Takunda Muzondiwa is a cross-cultural kid born in Zimbabwe, who performs spoken word poetry as a way to express her confusion about her cultural identity. In this video she performs a poem as part of her speech at the Race Unity Speech Awards from 2019.
“Yesterday I was African; today I am lost.” ~ Takunda Muzondiwa
“What are you? I can’t even tell you how many times I had to answer that question in my life. And not once did ‘Vaughn Thompson Jr.’ seem like a good enough answer. Man, sometimes it didn’t even seem like ‘human’ would suffice. So now I just say, ‘I am third culture.'” ~ Vaughn Thompson Jr.
Watch more videos by Vaughn here
See other TCK poetry videos here
When I was in the village
Somebody asked me, and I don’t remember
Who they were
They asked me
If I had a car.
And I said yes.
Then they asked me if my sister
Had a car.
And I said yes.
And I saw on their face
That it didn’t make sense
And I started to explain
In America, if you don’t have a car
You can’t have a job
And if you don’t have a job
You can’t make money to live.
And they looked at me.
And I looked at them.
And they said
Does your mom have a car.
And I said yes.
And they said
Does your dad have a car.
And I said yes.
And they said
Does every person in your house
Have their own car.
And I thought of all seven of us
And I said yes.
And I wanted to give some explanation
I wanted to say that
This is just normal here
And
Everybody has their own car
I wanted to say
I worked hard for what I have
And I wanted to say
There are people
Who live in this country
Who don’t have a car
People who are poorer
Even than I am
And you know I’m poor
Because I qualify for five different types
Of government assistance but
There are people who have less
Than I do
Who do not have any cars
But I said none of that
I just looked at him
And he looked at me
And I wanted to say
I’m sorry
If I could give you my car I would
If I could trade places with you
I would
If there was some way I could share
All my privilege and benefits
I would
And if there was some way I could trade
My birthright with you
I would
But I can’t
But I said none of that
I just looked at him
And he looked at me
And we didn’t say anything
But I know
The same look I saw in his eyes
That nothing made sense
That he could not imagine
What I was saying
That same look in his eyes
I know is the same look
That people see in my eyes here
Because it doesn’t
It just doesn’t make sense
So I tried to imagine having a car
My car
In the village
I tried to imagine
Driving it to Makeni and going to market
I tried to imagine coming out of market
And putting my groceries in the car
And driving back home
I tried to imagine my sister
Living in the same
House as me
And having her own car
And it just made no sense
It made no sense
And I’m not
Confused
Exactly
I just don’t get how
These worlds can be so different
And how
I can be in both of them
And yet not either
And I just don’t get
What answer I was supposed
To give him
That would ever make sense
Or any answer
I could give him
That he could understand
Because
I couldn’t even find an answer
That I could understand
Yes
I have my own car
And yes
Every person in my house
Has their own car
And no
I don’t know why
by Ghanaperu
Do you know how many times
I have moved?
Sometimes I count them on my fingers,
fistful after fistful of tears
swollen in my throat and I try
to remember every single one
but I can’t.
Too many.
Too many times, it’s the only
number that fits the emotion
and I know
this won’t make sense to you but
my hands are full of this
place now and I can’t hold any more.
When I open my palms the memories
are dripping out and I’m
afraid if I stay longer I will
forget.
I don’t want to forget.
Do you know how many times
I have moved?
When I sleep I dream of
muted whispers in languages
you don’t speak and when I wake up
I write songs about the dusty grass
of places you’ve never been
and sometimes when you hold my hand
I imagine the worlds I have known
imprinted on my palm,
burning you in your ignorance.
How could anyone expect you to love
something as fragmented as me?
I tried, I really tried
to unclench my fists of memories,
to open up my hands and belong.
But every time I look at my palm
I see the lines of roads leading other
places and I can’t stop tracing them,
can’t stop aching to leave.
I can’t be part of a whole world;
everything is random moments
and I am disconnected from the
planned future.
I’m not here to stay. I’m never
here to stay.
You asked me tonight to go out
with you, tired grin through voice
texting and I wanted
to say no.
But instead I said yes and I drove
on these winding roads that never
lead to other places and I opened
my hands to you. I stayed
another day, I spilled a few more
memories and let you matter a
little bit more – I loved.
Do you know how many times
I have moved?
Too many, it’s the only answer
that fits and when I tell you
I love you I want you to think
of that. I don’t know how to be
a part of just one world, how to
hold your hand and love and
be loved without being
burned by the smallness of the story.
Staying here is like being
trapped, and I value freedom.
But even more than freedom,
I value you.
This is a TCK’s love poem, telling
you how badly I want to leave in hopes
that you will understand how
deeply you matter…
It’s okay if you don’t understand.
There is a vast difference
between us, a Sahara Desert of
sandy separation but I’m trying
(please tell me you can see
that I’m trying)
not to keep my distance.
It’s my desert. And every day I stay
the liquid memories leak out
of my hands into the sand and I think,
I think,
new life is growing here.
New life, small and green
and fragile, hopeful and timid.
So I will grow a trail of oasis
across this desert, copy for you
the map of roads on my palms
and let you destroy this distance
I have always kept.
But I’m not making promises.
One day I will add another
number to “too many” and I
will shut my fists tight around
these memories and I will leave.
But today is not one day,
and for now I am busy growing
life in a desert
with you.
Just don’t
keep your distance,
and I won’t keep mine.
Other spoken word poetry by Ghanaperu:
Hello, Hello
If I Could Change I Would
by Ghanaperu
If I could change I would,
if I could take back all the pain I would
I’m tired
of being a TCK.Does that make me a traitor?
I’m tired of tracing my names
into walls to prove I was there,
tired of learning faces and names
that won’t remember me in a year, tired
of swallowing down foreign languages
and cultures and always
setting myself aside.
(Who even is
myself? )I’m tired of the goodbyes I never say,
tired of walking lost in the crowd, tired
of being noticed and being different and
sleeping in a different bed every month.
I’m tired of being the outsider and tired of
pretending I’m not.
I’m tired of watching the road splay out
behind me
and knowing it’s all that’s ahead, too.I’m tired of being a TCK and I
just wanna go home.
For a litle while?
Can I relax and breathe and be loved as
myself, be a permanent something?But the only homes I’ve ever known are
scattered across the globe,
impossible
and my identity is carved into my soul,
undeniablehome is a lie
and belonging is a lie
and everything I’ve ever dreamed
of is a lie and so I sing myself to sleep
with lies and pretend I believe them or maybe
I pretend I don’t – I can’t tell anymore and all I
know is everyone I have ever met is a liar and I’ve
been told too many lies to ever believe anything again
and – God! God, I’m tired of lying.I went to church today and sat in a
red plastic chair
while at the whiteboard in the corner
the TCKs clustered, markers bleeding onto
their hands while they all wrote their names
and I wanted to tell them
it doesn’t matter and it’s a lie you
were never hereI’m tired of being a TCK,
Tired of tracing my name into walls
to prove I existed
but mostly,
I’m tired of lying
