I, Mi, Ik: A Dreamscape Looking Inside-Out

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Our two small feet speed across the white, hot sand. Countless times, our feet had become the home of tiny worms. We grimaced as a swollen big toe housed an unwelcomed guest. But that is nothing a clean sewing needle could not fix. Pierce the skin and dig carefully. Watch the infected goop ooze, and wait for the red.

We stop and sit cross-legged in the sand as yellow flower petals drop to their death bed. The colours are exhilarating. Their home tree is thousands of years old. Connected to land and water from generations past. A long, slender trunk extends meters high, creating a visual journey through its life. Our eyes suck on the pleasure as the yellow flowers puff off the branches telling us, “Watch us fall. Aren’t we pretty?”

Our eyes wander to the darkest greens of the forest resting ahead. Through this green, deep-brown hands, with veins full of joy and rage, create a dull thump-thump against a drum’s face. Microfibers of the drum, its flesh, burst into the air.

It is a sound that travels deep into our being. Colourful feathers stand gracefully atop of the drummers’ head, as his black silken hair softly swayed with each thump.

The Blood reacts rhythmically, yet our Body struggles to follow in dance. Can we join? Do we have this birthright? Our being was delivered into this country, but it left when we aged to eight years. It left to a new land. A land where we are visitors to the Turtle Island—one of its many names.

For many years, the Spirits of stolen and displaced Africans, the Maroons, were given guidance of our being. It made us feel the safest. The most welcome in this physical plane. We knew of the Arawak and Caribe Spirits in our mists…and they stood waiting…for the she to realize they also offer safety. They also offer warmth. But she needed the immediate touch, the immediate solace of the Maroons. Her shell called for their presence first—the round nose, the black curls that draw close, the skin that greedily drinks the sun…the shell only saw, and was told to only see, Maroon. Mi wang Blaka meisje. So, we sit in silence, while the drum continues its thump.

An old soccer ball rolls across us, and we stand up to follow it. Suddenly, we are in an open field, laughing, as we kick the ball to half-naked little cousins. The skin of our feet stings as we kick the rugged ball, a strangely comforting feeling.

“Goal! Ronaldooo!” We all tirelessly scream as a cousin swiftly scores. The celebratory run is accompanied with various chants of our favourite soccer players, most of them being Brazilian. Raindrops begin to settle on our heated heads. The brown faces of our little cousins turn to question us. They ask, “Why are you not inside? Your hair will stink if you get it wet.”

And she believes them. Blaka wieri, Black hair, needs to be handled, it needs to be controlled. We cover our head with a banana leaf and run inside, making sure our braids are dry.

Mama is making steamed buns in the kitchen, while the same man drums sitting at the table, more quietly, as not to disturb the cooking process. His hair has grown. It lays on the ground next to his ankles.

“Poppetje, don’t play soccer so much. Your skin will get dark,” Mama warmly coos from the stove. She brings the steaming basket to the table and lays it on a dry cloth, paying no mind to the man with the feathers.

A crucifix of Jesus Christ hangs on the wall while the sunlight glimmers against the bronze of the figure. A Bible verse accompanies the bronze Christ, but it is too small to read. Another crucifix, more delicate, hangs around Mama’s neck.

Thump-thump.

The man pauses and his head remains bowed as he stares at the drum. No matter how hard we try, we cannot recognize his face. He slowly looks up at us and opens his mouth. An orb of white light fills his mouth, enveloping the kitchen as it spreads from him.

Our vision blurs, then we find ourselves standing in front of a mirror. The hallway is dark, but we can clearly see our reflection. Countless times before, we have stood in front of this mirror. We mourned the lives of two guard dogs here. And this time, we mourn ourselves.

Tears roll from our eyes, to our cheeks and down our neck. They stream along our torso, our legs, to the floor. See, we cry because another day went by that we woke up Other.

In a blink, our face has aged. Yes, how could we forget, we are 24 now, not 7.

Thump-thump. The drum returns, but the drum man is not in sight.

Thump-thump. The sound enters us, and we can feel it in our fingertips. It makes our tongue itch, like when we eat too much pineapple. We scratch and rub our mouth to stop the tingling. But it does not stop. Instead, it grows.

“You’re wrong!” We shout, our fingernails digging into our palms.

We shout to the strangers, the friends, the aunties, and the uncles. And to the cousins. To the Church who told our Mama that the things she knew were demonic. To the sisters and brothers who told us that we asked God to make us Black. Voices from other shells always told us who we were. How we should act.

“Nu weet jij het?” The man asks us. Do you know now? Again, he was nowhere to be seen, but we knew who asked us this question.

Our mind filled with memories of chestnut-brown river water, of beige geckos sticking to the ceiling, of pulling wet feathers from chicken skin. We lived this childhood. And it is, it was, ours. Our future kin will know what it means to come from sovereign ancestors.

The she knows now.

We circle around her. Shelooks at us with a stoic face, and we return warm smiles. With her, the stolen, the murdered and the forgotten gazed up at a humid blue sky. The same white light came forth from our mouths. Taking our being by surprise. It tastes ripe. It is sweet and tangy as we all scream to sun filled clouds.

I am.

Mi wang.

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