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I Give You Back I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear. I release you. You were my beloved and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you as mysel… - Joy Harjo
" "I Give You Back
I release you, my beautiful and terrible
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my children.
You are not my blood anymore.
I give you back to the soldiers
who burned down my house, beheaded my children,
raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.
I release you, fear, because you hold
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.
I release you
I release you
I release you
I release you
I am not afraid to be angry.
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afraid to be loved.
to be loved, to be loved, fear.
Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.
I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won’t hold you in my hands.
You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart
But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid
of dying.
English
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About Joy Harjo
Joy Harjo (May 9, 1951) is a poet, musician, author and the first Native American United States Poet Laureate.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Additional quotes by Joy Harjo
A lot of images [of Native Americans] are based on fairy tales or Wild West shows. We are human beings, not just people who have been created for people’s fantasy worlds. There’s not just one Native American. We’re diverse by community, by land, by language, by culture. In fact, we go by our tribal names, and there are 573 tribal nations.
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My mother was a songwriter and singer. She is William Blake’s “Little lamb, who made thee / Dost thou know who made thee?” and Alfred Lord Tennyson. She is the traditional Cherokee songs sung at her aunt’s funeral. She is the “Burning Ring of Fire” running away to Independence, Kansas, at sixteen. She is “Crazy” sung by Patsy Cline in a wake of heartache. That was my mother, singing, all those years. My mother’s gifts were trampled by economic necessity and emotional imprisonment.
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