Freedom is Slavery by Taiina Ayala

Freedom is Slavery

(Merriam-Webster) Slavery: submission to a dominating influence

We stomp, we yell, we beg, we plead

To have our rights is what we need

We scream, we push, we cry, we fight

We become strangers when fallen is night

I know the cause for which we fight is true.

But still, why, oh why am I still so blue?

I’m fighting for what’s right, we are people too

Without freedom, what can we do?

But what does freedom give in return?

This dim light, it seems so far.

Will we ever know what makes it burn?

Is it worth the bodies covered in tar?

We give our souls and we give our lives

While the ones in power sit like Queen bees in their hive

 They don’t seem understand

That our world’s future is in their hands

We have the same lines in our palms, same nails on our fingers

Like a bad taste, this hatred lingers

The same nose to breathe, the same mouth to taste

And all that stands between us is our race

I once had a faith in the world, I know I did

My mother used to tell me as a kid,

“Tomorrow today will be the past”

With just this thought, the possibilities were vast

I pictured myself walking to the corner store

No fears in the world is what I had

The thought made me radiate, I smiled until my mouth was sore

With this thought I could not be angry, sad, upset, or mad

I’ll send a letter to in the mail without any trouble

My kids will go to an excellent school

The positive possibilities will more than double

No colored man will ever be thought of as a fool

We give our souls and we give our lives

For these stories, once told by our mothers

These dreams we have must survive

People are all the same, no matter their colors

But do we really give our lives for this war?  

Or are they bought and sold?
What do we get in exchange for our lives? Money? Silver? Gold? 

For something to be sold, both sides must benefit

But the racial slurs, dirty looks, and dead bodies seem to be infinite 

And in this scenario what do we get? What is it for? 

No, these things are stolen.

Stolen like a slave’s soul from God.

Our lives are stolen from us for something that can be so easily solved.

My need to fight for what has right has become swollen.

Imagine a world where all who breathes are equal.

Will I finally be able to go home to my family in peace?

Will I finally be able to answer my child’s question,

“Daddy when will racism cease?”

I Hope I Did This Even A Little Bit Right (Study in Impressionism) by Taiina Ayala

The last set of a musical performance in a small but packed venue, extremely late at night

She stood in the audience and looked. Looked at the lights coming from above her, above them. They were so blinding she began to see dots, floating from left to right, right to left, and everywhere in between. Dots of different colors, not just the shrieking magenta shade of the light. Dots of mustard, crimson, turquoise, indigo, lime. But they weren’t exactly dots. "Dots" implies that they were circular. These lights were more specks: Shapeless, undefined. Even their colors weren’t constant. One would turn from an orange to black in an instant. They overwhelmed her, so she tried to concentrate on something else; Stay still, let her eyes return to their normal state. Only she couldn’t concentrate because she couldn’t stay still. She herself was standing in one spot but the bodies of others moved her like a strong current. She felt a clammy pressure on her arm. On both arms. On her back, on her stomach. It was a small space filled with lots of people. It was late, and her eyelids suddenly felt the weight of bowling balls. "What time was it?" she asked herself. By the smell of alcohol coming from peoples’ open, singing mouths, it was late. Or early. Early in the morning. Now that she had adjusted to the constant sticky pressure on her arms and learned not to look up, she focused on the music. The bass’ vibrations were low and rhythmic, like a heart beat. She pressed her hand to her own chest, feeling her own rhythm. It was different. She looked up at the lead singer’s face. Wet, droplets appeared, formed, from the border of his forehead and made their way down his facial features. She heard a shake in his voice and looked back up at a feature she seemed to miss while following the path of his sweat: his eyes. It looked as though they were also sweating. Feeling an uncomfortable confusion, she turned her head to look at the faces of those who closely surrounded her. And what she found created a feeling in her gut that surprised her even more than the singer’s sweating eyes. For what seemed to have no reason at all, bumps arose from every inch of her body. Her spine to her fingers, her toes to her head.

Just How Dark is Your Heart? Taiina Ayala

While beginning to read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, our teacher had us play a card game which was a stimulation of the situation in The Congo, and many other places, during this time. In the game, we were put in teams and played the role of the Europeans. We had many obstacles and were faced with tough decisions regarding treatment towards the natives. But through it all we had one common goal: Profit. My team won, coming out with the larger amount of profit. After playing the game we were asked a series of questions. These were my responses.

-What are some factors that influenced the choices you made?

Money. The resources (eatable diamonds) became the sole drive being our actions.  We also considered environmental conditions and natives’ well-being and mood (but only for our sake.)

-Under what circumstances would you have made different choices?

Strategically, if we had all good weather at first we would’ve been more cautious and we wouldn’t have pressed as much. If were able to see firsthand our extremely negative effects on the native people.

-How do you feel about the choices you made?

Overall, pretty good. We weren’t TOO harsh on them. But I do feel bad that we came in guns blazing. I hope families weren’t slaughtered or anything.

-Realistic portrayal?

Yes. We had a team that we made decisions with. We all had a common goal that really only involved the natives’ as tools to get what we really wanted. We were going after a resource for profit, as were the Europeans in Heart of Darkness. Survival was an ongoing struggle. And ultimately it posed the question, “How far are you willing to go to get what you want?”—a question the colonizers were forced to answer for themselves every day.

-Unrealistic portrayal?

In real life, our stay across seas would most likely be way longer than 12 months. Something that kept us going was knowing that we only had a few months left. In real life, they didn’t have that reassurance. Also, there would probably more than four months of bad weather. Weather can be very unpredictable. We saw no effects of the harm we caused upon the villages. Usually natives wouldn’t just give resources away, even for survival. Also, they wouldn’t have been so nice to us after all the oppression we caused, especially since my team came in guns blazing.

-How did this affect your understanding of European colonialism?

After playing this game I found myself sympathizing with the colonizers. What little thoughts I had about the natives were aimed only toward our profit’s well-being. It became only about winning and this part of me honestly alarms me. I suppose that this is a main theme of Heart of Darkness. It brings to light something about humanity that is usually hidden. We all know we have that dark side; we just like to believe that our personal worst is better than others’. We look back at the greedy European imperialists and swear we would have done things differently when in fact, I’m not so sure. The fact that while answering these questions after playing the game, I said that we didn’t hurt the natives “TOO much” was a little frightening. If this had been real life, hundreds of people would’ve died on our accounts. Would I still have invented justifications for my obvious cruel actions? I’d like to say I wouldn’t—that it would be different. But the truth is, I’m not sure.