Eve | Assetou Xango | TEDxMileHighWomen

Assetou Xango brings strength and poetic grace to the stage in a performance of her original poem, “Eve.”

Assetou Xango is a poet, community activist, documentary filmmaker, teacher, and mentor born and raised in Denver. She founded poetry venues in Denver and San Francisco, and, as a member of Deadly Pens and SpeakOut, has performed worldwide and was featured on HBO.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at http://ted.com/tedx

They call me Eve.

I was never given a last name,

but this was only the first case
of identity theft.

I know what you've heard about me -

that I was carved out of the ribcage
of a man after some afterthought,

but make no mistake,

they have burned down my libraries
and tried their best to scorch my memory,

but I remember well

the sweetness of God's breath
on the back of my neck

when she whispered me into existence.

She told me I would be the first

of this new species
she was experimenting with.

There was no talk of dominion,

but she did teach me
a certain harmony with Lady Gaia

and told me to embody her beauty,
so I walked tall,

wide hips and extra weight
to nourish the children I would carry,

and as they grew,

I taught them,

taught the young, the small,
the weak, taught them plenty.

They came to my crown
and asked me how to run their nations:

Aristotle, Plato, Socrates sucked
from the supple breast of my knowledge.

Little did I know when I turned my back

they'd whip slave ships into it
and create this Bible

that blames me for the expulsion
from the Garden of Eden,

but there was no snake that tempted me
to leave the Promised Land.

I'm pretty sure those were your guns,
chains, and aggression.

So was it fruits or the Middle Passage
that closed Eden's gates?

This Bible, that tells me childbirth
is a curse and I am the cause.

Well, I am sorry,

sorry that I broke my back
to carry your children,

but if you ever dared to ask me,
I'd call you the curse.

I've been called temptress,

but it was you who stripped me naked,
called me slut, and made me hit my knees

until I knew what forbidden fruit
really tasted like,

and the abuse didn't stop after Lincoln.

It was just heavily disguised as the media
tossing me a pair of booty shorts

and telling me to sway my hips
to the rhythm of lynched ancestors

because it reminds racists
of a better time.

They never look me in the eyes

because they want me
to forget that I have them

so that I can ignore
the Planned Parenthoods

that huddle around my black
neighborhoods with advertisements,

making them as appealing
as Easy Bake Ovens to child Hitler.

I have been waiting for the UN
to step in and label it genocide,

but I am only met
with government officials

planting cocaine into my son's body
until he is addicted, in jail, or dead.

I know why they do it.

They see her image in me
and they fear my power.

They sold me as commodity
so I would forget what I was worth,

but you should've
smashed my mirrors first.

Did you think I couldn't see?

I am the beauty of gold embodied.

Black skin, as beautiful as the galaxies
they stole from my libraries

but not from my eyes.

You can keep your idealistic
paintings of me,

but you will never bleach my skin
or straighten my hair.

Forbid the native drums of my tongue,

but you will never quiet
the lavish language of my dance.

I will never lose my kinks,
my fight, my fire.

Save your catcalls for those deserving
because I do not play with rats.

You will call me-

(Cheers)

You will call me Goddess

or you will not address me at all.

(Cheers)

(Applause)