My deficit list

In speaking of children from racialised backgrounds, some people have a tendency to engage in a lot of regretful sighing and head shaking. These 'sad moments' are sometimes accompanied by declarations that these children come 'with very little'. of what? I am tempted to ask, and sometimes do. If they are in deficit, then so am I. Here is my life of what I lack. 

I come with very little

Haven't skiied downhill

Nor snowboarded

Skates aren't for me

Neither are beaver tails

I come with very little

Haven't cheered at hockey games

Guzzled beer at dawn

Or been to The Cottage- just one ?

I come with very little

I just have my memories 

Of countless years

in this ancient Land

Memories

Of smudging

snowshoes

And Grandfather Teachings

Honouring the land

And reading the stars

For signs of travel

And being Me

those who

Came after 

Have others 

Of mogra and mungphali

Sitar and savera

Ghazals and Goa

Boat rides in Nha Trang

Sentosa sunsets

Dharavi tears

And Naigaum rain 

Lucknow kurtas

And K Rustom icecream

Parsi Dairy ni lassi

And Swagat bhel

Amma's fish curry

And Kavlem peace

I 

come

With 

Very 

Little

You think

And I chuckle

Shake my head 

At how

Little you know

Of

Other worlds. 

Rashmee Karnad-Jani 

2014 (c)

Sleeping Late the day you left for Montreal

I wake to wave goodbye

And get back to

Bed

And sleep

Until 2:15 

And then I realize

That I was drowning 

In dreams

As waking to a house

Without you is unbearable

And I was also sleeping 

off the emptiness 

now that you've left

But a text from Dorval

And I'm spry again

Booking Megabus tickets

To visit you at Easter 

Such is love

And hope

And sleepiness

On Sundays

Without you. 

2014(c)

International Women's Day 2014

Happy IWD

Why do we have IWD

You've asked

And wondered

I've said

One day is a context clue

Little ones, that there's work

Still to be done

just like one month

For Black History, and my

Boxed people "South Asians"

Tamil Heritage 

Yeah we shouldn't, right 

Maybe leave me

A month and a year too

Seeing as I do 

all the work anyway

And labour

How about I 

celebrate my 

Life

And courage 

And personhood

Every day

And revel in the joy

That I'm raising a son who knows that

And a daughter 

who strives 

and shines

So here I stand

Hand in invisible hand

Of women far and near

Dear strong daughters

Of Shakti

who resist

The imprint of The Father

The gaze of submission

And the labelled box 

When they look YOU

in the eye

Speak in Urdu, Tamil, Gujrati in

Your hallways

And smile knowingly

So here I am

Paused and poised 

I proclaim

I was 

before

You

Else who would

Have given birth

To these worlds?

To you even 

And your heirs?

Future Plans

It wasn't me 

It was never me

She smiles in delight

And begins again

To celebrate herself

Last labels

Peeled and 

relegated to 

the trash can

Where they belong with 

Many other things

I'm me

Maybe even mee!

Somedays she says

And I'll never say

I didn't try 

So live on 

beautiful sunshine 

I'm here with you 

always

Live and love with joy

The next twenty one years

for me

And then, she asks

Oh then my love

You begin again 

With me beside you

Always

Until your last breath 

There's still me 

Me always

Beside you 

I wonder standing at your door

What do they say to my children?

once the doors are closed

and the bell rings, 

and I leave 

to cook and clean

I come back at noon 

with a hot lunch

and wait patiently 

listening

to words I understand

yet I cannot speak in, 

or scream in 

even when I want to

so I nod 

and smile and they smile back

some of them look like me 

and I wonder 

do they step in 

when my children hurt

do they fight or 

even speak up, or walk away

when people laugh 

at my child's ignorance

or habits

or the smell of curry on his jacket?

I wonder who speaks f

or my child when I am not there

From school back home, 

I remember the sting 

on my hand from the cane

but here, 

they say they don't hit children

so that is good, yeah?

yet I see the light go 

from my child's eyes

every year, far away

and I know 

but cannot ask

does she speak, I wonder, 

the one who looks like me

or the one with the kind eyes

or is se also silenced, 

for different reasons: 

of pay, 

or pain 

or for friendship 

What do they say to my children I wonder

About them 

and about me

what do they say 

about my children, 

I wonder

What do they say about yours?

Do you wonder too, my sister?

Confused mother, sister, aunt, teacher, Master's Candidate, Citizen of the World

The Foremothers’ wonderings

Who is this child?

This special child

I wonder

when I see
The radiance
of shining Spirit

Who is this child ?

walking with strong strides

Towards paths

Uncharted yet

And beckons us,

her foremothers

to walk with her

This honey-eyed child

Dreamt of, gifted

Citizen of the world.

Dedicated to the women we are and the daughters we are gifted

who walk the paths dreamt of by our foremothers

Don’t cry for me

Don ‘t cry for me

I say to the girl

who has shown me the way

Through a life

lived with grace and courage

 And the little one replies

How can I cry for you

when you are so strong?

 I wish for her all

the joy that she dreams of

Feminist as she is

Yet a lover of Austen

I want her to be cared for

And I wish for her all the clean dishes

and folded laundry