Warning: Use of undefined constant gallery - assumed 'gallery' (this will throw an Error in a future version of PHP) in /home/nomorepot/www/www/site/wp-content/themes/imbalance/js/photo-galleria/photo-galleria.php on line 195
nomorepotlucks » sweetest thing/tierra sagrada – Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

sweetest thing/tierra sagrada – Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

sweetest thing/tierra sagrada


1. I have an ongoing thesis about brown people loving brown people and brown people loving white people. It’s an unfinished one with lots of unproven hypotheses. I need to gather more raw data to evaluate, but there are times when the scientific method breaks down and is inadequate to describe what goes on in my pussy and my heart.

This is what I know. Sometimes it’s the sweetest thing. Some times its boredom and bullshit. Sometimes I open my legs and give up my head, heart, and panties to the sky based on nothing more than skin that is the same color as mine and lips as full. Lips that can say my name right, or at least make a stab at it. I’ll forgive them if they fuck it up, if at least they try hard at it. I’ll forgive them so much. I need so bad to be forgiven

I want to fuck them back to before. before before. before the ships arrived on our lands, before our white parents fingers probing genitals, hair and skin looking for marks of the devil. before the breakups with each other like earthquakes we never expected that threw carefully arranged plants, plates and books to the floor of the room. I want the fingers inside their holes to dry erase their scars the way theirs did to mine. I want it to be precious. I want it to be private. I want to be fearless.

There are certain things you just don’t do, certain things you just don’t tell anybody. Not family business that should be shared, but certain things secret like a cervix or that crinkled place that cries in my cunt. Like how I never talk about my spiritual beliefs, despite the altar that has taken up a quarter of my room since I turned 18 and got a room of my own. I don’t trust people who run their mouths bout Yemaya or their pagan healing circle. The gods don’t talk to people who talk about them too much. You get down on your knees to her in private and she gives you things. that’s how it works.

And there are certain things you don’t give white people is what I’ve thought
I am a nationalist!
I mean it!
I mean
I may fuck you when there is a shortage
but I won’t hold your hand in public!
I won’t cook you Sri Lankan food
call you kunju
make my culture a Disneyland road map for you
There’s certain shit that’s our secret
I had to work hard enough to find it
and I’m holding on to it
like our ancestors held onto the location of Palmares
like that last apartment where the Tamil woman activist is holing up from the cops and the LTTE
like the last bit of rez we’ve held on to
there’s certain things you don’t ever give up to white folks
no matter how much you might love them
no matter how idiotic some of our own might be

There are so few of us
and, like Chrystos said, that’s why we don’t fuck sometimes
because there are so few of us
because friendship is safer and lasts

but for a year
I fucked my peer group,
and nothing was sweeter on my tongue
nothing was sweeter than these excerpts of my magic fuck life

2. I usedta have a rhyme with that one lover, like:

white boys are like fast food
well advertised
a lot has gone into making them taste good
sometimes there’s nothing else on the side of the highway
but they sure leave your tummy feeling funny after!
white girls are different!
sometimes they’re like fast food too
sometimes they’re a vegan hippie salad!
sometimes they’re fatback biscuits and gravy

sometimes brown people fall in love with us on the first date
give us a UTI cuz they’re banging your pelvic bone so hard
or just ain’t it
but sometimes

“I don’t even look at white girls anymore,” said my friend as I am sobbing in his mom’s bigass deluxe four poster bed. It’s the first in what will be a year of sobs about how my perfect brown boyfriend had left me two days after I opened letters from my father, first time I talked to him in a decade, for a femme so platinum she practically glows in the dark. My lover will never write me back and it’s a bhangra song from a movie starring Amitabh, Parveen Baba, and a gun about lost letters, plane tickets, pretty brown men who been and gone.

A year later my friend is dating a blond woman because he likes her, because “it’s just easier,” and I don’t judge him. My heart attack of perfect open pussy heart brown boy love, scars, feathers torn in half valentine has left me drinking, working, jerking off, dancing, sitting meditation with grief and talking to him in my head for a year.

I know how high stakes this love is. And I know I haven’t wanted to be fed anything else but dynamite. Nothing but brownness like sweet chai and paan chewed and sipped on the sidewalk under Christmas lights, sold by an uncle with a card table when it is oh so cold.

Basically it is Arabs and Latinos and the occasional South Asian and any kind of mixed person who wants to do it with me. And then of course there are the white geeky post anarchist guys who used to hate me and later loved me and wanted to fuck me because white anarchist boys always want to fuck angry brown girls as a complement to their bell hooks collection. I am an ex-punk who hated it, who now likes to sometimes walk through those group houses aloof. I used to make white guys give me head for nineteen hours as some form of reparations, beyatch! for colonialism.

And then I got over it. Brownness was a relief. The biggest exhale.

4. Sometimes the queer community of color is so small. so wanted. so necessary. so drama filled. so exhaustion ridden. I know everyone’s secrets and keep them safe. I have boundaries, I have rules. That there is no room to move into the spaces that I so desperately want.

I don’t know how the story ends. I am still gathering data. I know love never stops seeing color. I know love is an anarchic bitch that will slap your ass and upside your head and send you to places you’d never thought you’d go.

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha is a queer Sri Lankan writer and performer, based for ten years in Toronto, recently relocated to Oakland, CA. The author of Consensual Genocide (TSAR, 2006) her work has been widely anthologized in the queer, feminist and of color press, including in Yes Means Yes, Homelands, Colonize This, We Don’t Need Another Wave, Bitchfest, Without a Net, Dangerous Families, Geeks, Misfits and Outlaws, Bent on Writing, Femme and A Girl’s Guide to Taking Over The Word. She writes for Bitch, Colorlines, Herizons, Hyphen, Make/Shift and Xtra magazines, and regularly performs and tours her work throughout North America. She is the co-director of Mangos With Chili, North America’s only annual touring cabaret of queer and trans of color performers. Visit her at http://www.brownstargirl.com