‘What’s in that bag mam?’
My backpack is packed with sweaty flashes
Me walking down and up the hills of Seatlle, LA, San Francisco, DC
Landscapes of brown and black tears and sweat
In search for post-modernism
Looking away as reality would open up her hands for a dime
I secretly took the shampoo bottles from Marriott, 37ml
’Do I need to open the bag?’
My backpack is filled with monumental selfies
Selfies of lies and half, uncertain truths
Imaginations of my ancestors brothers and sisters, naked and on sale
Picking cotton and humming songs of a white god
filled with turbulences in humanity
From 1400 and above
Of indigenous rage
Identity crises; who is what, who is not, who am I, who is Asian, Indian, Latino.
Who the fuck are you! Who are you!
Are you African American, Are you?
My backpack is pregnant with the howls of Baldwin, Ginsberg, Morrison, Sami and Pepe’s bass
Group selfies, seventeen stories from other walks on this earth
Stuffed with ideas on how-to.
Hugs and smiles of sympathy
Water-bottles and books, 30, 40, 60 maybe?
‘You can go now mam!’
Will I be able to unpack?
Ruth San A Jong
Seatlle University 8 august
[Inspired by the packing…]
‘The story ends, as stories do. Reality steps into view.’ – Anita Baker