![]() ![]() That even if we are flawed, we are enough. Who found that even though we are broken, we can heal. These are the stories of a daughter who became a mother and learned that she was imperfect too. Who carried Black babies in her belly and felt them move beneath her heart. Who wrote the books and did the interviews and cried the tears. These are the stories of a Black girl who didn’t stay away from the other Black girls. Who was supposed to be the answer, was supposed to embody love and unity and peace and acceptance, but these things never work as they are supposed to. Whose other grandparents were polite strangers and cannot be missed because they were never known. These are the stories of a mixed girl whose Irish ancestors were hanged by English authorities for defending their country and their faith, and whose Welsh ancestors had their language stolen by England, but God Save The Queen. A little girl who was teased for her freckles and frizzy hair, but also because she shone brighter and dreamed harder than they ever would. Who said, be the best, and also, they will hate you if you do. Who said, keep your legs closed, but also, men are like that. Who said, you are not like these people, but also fit in. Who said, stand up for yourself, but also be a lady. Who told her to stay away from the Black girls, but gave her books to read about Malcolm X and Patrice Lumumba and Steve Biko. Who begged her to suck her lips in to make them thinner. Who insisted that her hair would be straighter if she only brushed it more. Who lamented that her nose was flat because she insisted on pressing on it with the heel of her hand when she was a baby. They are the stories of a mixed girl whose mother was pleased she was light-skinned, but disappointed she was still too dark. Her relatives were names in stories, in places she had never been or didn’t remember. And just when she began to put down roots beside the river, took her away to a land of cold, dark lakes. Who raised her beside a murky river instead of a fragrant sea. Mine are the stories of a child whose mother crossed an ocean to give her a future, but took away her past. Their stories carried the message that someone is always moving. Their stories kept alive the ones who were gone but never gone, who were there but not there. The ancestors sang their stories on sugar cane plantations and in strangers’ kitchens. Stories were hope, stories were salvation, stories were endurance. They began on ships, in the darkness, in chains, in a stinking pit of despair and regret. Whose own grandmother was enslaved, but she never told those stories.īut I tell those stories. This is a grandmother who never wrote a book, never gave an interview. She never wore braids, never wore anklets, never wore nose rings, never wore red lipstick, never wore nail polish, never wore pants. She combed her hair, put on her slip, made sure her wedding ring was on her finger. Who never made a scene, never cried, never complained, because a lady never does. ![]() Whose husband’s mistresses came to her front door, came to her back door, flaunted themselves to her children. My stories are the legacy of a grandfather who taught me to fight for my humanity, and a grandmother who taught me to be a lady. From a family who scattered across the globe, from the oceans that took them away and then brought them home again. From a life of too many babies and not enough rice. From two thieves who hung on either side of a saviour and were given paradise, from the woman who sinned no more, from the woman who never sinned, from the dead man who rose, from the risen man who fell. Her stories slipped from the pages of a Bible and the edges of a cross. For my grandmother there was only Africa, but her stories were born in the church. From the revolution he learned in France and Haiti, the rebellion he fought in China, and the resistance he brought from Africa. From his light skin that still was not light enough and her dark skin that was always too dark. My stories come from a grandfather who stood up to colonial authorities, and a grandmother who paid the price. But to see where my stories really begin, let us go back. Zilla Jones on Facebook, Twitter, and InstagramĮvery story starts as a blank page, and in that, there is equality. Her debut novel The World So Wide and short story collection So Much To Tell will be published in 20, details of which will be on social media in October 2023. Zilla Jones, African Canadian from Treaty 1 (Winnipeg), is a 2023 Journey Prize winner, Writers Trust Bronwen Wallace award finalist, and has won numerous short fiction awards, including from the Malahat Review and Prism.
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