A poem. A revelation. An undying desire for change.
On the poem
"My brother and I" was written as a revelation of the different realities I will still encounter as a woman despite the commonalities and connection that I share with my brother. This Woman's month, I have taken the time to celebrate women, to not think about the difficulties that we still face but to acknowledge the battles we have won. Unfortunately, we haven't seen much of a difference in the past year. Our country and our global community at large are still facing a huge crisis. Women are still dying at the hands of men and we are still under the oppression of a patriarchal system. This forms part of an attempt to show that despite our own lives, our own realities and our own experiences, we are still determined to commit ourselves to fight for others regardless. So many men fail to acknowledge their actions and roles in the implementation and preservation of the oppressive structures that have been maintained for centuries. This is to call out the men who have been silent and indifferent on these issues. Even the men in my family. Especially the men in my family. The men we know are the men we should hold accountable, the men we should educate and inform, the men we should demand change from and the men we should also celebrate and assist. We can not march for the justice of women and still fail to fight and confront the men in our own spaces. I am a woman and my voice will never be heard if I continue to care about the opinions of others that do not value my security and existence in this world.
To my brother, thank you for what you have been able to do, I see your efforts however may you continue to fight for the women around you with the same fire and passion that you do for your own existence as a black man.
My Brother and I
by Tsholofelo Mokgabudi
my brother and i
both black
both beautiful
both parts of two people that loved each other.
both God's own creation.
though we both found comfort in our mother's belly
birthed from the same body
found a place in the same home,
we do exist in two entirely different worlds.
my brother was born in one of power and advantage,
while mine was one of fear and oppression.
because freedom has never been mine
but his is already given to him before he even ever learns to ask for it.
i have to fight to speak,
while he has learn not to interupt.
we are made from the same genetic material that formed us uniquely similar
but there's so much privilege that i did not get to inherit.
our hands. his are strong enough to hold down a woman,
we have fought enough times over the television remote for me to know.
mine carry the 10 reasons why i should be home before dark.
i don't play as much as he does
not because i can't but because my place isn't outside.
i have lived long enough within my own body but still have to beg for my safety.
our voices. i know that to be heard i have to either be another statistic or fight long enough until my throat is gripped by threats and disappointment.
while my brother is silent yet the world would still do anything to understand him.
our hearts. he never knows what to do with his.
its the only thing he doesn't use recklessly
maybe he was never taught how to.
he hardens it because sometimes when he decides to use it he ends up crying.
and we all know that goes against the golden rule of toxic masculinity.
as if tears are meant to cleanse them of their misogyny.
but mine has shattered enough times, i still don't know where my blood comes from.
oh yes, blood
he knows his from school-yard fights
and late-night nose bleeds,
but mine comes unannounced
every month
a reminder that when a woman doesn't do what she's told to, she has to be punished.
see how different our worlds are?
our bodies. his belongs to him.
he was taught to use his body to protect himself.
he doesn't worry much about what other people might do to him if he ever says no.
yet mine has always been fragile and weak
and never really mine anyway, so why is it even a problem?
but then i take a closer look at my black brother
and realise that all of this isn't actually his fault
that the world has given him something that he sometimes finds too difficult to carry.
and that my brother
and his hands and his voice and his heart and his blood and his body
are all just fighting to survive
just as much as his black skin.
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