My name is Maeve, Mani Maeve, Nola Devine: depending. AKA “the one that does nails,” “that white girl who be dancing,” or “that white BITCH.” Surely I been called many other names: you might know better than I.
I moved to Indy about 10 years ago, and I must say: I like & loathe this toxic city that is my hometown on 10X speed. Yet I LOVE the melanated people of Indianapolis and I OWE THEM MORE than I could EVER repay. I’m so grateful to live amongst the vastness of melanated beauty, culture, history, diversity, and power that built and sustains the vibrancy of life here. One need not leave the circle to discover every inch of America, every echo of the people of all lands.
I’m humbled every day by those who return this love for me, including in the form of correction and accountability: for I know the greatness of spirit required for a melanated American to extend kindness, let alone forgiveness, to skin of their most violent oppressors.
I KNOW I’m a controversial figure in these streets: on & offline. I’m in small part called to write this letter on the heels of having showed my ass (yet again) in a back & forth with a barely acquainted melanated sister on Fedbook, & done harm. I burnt that bridge to the ground, cuz my love & respect for the collective does not necessitate my like or respect for every individual in every moment, every season. Yet, I’m never proud past a minute of how my ways hurt and push away truly Amazingh people, especially as an “antiracist white woman.” Still…. I surmise: might fuck around and test you again.
Cuz “ain’t I woman?” I do know how it smarts to be stuck with a pin. Our reactions will gauge the mastery within.
I rarely speak heavy on my own identity outside of inner circles, or quick exchanges around dance floors where the palor of my skin clashes with the depth of my rhythm and soul in free motion. I’m quick to claim it: “Yes I am indeed white: extra European” cuz I’ll be damned before I Dolezal. Now, teeeeechnically by modern nationhood I’m Norwegian-Irish-German-Swedish-English + the microtiiiiiniest drop of a bloodline as of yet unconfirmed by my genealogist mommy. My great great grandma “Pinky” was called “mulatto” back in her day…. Despite surprise surpriiiiise: the paper trail of Pinky’s parentage goes cold bout 1890. But Ma just took a DNA test: turns out, I’m bout 0.0000001% ambiguous “Native American.”
Blood quantum, indivine dividing line bullshit aside, I been living in the knowledge & responsibility of the undeserved privileges & protections afforded to my pale baby face by this “white supremacist” society we’re all choking down. Where a lot of people have me fucked up is assuming that I strive to identify as an “ally.” I do not, never have: though I listen and learn… not always in your or my preferred timeline, but in the divine’s.
I didn’t just wake up in 2020 & decide “it’s time to throw on a cape.” I did not grow up in a suburb, no enclave of “whiteness.” Although I’ve studied and practiced “antiracism” in a variety of ways, I didn’t come by it as an adult. I first felt it bout 5/6 years old when my “gentle parenting” type mother slapped me cross my face because I said “I don’t want to play with Tiagée anymore cuz she’s black.” First & last time Connie ever hit me, though she kept me half tame with her daggers for eyes.
The reality was, my next-door neighbor sister-friend Tiagée was beating the brakes off me on the regular. She even choked my soft ass out with a jump rope once. Unknown where nor how I swallowed the pill that transmuted my pain into the above racist bile that had entered my brain, but I’m sure glad my mom slapped it back out. She made sure I knew not to pin my hurt feelings or hurt body on the color of my deep brown sister’s skin.
If not for that critical correction on the matter, I would’ve missed out on the chance to love & stay connected wit h a phoenix who continues to ascend and from the ashes of her own childhood traumas. Tiagée, her grandparents, her cousins, mama, baby bro all generously, tho cautiously accepted me into their village. Just had to get jumped in.
They lived different but the same as the blood under our Miller family roof, the Younes roof, the Geglios, Pachecos, the Ryals… different and the same: my big brother Lorcan and I learned under shelters and open sky. Remember in the 90s? We ran wild until the lights came on. Have you taken off your shoes and frolicked freely through grass? 100/10 would recommend.
I’m grateful to both of my servant leader parents for instilling in me the deep belief that ALL people are equally deserving of love and respect in the “eyes” of our mysterious divine Creator. And yet still: being the soft lil “white girl” attending the diverse public schools I’m proud to have graduated, catching the bus on which I better not look siblings Mercedes, Mercury, or Miata directly in the eyes or else… My theological carpenter father, Chris, also had to teach me nuance like while it’s best not to put your hands on anybody in anger… If someone tries to hit you: might need to hit them back. So as not to become fishbait for all bullies.
You wanna talk funny? Honey, I talk back! Yap. Run up on me? Bet. You can do that. Fact: I’m farrrrr from the hardest bitch on the block, but tho I fear the wrath of the universe which I have transgressed a thousand times: I am BRAVE. Not because 12 is a dial away, but becuz I have divine purpose. I will not fall until I have been fully and properly used by the most high and spoken every truth to power that spirit forces past my teeth. Have I ever lied tho? Will I lie again? Surely.
Ain’t I human?
I’m cracked all over but been patched with gold: kintsugi restrains the vast power I was birthed to be, on hold. The power I fear so much I push it down, deep deep down. Safe keeping in case a powder keg might need might to explode. I am wrapped in this swineskin until it turns to mold: maybe then you might see me and behold.
Hear this, my dear peoples: if I pledged allegiance to the “white ally ship,” I would have killed myself years ago. For to be so quiet, beggingly question, actively listen and open my heart to EVERY melanated womb who speaks her truth, a bitch like me would spontaneously burst into flames. For who with a pure heart can hear the cries of these babes and not be enraged and ashamed? Then told to stand by and just sit with that pain. Not I. I need “MORE ACTION, MORE ENERGY.”
Who can bear this mark of Cain? For it MUST BE CASTE OUT into the wilderness of smoke and flame! YES! LET’S BURN OUR DEAD WORDS, WE HAVE LIFE TO REGAIN.
Who taught ME to hate the color of my skin? The griots, the shamans, crafters, Maroons.
The farmers, the builders, the Nation, dùndún. The breeders, the mothers, sisters with wounds. Quilombo, the seeders, mbirimbau tunes. Keepers of the culture who track time, sun and moon. The stars in sky, fear and anger in your eyes.
“And still I rise!” Often bowed but I straighten my back. NOT because i am entitled, but because WE ARE ENTITLED: to worship at the feet of trees that bear GOOD FRUIT ripened by sun, sharing the mannah, the milk and honey. BY WORKING WITH THE SOIL & THE BREAKING OF BREAD, I BREAK THIS CURSE PLACED UPON MY BODY’S BLOODLINE. I INVITE YOU TO BREAK YOURS. I CALL UP THE SPIRITS OF QUENCHED LIGHT FROM THE GROUND, WHOM HAVE BEEN SILENTLY CONSPIRING TO LIGHTEN AND POUND.
For YOU with ears to listen to this polyrhythmic sound: Keep your hearts quiet and BE HEALED. For the drums will soon call, and only YOU WILL KNOW the meaning, my PEOPLE OF THE EARTH. Only you can decipher its reason and rhyme.
Dig for your roots. Grow herbs, hug trees, study our “grass.” Eat of it, with wisdom. FAST AND BE HEALED.
“THE YAMS GOT THE POWER THAT BE!”
Allah ya’ll who read this: let us lift every voice on SAY: I’M FREE! on MYAAMI, AMEN, HALLELUJAH, INSHALLAH, and ASÉ
With love from the hive mind,
Through Nola Devine
