Do you feel that?
That’s the mist from millions of lips whispering about the mythic Black Vote, that like a translucent dragon, is hiding.
I saw Mumsy The Politician breaking chicken bones in a pot to predict who it would cast its ballot for. They sent for her. The Whites, Liberal and Conservatives, sniffed her out because only she could control Black Vote.
They sang her praises and did rain dances in the streets all summer to summon her while thousands died of a mysterious disease.
They laid money at her feet and treasures at the feet of her man, Brown Republican. They made her promises of utopia, and, when that didn’t work, they spun her visions of a horrifying future unless she chose more of the same.
They apologized for suffocating her sons and raping her daughters.
They said sorry for being blind.
They took time to see the way they’d suckled her teats and latched onto her thick features and accents and attitudes and tanned their skin to match hers without love.
They told her no more would die. They told her there would be no more names to say.
They needed Black Vote, and no one knew how it would sway. Instead, they shamed it for not bending to their individual wills. If it refused to be a slave, they’d attack it. If it spoke out, it was torn down. When it finally resorted to anger and destruction they were perplexed, but they took notice on both sides. As most masters assumed, they figured they could tame it.
Maybe that would work, but there’s entirely too many of us, I think.
Mumsy smirked and shook her hips to her own beat. She laughed at them.
She knew the myth. She’d already listened to them scream and cry, which is why they elected her. She knew that her kin were all shades, all faces, from all islands, from all continents, all countries, and in all states and cities. She knew they were young and old, men and women, who loved all kinds. That sometimes they had no identity or more than one, and a lot of times, being rich or poor or in the middle helped make up their minds. She factored in that patriarchy had some more powerful than her from sheer happenstance, but she held her own. She guessed the ones with conservative souls wouldn’t boast as loudly as the liberal messes, but, again she figured this was on a case-by-case basis.
There is no singular, monolithic Black or Brown vote, she said to those who had sought her out, just a giant mushroom cloud of voices draping itself over American politics. No one really can control how my people vote, she said, and returned to her pot.
Maybe they should stop fucking calling us that then, said the dragon in the corner, and learn to listen.
