I have come to believe, over
and over again, that what is most important to me must be spoken, made
verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.
That the speaking profits me, beyond any other affect. I am standing
here as a Black lesbian poet, and the meaning of all that waits upon
the fact that I am still alive, and might not have been.
And of course I am afraid, because
the transformation of silence into language and action is an act of
self-revelation, and that always seems fraught with danger. But my daughter,
when I told her of our topic and my difficulty with it, said, “Tell
them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent,
because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to
be spoken out , and if you keep ignoring it , it gets madder and madder
and hotter and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will
just up and punch you in the mouth from the inside.”