tip of my tongue by Yaari

The issue of race is haunting.  It hovers.  Yet, it is terribly slippery to detect.  And, frighteningly I know there in lies the problem.  There lies the camouflaged monster.  Confrontation with the need to expose the enemy is challenging;  it pushes against the boundaries; it shoves unrelentingly at anything standing in the way.  Ideas and dreams are interrupted with its demand to be revealed, to be dealt with once and for all, but “for all” is never found.  Nothing moves forward easily. It is never innocuous and it continues to tear flesh apart.

Austin Clarke’s searing sarcasm in his book The Polished Hoe stirs the frustrated rage; a rage as old as the days of slavery.  It is the perpetual rage of rape; it is a rage that bubbles with the need to find and punish the laughing criminal.  The young girl, the narrator, makes clear the trap and the hate; at the same time she, herself, is caught in that snare of power, of wanting to taste it; of wanting to be it.


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