A Message to My Sistas
by Assata Shakur
At this time I’d like to say a few
words especially to my sisters: SISTERS. BLACK PEOPLE WILL NEVER BE FREE UNLESS
BLACK WOMEN PARTICIPATE IN EVERY ASPECT OF OUR STRUGGLE, ON EVERY LEVEL OF OUR
STRUGGLE. I think that Black women, more than anybody on the face of the earth,
recognize the urgency of our situation.
Because it is We who come face to
face daily with the institutions of our oppression. And because it is We who
have borne the major responsibility of raising our children. And it is We who
have to deal with the welfare systems that do not care about the welfare of our
children. And it is We who have to deal with the school systems that do not
educate our children. It is We who have to deal with the racist teachers who
teach our children to hate themselves. It is We who have seen the terrible
effects of racism on our children.
I JUST WANT TO TAKE A MOMENT OUT TO
EXPRESS MY LOVE TO ALL OF YOU WHO RISK YOUR LIVES DAILY STRUGGLING OUT HERE ON
THE FRONT LINES. We who have watched our young grow too old, too soon. We who
have watched our children come home angry and frustrated and seen them grow
more bitter, more disillusioned with the passing of each day. And We who have
seen the sick, trapped look on the faces of our children when they come to
fully realize what it means to be Black in Amerikkka. And we know what
deprivation is.
How many times have We run out of
bus fare, rent money, food money and how many times have our children gone to
school in hand-me-down clothes, with holes in their shoes. We know what a
hell-hole Amerikkka is. We’re afraid to let our children go out and play. We’re
afraid to walk the streets at night. We sisters, We have seen our young, the
babies that We brought into this world with such great hopes for, We have seen
their bodies bloated and aching from drugs, scarred and deformed by bullet
holes. We know what oppression is. We have been abused in every way imaginable.
We have been abused economically, politically. We have been abused physically, and
We have been abused sexually. And sisters, We have a long and glorious history
of struggle on this land/planet.
Afrikan women were strong and
courageous warriors long before We came to this country in chains. And here in
Amerikkka, our sisters have been on the front lines. Sister Harriet Tubman led
the underground railroad. And sisters like Rosa Parks, Fannie Lou Hammer,
Sandra Pratt and our Queen Mother Moore have carried it on. Sisters, We have
been the backbone of our communities, and We have got to be the backbone of our
nation. We have got to build strong family units, based on love and struggle.
We don’t have no time to play around.
A REVOLUTIONARY WOMAN CAN’T HAVE NO
REACTIONARY MAN.
If he’s not about liberation, if
he’s not about struggle, if he ain’t about building a strong Black nation then
he ain’t about nothing. We know how to struggle. We know how to struggle and
finagle to survive. We know what it means, sisters, to struggle tooth and nail.
We know what it means to struggle with love. We know what unity is. We know
what sisterhood is. We have always been kind to each other, brought each other
hot soup and biscuits. We have always helped each other through the hard times.
Sisters, We must celebrate Afrikan womanhood. We don’t want to be like Miss
Ann. She can keep her false eyelashes and her false, despoiled image of
womanhood. She can keep her mink stole and her French provincial furniture. We
will define for ourselves what womanhood is. And We will create our own style
and our own ways of dress. We can’t have no white man in France telling Afrikan
women what to look like. We will create our own New Afrikan way of living. We
will create our own way of being and living our own New Afrikan culture, taking
the best of the old and mixing it with the new.
SISTERS WE HAVE GOT TO TAKE CONTROL
OF OUR LIVES AND OUR FUTURE WHEREVER WE ARE. AND WE HAVE GOT TO ORGANIZE
OURSELVES INTO A STRONG BODY OF AFRIKAN WOMEN.
No One Can Stop The Rain
(A poem by Assata Shakur)
Watch, the grass is growing.
Watch, but don’t make it obvious.
Let your eyes roam casually, but
watch! In any prison yard, you can see it – growing.
In the cracks, in the crevices,
between the steel and the concrete,
out of the dead gray dust,
the bravest blades of grass shoot
up,
bold and full of life.
Watch. the grass is growing.
It is growing through the cracks.
The guards say grass is against the
Law.
Grass is contraband in prison.
The guards say that the grass is
insolent.
It is uppity grass, radical grass,
militant grass, terrorist grass, they call it weeds.
Nasty weeds, nigga weeds, dirty,
spic, savage indian, wetback, pinko, commie weeds – subversive! And so the
guards try to wipe out the grass.
They yank it from its roots. They
poison it with drugs. They maul it, They rake it.
Blades of grass have been found
hanging in cells,
covered with bruises. “apparent
suicides
The guards say that the GRASS IS
UNAUTHORIZED DO NOT LET THE GRASS GROW.
You can spy on the grass. You can
lock up the grass.
You can mow it down, temporarily.
But you will never keep it from
growing.
Watch, the grass is beautiful.
The guards try to mow it down, but
it keeps on growing.
The grass grows into a poem.
The grass grows into a song. The
grass paints itself across the canvas of life.
And the picture is clear and the
lyrics are true, and the haunting voices sing so sweet and strong that the
people hear the grass from far away.
And the people start to dance, and
the people start to sing, and the song is freedom.
Watch, the grass is growing.
Assata Shakur
