In the land
of my forefathers, to dress as my forefathers may (before customs were remade) has
become something of shame.
A heritage
I was denied for so long, I searched to belong. But I returned to find an Island
getting it wrong.
I paced my
uncle’s tropical home in a female’s version of a sarong, a simple act of conscious
freedom. Or so I thought.
My act led only
to whispers that reached my mother’s ears at home in the west.
And so she
called and reprimanded and persisted I wore the pants she packed.
And so I
was told, while standing in our ancestral tropical home, to keep playing the shame game.
But there I
was, searching for my natal influences and tired of being ashamed.
“Why can’t
the customary (before customs were remade) be contemporary?” I thought. I
fought.

Invaded minds can be blind to the subtle ways we despise our ancestral guise.
And instead we praise our imperial prize.
And I don't seek to blame, rather I seek to simply reveal this endless game.
These subtle
ways we control and patrol one another.
Tropical-practical-dress
replaced by impractical acts to impress.
And I can’t
help but see ( though I mostly act to please) the remaining Illusions as a product of a colonial
invasion of our imagination.
A continuation of our desire to keep proving our superiority through thoughts we were taught.
And so slowly in dress I embraced this silent inferiority, in hopes of re-birthing creativity - an expression that should not be lost universally.
( A reflection on my travels to Sri Lanka in the Fall of 2012)
( A reflection on my travels to Sri Lanka in the Fall of 2012)