to prioritize by
Minority statusing us only as a
Model to insult and confuse the others
who have been displaced relocated enslaved and renamed
Remaining through the course of history to be divided conquered and divided again
Targeted in hate crimes and demeaned in that hollywood sex machine
But still they tell us that we're doing better than the rest.
Of them.

We talk in yellow blood that flowed
Like tears down the cheeks of Vincent Chin's mother
Tears rolling down the cheeks of Joseph Ileto's brother
Or blood surging from the stab wounds of Thien Minh Ly
And countless Others who have died at your hands for pure malice and
No peace.

Don't drop the beat on me
Don't drop the beat no.
Don't drop the beat on me
Don't drop the beat no.

We talk in brown beads of sweat that dripped
The color off our faces until we were sweet and white like profit from sugarcane plantations
The breaking of our backs
When we were told to come here move there and then
Told not to come any more
Like commands told to a subservient hourly paid whore
In numbers too big to ignore they used us all
Then told us to shut up back the hell up and stay still
Until they saw the whites of our eyes
Bursting through slanty jaundiced slits they defined
To deny us in the first place

Just take away my rights and tell me that I have no place in this country
Treat me like Wen Ho Lee
Shackle me in your hangups release me when you've fucked up
And tell me it's in the name of governmental security
How do you suppose I go back to where I came from
When you've turned my motherlands into tourist traps
And the grand irony is that
My mothers aren't the ones
Who gave you the shirt on your back
No
They even made it for you

We

Don't you think it's getting a little old
With you telling us where to go
When you tried that shit sixty goddamned years ago?

So next time
When you are in denial of majority guilt
Tickling ivory pride
Which is just as bad as sitting on your liberal picket fence
Thinking about which third world country you should try to help save next
And which people you want to annihilate
Just because your president says so
Just know
That we are still here

Waiting to see the whites of
Your eyes.

©2002 phloe