by Ravina Wadhwani

This is How We Bury Her

 

1.   

Tell her to close her legs
As she enters a home of familiar faces
Tell her to sit upright,
spine aligned perfectly, bones aligned one under the other
Tell her to quietly swallow her voice
 and hide the tears that burst at the seams of her pain

 

2.   

Tell her that her skirt must fall below her knees
that she is not entitled to the curves of her own body
Tell her to straighten out the speedbumps
strip her of her innocence
Tell her to use her hands to write papers and to
Use them to shave, tuck, fold, stir, clench, hold, shake hands
to hold trauma in her fingers
that is not hers

 

3.   

Tell her that her mind is not enough
that if her body can not fit
and if her nose is too round
That she is not enough, yet.
Tell her that her growing body is asking for too much
Tell her that her stomach is growling too hard
 One plate is enough

 

4.   

Take her voice away, then ask her why she gives you her silence
Take her choice away, then ask her why she didn’t mention anything about it
Tell her she is growing up too fast but ask her why she is 12 when she is 5
Ask her to cover up her femininity when it is pouncing out of her skin
Tell her she is merely a chapter but expect the whole book.
Tell her she must make room then ask her why she does not take up space.
Ask her to hold, suck, and tuck it in and ask her why she forgets to breathe
Put her through a tornado and ask her why her hair is so unkempt.
Give her your burden and ask her why she hasn’t slept
Tell her to cross bridges she isn’t ready for and ask her why her knees turn weak.

 

5.   

Draft her to serve food to your guests and then to serve herself last.
Ask her why she runs through nightmares when she should be floating in clouds
Find a flaw and multiply it times seven
Serve it back to her with a side of self-blame.
Sense the rebel in her smirk and shut that shit down
Scan her whole body with your eyes when she does not ask
Tell her to hide, but show her off like a prize when she reeks of accomplishment
Tell her to fill her cup with your dreams and refine, readjust, and realign hers to
 fit the gaping holes that exist in your narratives

 

6.   

Watch as she withers and folds into fetal position
See how she crumbles to dust
Watch how they spread her ashes across oceans
And have the audacity to ask her to swim.

 

 

SWALLOW

 

The way she stumbles across my name is a sin
as if it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth
dark enough to spit out halfway through this devouring.
She,
sits in front of the classroom
halfway on the desk, facing room of
15 children with thirsting, salivating eyes
looking to hear their names just right enough
so that they would pass the test of being heard.
As she goes down the alphabetized roster of names that do not sound like her own
she comes across unfamiliar territory
marked by rivers of East Indian soil,
Drenching the very paper in front of her,

– Likely, this one is mine.

I know it from the way her eyebrows furrow
as she hesitates to cross these trenches.
When she gets to the second syllable of my last name
it is as if the formation of valleys and mountains
that exist in the very blueprint of my name
was just a little too wide for her to cross.

And the second the violence starts
a butchering of sorts
an endless echo of stutters, an array of uncertainty in her voice
It is then that I feel the body language of my grandmother’s grandmother
to be that of a wilting rose
a let down
a suffocation
a compression of an entire anthology of worth
thrown out of the window like a piece of litter.
When she belittles my history by substituting the spice
for a flavor that is a little more familiar,
she finds what is convenient for her

and swallows it

And it is then that I can hear the army of my ancestors
lining up strategically to fight this violence
to protect my heart from its very first heartbreak
As she shrinks my name to
fit the ridges of her tongue
One that has never tasted letters
seasoned with cinnamon, and cloves all at once
Names that remind her that we exist
Names that remind her of the ugliness of her own ancestors’ truths
Names that are oceans of sounds that melt together
in a brown, earthy, mixture of clay, soil and stardust
Names like ours require a roll off the tongue,
a licking of the lips,
An effort as strong as the womens’ hands
Who carefully crafted these vowels and consonants
for me.

Woven together in my name is the very essence of my grandmother’s scent
the very wrinkles in her wise hands
the very brown skin that fills our homes
with laughter, and stories and circles of women
coming together hand in hand
to carefully stitch together a mosaic of letters
that make up the roadmap.
Women who took their time
to ensure that my name would be my armor

So when you stumble across my syllables
tripping over the fruit that falls from the branches
and you race across the curves way past the speed limit
pushing aside these roadblocks that arise
when you sound out my name
Remember that there is an army of a matriarchy
ready to remind you
that our names were never crafted to sit pretty on your tongue
never meant to be digested so easily
but rather,
our names are meant to simmer in your throat
until you realize that what you let marinate on your tongue for just a few seconds
is nothing short

of a truth too flavorful for you to swallow.

 

SOIL

 

My mother was born from the Earth
She came out with her hands reaching above the soil
grasping for air
Survival.

like the ones who came before her time.

And when my mother birthed me
she birthed the revolution that is herself, myself,
and the women before us both.

My mother’s hands are tired.
rolling out rotis at home,
while rocks are thrown at her window
The sounds of chaos had been normal for her.

Go home, they yell

And I have the urge to protect her with my entire body
to tell them

My mother is home
And the earth knows it too.

My mother taught me that survival often comes before thriving
and that our existence here is a paradox
My mother has tears in her eyes when she looks at me.
She realizes in these moments
that though this American dream has been shot down before her eyes
blood staining the earth
the same place we come from
brown, earthy,

that we are home
no matter how infiltrated this soil may be.

She sees me and weeps
She realizes it was never about a false narrative with an empty promise
in a land built on the backs of women who looked like herself
My mother is a miracle
What I am or
What I am or
what I became was
something from her foundation.
My mother was laying down bricks without knowing it.

She built a home within her voice,
a safety net in her scent
She fostered a dream in her lap.
I do not know what to tell my mother
when she tells me she is proud
when she sees what she could have been
had she not been given to the disposal of others.

When her life was laid out to her like a storyline
as soon as she was given breath
Scripted
A series of episodes already narrated for her.
A final draft.

My mother is sick from the words she has swallowed in this lifetime
My mother was told she was a manufacturer before she was told she was a movement.
Told that she was born to be one, before she was told she was a universe.
My mother cries for the multiple selves within her that dies
and she cries when she sees them rebirthed in me.

My mother is not nurturing me,
but the thousands of women before me and those who will come after.
My mother is a platform

My mother is exhausted.
She grabs a glass of red wine with one hand and guilt in the other.
She tells me of the difficult times that came before.
She finds a safe space in me.
Stories of things unsaid coming out from her stomach
up in her throat
out of her body like freedom.

She carves a narrative into my back,
Etched into my very bones is that which she could have been
and that which I can be
My mother tells me I must break free.
She tells me I must show my skin.
She tells me I must flick them off
We have been silent for too long.
My mother is pissed.

She tells me I must do my thing.
tells me I must love fiercely, but never give my whole self away.
My mother invested a treasure in me.
A seed growing, grown, blossoming
My mother’s life is an experience.
She tells me I must not give in to half- assed love.
That no matter how much they try to keep you
Leave.

So when I walk down the street and the hollering starts,
Chewed tobacco spit onto the sidewalk
They say “Sweetheart”
It is then that I remember of the swords I carry in my tongue
It is then that I remember I was born with a waist of knives
Do not touch me, I tell them
Pepper spraying them with my voice.

As I hide the truth from her,
she finds a way to reel it out of my body like a rope,
woven with detail
She says the truth is stronger and fiercer and louder
Than the hands of any man who I have survived.

Ravina Wadhwani (Rav) (she/her) is a Long Beach based writer & poet currently enrolled in Community Literature Initiative Class of 2020 where she will be publishing a book of poetry soon. She is also a mental health therapist in LA county & uses poetry as a medium of expression and healing. She also actively facilitates workshops around mental health education & awareness and co-facilitates healing circles for survivors of gender based violence. Ravina came to Los Angeles by way of Boston, MA and was born and raised in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Ravina is a daughter of Indian immigrants & enjoys writing, performing, fitness, and connecting with other artists of all kind.

Ravina Wadhwani (Rav) (she/her) is a Long Beach based writer & poet currently enrolled in Community Literature Initiative Class of 2020 where she will be publishing a book of poetry soon. She is also a mental health therapist in LA county & uses poetry as a medium of expression and healing. She also actively facilitates workshops around mental health education & awareness and co-facilitates healing circles for survivors of gender based violence. Ravina came to Los Angeles by way of Boston, MA and was born and raised in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Ravina is a daughter of Indian immigrants & enjoys writing, performing, fitness, and connecting with other artists of all kind.