Four Women
A poem inspired by Nina Simone’s song of the same name and Little Simz’s ‘Offence’
There are four women living inside this body of mine. I feel shackled in these stereotypes.
I am the Tragic Mulatto.
A mixed-mutt bitch
who doesn’t know where she belongs.
Torn between three worlds
but raised in one
I feel sick to my stomach,
with these words unsung.
Always swallowing remarks
and holding my tongue.
Unworthy of my privilege
raised in a white middle-class shire
An opinion in front of the Tory boys
That would throw you in the fire
Black History Month
What the hell is that?
We can’t acknowledge our past
That’s an inappropriate chat
Jamaican, Dutch
and Indonesian I am
Black dad out the house
So I rarely ate yam
Sundays were for Gran’s
A tap into that side
Of myself and identity
That I want to own with pride
In reality
I don’t know where I belong
That’s why I always seek comfort
In writing, film and song
I’m the Angry Black Woman.
More often than not.
“The British colonised Africa
in case you forgot!”
You make everything about race
Yes I really do
But it seems rather necessary
When the awarding gaps 13.2
My unis is higher
14.3 percent right now
“But we treat you all equally!
I don’t understand how!”
Well you could start with sacking
The N-word saying tutors
And the ones who don’t think twice
About linking videos of shooters
Shut down in my seminars
For stepping out of line
Don’t raise your POV
And you’ll get along just fine
If you stop funding REAs
It’ll be a huge mistake
Will show you don’t really care
That your anti-racism is fake
More police on campus
That’ll sort things out
More like make us uncomfortable
And scared to wander no doubt
I’ll say it with my chest
I don’t care who I offend
Sussex has let us down
It’s not the paradise it pretends
Being confident and a leader
I may be labelled Matriarch
No time to waste on dates
Who don’t meet that high mark
I know what I want
And that shouldn’t be a crime
I’m in no position
To sit around and waste my time
If I’m being honest
I have been tricked too
White leftists date me for woke points
And at first I can’t see through
A brown girl on your arm
Doesn’t mean you are aware
Want to school me on race issues
Don’t you even fucking dare
All I’m really asking
Is to be accepted as I am
A smart and well-read woman
With big goals and dreams and plans
I like myself a lot you know
It took a long time to get here
To accept the way my body looks
And celebrate me being queer
I don’t want to be called strong
Or exotic, brave or bold
I just want to be liked and loved
Without fitting your mould
The Artist lives inside me too
Not just these stereotypes
I’m emotional, sensitive, creative
And yeah this girl has pipes
I can sing and write quite nicely
Get consumed for days
By a new piece that I’m working on
That I think may lead the way
To the soft side of Yazz James
It’s my art that I want to be known for
I worry that I won’t make a living
But it’s what makes me happy, that’s for sure
Music’s a massive part of me
I collect records and cassettes
And film is where my heart is
An escape, a break, outlet
Journals from my childhood
Boxes of photos under my bed
Every page that I scrawl notes on
Gives a little peek inside my head
I’ve always been a writer
It’s not really a choice
It’s how I process feelings
And give myself a voice
I colour-code my outfits
I dance a little as well
It's the moments I feel most me
That bring out this part of myself
