I never wanted to be an envious person
I never wanted to think I wasn’t content
But I find myself being very critical
Because that is all I am, a critic
A critic and a consumer
Most of us are not encouraged to create
We are only allowed to consume
And the few of us who do create
I am told that it only matters if
It’s widely absorbed
can be sold
can trend
Yet in my culture, we are special
My culture is an export
My culture is commodified
The most absorbed music in the world is ours
Our sound is learned and regurgitated back to us and called “pop
Our jokes, our slang learned and traded and abused
Our dances learned
and relearned
and taught
and retaught
Until everyone can move and sound like us
Even if they don’t know us
Our bodies are glorified for our athleticism
We are a spectacle
Costumed and competing for top spot
Fetishized on courts and stage
We entertain the world
We make the world move, and somehow we can’t afford to dance
Where is the spirit of my ancestors
Who could turn hunger into harmony?
Why haven’t I “broken through”
Why can’t I be an entertainer
Can I create freely as one
But I don’t create to feed the machine
Expression is not my currency
The richest creators are the most consumed
I create just like I breathe
But the air is dense, and I have asthma
Where do I find time to create when I can’t access nature
Where do I find space in my soul when it’s aware of its own suppression
Where do I find peace in my mind when I am focused on survival
How do I create with a heavy soul