MY GENERATION. A REINTRODUCTION
World, allow me to introduce Razeen Adams. Not only is he a friend, but an artist in his own right. A mind that generates thought and provokes your soul by asking tough questions that challenges the very way you think, your beliefs, your views and opinions.
Let me know your thoughts on his words below…
The date is the 30th of April 2021.
Here we are.
See how much we sought to accomplish through our rapid patting fingers and the gravitas of the ever appearing and disappearing hashtag.
Look at what we have to show for it.
Have we truly changed any minds or have we just reinforced the beliefs of a select few?
Would any in attendance really fall on the sword if the cause didn’t affect you?
I’ll give you a moment to think about it.
But before you do, don’t let your ego convince you that you’d do anything for the greater good like you know what that is.
Because The fact is you don’t.
One mans cheese is trans woman’s chalk, and no matter which path you walk I guarantee you think you’re walking on sunshine.
Until the sun sets.
And I know this upsets the constitution of many keyboard activists with their tired fingers, so just tie your fingers and open your eyes to see what the constitution suggests.
I’m not here for yet another social revolution. I just want you informed. I want you dewormed of the thought that you’re fighting for anyone but yourself.
My generation.
Tell me who are our heroes?
Do we have any?
Is it Bryanna Taylor, is it George floyd? Must I keep saying her fucking name to find change, or is this just 9 minutes and 29 seconds of me screaming into a void.
Because you’re talking about bad apples and I’m talking about poisoned soil,
and the turmoil that circles my generation is that we want quick fixes for institutional differences.
We want first world solutions to solve our third world problems, and when do we want it?
Now.
Wow
we’re so fucking entitled.
Not to say that the previous generation did any better,
because you are the reason we are where we are.
The irony is that you had enough evidence to see clearvoyantly into the future.
You had your voices,
you had choices and every opportunity to listen to those who could see that the change that was coming,
was a still birth generation who post their protest on Instagram live stories baring Blank flags waiting on influencers to spray too close and unveil this weeks graffiti revolution.
It is the devolution of cause, of purpose, of time of space.
Who the fuck are our heroes ?
I’m still waiting.
Where are our stand alone voices?
Where are the names that require their own pages in history.
Where are our Marley’s, Malcolms, Martin’s, Ghandies, Garvies, Sharkurs, Anthony’s, Barton’s, du Bois, Coppin, Eastman, Johnson, Riis, Terrell, Washington, Ali, Dunbar, Zitkala Sa,
I can tell you where the Mandelas are, they’re producing Reality TV shows, centered around privileged youths who’s only struggles are broken iPhone charges and wonders of micro-dosing drugs and recreational use.
What the fuck happened to our sense of purpose?
The kathradas have invested in metal straws, because they are more in touch with animal paws than the naked feet that sweep the streets outside their homes. And I ask where are these revolutionaries? Because Clearly purpose is not hereditary. MY GENERATION and all Of the above.
You all wanted me to come up here and talk about love,
and use these four walls as safe space, maybe set free some doves.
Wear T-shirts that say peace on the front and revolution on the back,
but clearly the dress code said wear all black.
Because we can only unify in obscurity.
And I’m struggling find hope in my world because of this.
The only way is to transport my soul into a vessel that moves autonomously.
And maybe my happiness will be found in automation.
Because a robot nation doesn’t seem so foreign to me.
We’re all existing online and home is where the geo-tag is so what’s the fucking difference.
All I want it is deliverance from the frustrations of my generation.
And this is probably why we’ve all become escape artists.
This is why we can’t look each other in the eyes and say what we feel because feelings are way too real for our binge watched lives.
The sobs are too deep, the howls each too loud and the tears are too fucking wet for us to not drown in our own miscommunications.
Where are these revolutionaries?
These revolutionaries that said my generation would make a change.
They saw the change coming before we were conceived so they decided to leave because my generation was a still birth.
Maybe one of you are the calm voice of reason that will uplift us.
Maybe your microphone will be will megaphone instead of an iPhone and you’ll phone me with an idea to transform the misinformed sub form of our rhetoric. And we’ll use the pauses in our conversations to better it.
It being city of your lives.
Perhaps we’ll stop fighting fire with fire and use an extinguishing agent.
And criticism won’t directly result in disengagement.
Maybe we’ll learn to listen to the voices being drown out by noise and the poetry I write can be centred around joys and not the inadequacies of my generation.
It’s not enough that we identify with characters we create online.
Un-plant our faces from the fucking screens that we live our lives on and see the freedom we have for change when we aren’t caged in by Snapchat filters.
The quality of your life is not measured in megapixels it is in the amounts of breaths you take in any specific direction.
Upon dissection, we’re fucked.
Upon inspection were shit out of luck. There is blood on the leaves and we are that strange fruit.
Slaves to popular opinion.
A poison guised as a tonic to over commercialised gin.
Pin us to the wall and label as an interim generation.
An experimentation of pleasure of progress.
A process unfinished,
the personification of purpose diminished.
My Generation.
