Archives for posts with tag: feminism

Still Genesis 4: 1- 25

Cain Destabled

“Nod” — a tuneless song (thanks, JC)

Well, you wonder why I’m marked and walk this way,
Why I never work a job more than a day,
And why my laughter sounds like someone else’s moan
Well, there’s a history to the scars that I have borne.

I wear my marks for the poor and beaten down,
Living in the hopeless, hungry victims’ side of town,
I have them for the prisoner who misunderstood her crime,
But stays because she’s a consort of her times.

I wear the mark for those who never read,
Or listened to the words the Maker said,
But I heard the words he spoke with love and charity,
Back then, you know, He was talking straight to me!

And I’m doing what I can in tattered clothes,
As I walk on rocks and feel them in my toes
Though I’m haunted by the wicked sound of skull bone being cracked
Every time a person shouts at me “Get back!”

I wonder if my questions will get old,
Unworthy me or a universe so cold?
I wander Nod just fixed on what there might have been
If a judgment never came to Mom or two young men.

So, I wander for the women who have died,
Believing that the Lord was on their side,
I wander for another hundred thousand castes who cry,
Never told or knowing why they’re cast aside.

But words won’t make things right, that much I know,
Like Mother’s ambushed innocence or Abel brought so low,
And not until I justify what is wrong and what is right
Will I ever see my shadow as my light.

Oh, I’d love to sing a rainbow every day,
And know that there’s a fairness to the game that’s being played,
‘Til then I’ll wander solo, scarred image on the sand,
‘Til God’s a little fairer, I’m the bitter, angry man.

postmodernlogo_pmd1

Still Genesis 4: 1- 25

Cain Destabled

“Nod” — a tuneless song (thanks, JC)

Well, you wonder why I’m marked and walk this way,
Why I never work a job more than a day,
And why my laughter sounds like someone else’s moan
Well, there’s a history to the scars that I have borne.

I wear my marks for the poor and beaten down,
Living in the hopeless, hungry victims’ side of town,
I have them for the prisoner who misunderstood her crime,
But stays because she’s a consort of her times.

I wear the mark for those who never read,
Or listened to the words the Maker said,
But I heard the words he spoke with love and charity,
Back then, you know, He was talking straight to me!

And I’m doing what I can in tattered clothes,
As I walk on rocks and feel them in my toes
Though I’m haunted by the wicked sound of skull bone being cracked
Every time a person shouts at me “Get back!”

I wonder if my questions will get old,
Unworthy me or a universe so cold?
I wander Nod just fixed on what there might have been
If a judgment never came to Mom or two young men.

So, I wander for the women who have died,
Believing that the Lord was on their side,
I wander for another hundred thousand castes who cry,
Never told or knowing why they’re cast aside.

But words won’t make things right, that much I know,
Like Mother’s ambushed innocence or Abel brought so low,
And not until I justify what is wrong and what is right
Will I ever see my shadow as my light.

Oh, I’d love to sing a rainbow every day,
And know that there’s a fairness to the game that’s being played,
‘Til then I’ll wander solo, scarred image on the sand,
‘Til God’s a little fairer, I’m the bitter, angry man.

Bring It (Myth).

Created by males to appeal to male psyches. She dresses like a Playboy bunny but has the aggression of the testosterone driven YY male. Here is a drawing of an abused woman.  A male god is kicking her around like males who think they are gods especially when they are drunk or feeling small will do.  She is going down swinging and as a superhero, like so many abused women, will rise from the bloody floor, bruised inside and out, to be beaten another day. The angels will weep for mankind for forty days plus one when men discover that God is a female living in perpetual anger in Kyoto keeping meticulous records of the overt and covert abuse of Her kind, her daughters lined up behind her through countless generations.

All women are equal but some are Moore equal than others.

Berniece calls to her ancestors carved into the piano “I want you to help me” over and again and mentions several by name.  Her blues chant is urgent and sung directly to the carven images on the piano. They respond, first with the sound of a train whistle. The Ghosts of the Yellow Dog come north and upstairs to Boy Willie to flex the muscle they have been using to wreak havoc on the depraved and usurping Southern white landowners. But the family spirits are not vengeful in purpose. Their response is meant to scare Boy Willie from destroying the family heirloom and all it means.  The Ghosts echo Berniece’s plea for her freedom from this one man and from all men so that she can grow as a black woman and a person. Boy Willie is not killed, though he believes he would have been, perhaps because he had come so close to taking on the mantle of physical and economic and social oppressor and so come close to being white enough for the Ghosts of the Yellow Dog to feel justified in murderous revenge for their own burning deaths. The violence of the masculine world swirls around Berniece but she is the strong one here, seeing a solution, using her powers of heritage and voice to summon strength beyond mere gender and social inequality.  She is freed and in her new power remains humble enough to call out once more a gospel chant of “Thank you” to those who aided her and those who might have gained a certain freedom in this Northland.  Perhaps the Ghosts of the Yellow Dog no longer need to kill and can move on having seen an open frontier, flawed mightily but freer, in Berniece’s last stand, maybe her first strong stand since the death of her husband, and in echo to her independence the Ghosts are free.