bana-bhàrd tar-ghnèitheach Dhubh a th’ ann am Michelle Evans; chaidh a’ cho-chruinneachadh seo dhe na dàin aice fhoillseachadh mar phàirt de shreath-leabhrain an Trans Women Writers Collective (a-nis River Furnace), agus tha an leabhran ri fhaighinn air loidhne (saor an-asgaidh) bhuapa.
tha a’ bhàrdachd seo uabhasach làidir, a’ tarraing air beatha Evans, mar bhoireannach tar-ghnèitheach, mar bhana-bhàrd, is mar bhoireannach Dubh. bidh Evans a’ sgrìobhadh ann an saor-rannaigheachd, agus tha leth-bheachd agam gu bheil cuid dhe na dàin seo, gu h-iomlan no ann am pàirt, nan dàin-ruisg, ach chan eil e buileach soilleir a rèir an fhormataidh — teagmhachd a tha, ’s dòcha, ciallmhor, oir tha Evans ga suidheachadh fhèin ann an eadar-spàs, am measg bhruadaran — “Even the most mundane dreams are better / than being awake / […] / Even in my vilest, most painful nightmare, I have never been invisible”.
tha cuid mhòr dhe na dàin a’ bruidhinn air gaol — no, nas fheàrr, air call gaoil:
I used to be an expert in lying and love poems.
You don’t necessarily need one for the other,
but it helps
Especially for those uninclined to believe in love
I am hopeless and a romantic
I’m not sure love exists for me
And romance is a difficult fiction to craft
beautifullyOf the two skills, lying is certainly the one I
regret losing the most.
It’s certainly the more useful of the two
But there’s something infectious about the truth
Once a bit of truth gets into you, it starts to spread
So when I stopped lying about who I am
It got harder to lie about other things tooI don’t know when you got so bad at lying
When did it stop sounding convincing when
you called me lover
seo prìomh-theanntachd nan dàn-gaoil aice: air an dàrna làimh, “I am hopeless and a romantic”, agus air an làimh eile, “I’m not sure love exists for me”. tha mi a’ creidsinn gu bheil an teanntachd seo — am briseadh-dùil seo — gu sònraichte cumanta ann am beatha bhoireannach tar-ghnèitheach; bidh a’ bhana-bhàrd Gwen Benaway a’ bruidhinn oirre gu math tric, mar eisimpleir. ach feumaidh mi aideachadh gu bheil mi fhìn ag aithneachadh na faireachdainne seo, sgìos dhen a’ ghaoil, no sgìos de bhreugan-gaoil. tha seo uabhasach doirbh, mar a their Evans fhèin san dàn “When Words Won’t” (chan eil ach dà dhàn san leabhar air a bheil tiotalan); seo dhuibh às-earrann:
I give more love than I get, I think. Maybe.
I might not know what love is. I know shit,
but I might not know that. But I give a lot of
whatever it is and get a lot less back.As I see it, that leaves me with two options.
Give a lot less
Expect a lot less
There is a third option. Disappointment.
Disappointment is almost always an option.
ach chan ann a-mhàin air gaol — no air bàrdachd — a bhios Evans a’ bruidhinn. mar a chuimhnicheas tiotal an leabhrain sinn, tha sinn beò ann an saoghal far a bheil bàs dhaoine Dubha — agus gu sònraichte bàs bhoireannach Dubha — na chùis “àbhaistich”, rud a nochdas aig amannan sna naidheachdan agus an uair sin a chaillear an dìochuimhne. bruidhnidh Evans air an sgaradh eadar mar a shaoilear air bàs bhoireannach Dubha agus air bàs bhoireannach geal ann an dàn eile:
When you search for “Dead Girl” on the
internet, you get art
Books of poetry with white women on the cover
Songs from Rob Zombie and the Heathers
Movie posters and tv stillsWhen you search for “Dead Black Girl”
you get headlines
Obituaries and open investigations
Too many names to list
Paid administrative leave
aig deireadh an dàin, tàirngidh Evans ar n-aire dhan àbhaist seo:
Nia Wilson, 18 year old honor graduate,
was stabbed to death while helping a woman
with a stroller off of a crowded train. The
other details get fuzzy, but I remember she
died at 9:30. I remember cause I stepped off
that same train she did at 8:30. One hour
removed from senseless fucking death. And I
can’t help but think it was nothin but dumb
fucking luck that I made it home and she
didn’t.I think every black woman in Oakland must
have felt what I felt. Every one I knew did.Never more than an hour away from being
just another dead black girl.
tha na dàin phoilitigeach uabhasach làidir — ach, ged a bhios Evans a’ tilleadh gu beachd a bàis fhèin gu math tric, chan eil iad, aig a’ cheann thall, gun dòchas: tha i fhathast a’ feuchainn ri cumail oirre, leantainn air adhart. beachdaichidh air a seo san dàn mu dheireadh:
I was born in a crypt. I was raised by death
in the shape of a man and a mother who
never heard me speak.They were home once, long ago. The bitter-
sweet nostalgia of a childhood that is no
longer my own. The walls have been repainted
and portraits of strangers decorate the hall.It’s time to leave the past behind.
Bring me home. Teach me to breathe.
tha an co-chruinneachadh seo àlainn, trom, ach, ann an dòigh dhà-sheaghach air choreigin, dòchasach fhathast. air neo — sàmhach, ’s dòcha, seach dòchasach. mholainn gu mòr e.
(air ais: prìomh-dhuilleag · lèirmheasan a rèir ùghdair · lèirmheasan a rèir dùthcha · lèirmheasan eile o na Stàitean Aonaichte)