Migritude Quotes

“The children in my dreams
speak in Gujarati
turn their trusting faces to the sun
say to me
care for us nurture us
in my dreams I shudder and I run.
I am six
in a playground of white children
Darkie, sing us an Indian song!
Eight
in a roomful of elders
all mock my broken Gujarati
English girl!
Twelve, I tunnel into books
forge an armor of English words.
Eighteen, shaved head
combat boots -
shamed by masis
in white saris
neon judgments
singe my western head.
Mother tongue.
Matrubhasha
tongue of the mother
I murder in myself.
Through the years I watch Gujarati
swell the swaggering egos of men
mirror them over and over
at twice their natural size.
Through the years
I watch Gujarati dissolve
bones and teeth of women, break them
on anvils of duty and service, burn them
to skeletal ash.
Words that don't exist in Gujarati :
Self-expression.
Individual.
Lesbian.
English rises in my throat
rapier flashed at yuppie boys
who claim their people “civilized” mine.
Thunderbolt hurled
at cab drivers yelling
Dirty black bastard!
Force-field against teenage hoods
hissing
F****ing Paki bitch!
Their tongue - or mine?
Have I become the enemy?
Listen:
my father speaks Urdu
language of dancing peacocks
rosewater fountains
even its curses are beautiful.
He speaks Hindi
suave and melodic
earthy Punjabi
salty rich as saag paneer
coastal Kiswahili
laced with Arabic,
he speaks Gujarati
solid ancestral pride.
Five languages
five different worlds
yet English
shrinks
him
down
before white men
who think their flat cold spiky words
make the only reality.
Words that don't exist in English:
Najjar
Garba
Arati.
If we cannot name it
does it exist?
When we lose language
does culture die? What happens
to a tongue of milk-heavy
cows, earthen pots
jingling anklets, temple bells,
when its children
grow up in Silicon Valley
to become
programmers?
Then there's American:
Kin'uh get some service?
Dontcha have ice?
Not:
May I have please?
Ben, mane madhath karso?
Tafadhali nipe rafiki
Donnez-moi, s'il vous plait
Puedo tener…..
Hello, I said can I get some service?!
Like, where's the line for Ay-mericans
in this goddamn airport?
Words that atomized two hundred thousand Iraqis:
Didja see how we kicked some major ass in the Gulf?
Lit up Bagdad like the fourth a' July!
Whupped those sand-niggers into a parking lot!
The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati
bright as butter
succulent cherries
sounds I can paint on the air with my breath
dance through like a Sufi mystic
words I can weep and howl and devour
words I can kiss and taste and dream
this tongue
I take back.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“History buried becomes history repeated. A whole generation of Africans have been denied the truth of their own history, and so we do not really know ourselves, or our countries. Reclaiming those erased or hidden histories is vital political and creative work, and is central to my purpose as a writer.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“Listen:
my father speaks Urdu
language of dancing peacocks
rosewater fountains
even its curses are beautiful.
He speaks Hindi
suave and melodic
earthy Punjabi
salty rich as saag paneer
coastal Kiswahili
laced with Arabic,
he speaks Gujarati
solid ancestral pride.
Five languages
five different worlds
yet English
shrinks
him
down
before white men
who think their flat cold spiky words
make the only reality.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“How many ways can you splice a history? Price a
country? Dice a people? Slice a heart? Entice what's been
erased back into story? My-gritude.

Have you ever taken a word in your hand, dared to shape
your palm to the hollow where the fullness falls away?
Have you ever pointed it back to its beginning? Felt it
leap and shudder in your fingers like a dowsing rod? Jerk,
like a severed thumb? Flare with the forbidden name of a
goddess returning? My-gritude.

Have you ever set out to search for a missing half?
the piece that isn't shapely, elegant, simple. The half
that's ugly, heavy, abrasive. Awkward to the hand. Gritty
on the tongue.

Migritude.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“How much we can do without is our strength.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“Seal the borders
of my body to pain,
seal my eyes, mouth, belly
to any hunger not
my own.

I rename myself
America. No love
no grief in the world but mine.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“Gör det i vetskap om att konst / inte är politisk
förändring / gör det till en bön /om verklig politisk förändring /”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“Westerners drop / I love you’s / into conversation / like blueberries / hitting soft muffin dough / I convert it to shillings / wince.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“I love you honey / was the dribbled caramel / of Hollywood movies / Dallas / Dynasty / where electricity surged through skyscrapers / twenty-four hours a day / hot water gushed / at the touch of gleaming taps / banquets obscene as the Pentagon / were mere backdrops / to emotion without consequences / words that / cost nothing / meant nothing.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude

“Ready
is never a question just a reminder
to breathe
and jump.”
― Shailja Patel, Migritude