Le Sel Noir - the black salt
(Venus and Serena Williams win the French Grand Slam Doubles Championship at Roland Garros Stadium, Paris, June 6, 1999)
Two sleek Black bodies dominate this center court. Barriers, even gentle mesh tennis nets, which divide sides
are never benevolent. Chip-and-charge. Volley-and-serve. Back and forth these young dark women, beads jangling from long corn-rows of flying hair -
which look like amulets; small bones, shiny precious stones, charms woven in braids to protect both from evil; these women
streak across an manicured surface as if their body muscles flowed and contracted like free-moving African rivers.
Two proud young women, taking life by the throat with the aid of tremendous serves and syncopated movements as cooly choreographed
as any by 'Boojangles' Robinson - these women who would have been merely trophies for Ebo warriors in another continent of time,
worth many heads of cattle, chickens, arable fields not like in this civil society where both will never have to worry
where their next pair of sneakers or the next new Mercedes is coming from. While TV commentators lob praises like warm-up hits
between teens who battle for unbeatable forehands from polycarbon rackets as youth passes when minutes tick by in matches measured
by shouts of 'FAULT', or 'DOUBLEFAULT', then 'OUT' echoing from judges. Murmurs pass through the crowd about 'unforced errors' and sins
of the fathers visited on daughters as passionless officials wear designer sunglasses sit high in chairs to judge what was up until now,
a game dominated by ponytailed opponents with perfect tans. White girls outfitted in sweatbands, colour coordinated with pastel
towels as they blot perspiration from soft skin as their youth passes. Minutes tick away in matches measured by the blur of powerful overhand serves.
All these women to keep loose before a return sway and then bounce away from riots transferred from 'Rap' CD's on drug infested streets
as if bigotry could be eliminated through sweaty effort. Undoing our geometry of sameness in this unforgiving dance of adolescents
playing the match. Listen to these two young Black women as they occasionally shriek and wail bringing back echoes of shouts from a different era of mothers crying for babies ripped from protective bodies when slavery and subjugation was an accepted and profitable game.
These two Black women staking-out their claim to not mere equality. Deliver meaner strokes that slash inside lines which cut as sure as hateful words.
The N-word and worse which are said under breaths flicking net tape to drop forlornly as hope from lives of these girls trapped in adults ego to win
endorsement dollars and top-seeded rankings. But two Black women, defy our bias, knocking back what appear to be sure winners with crushing
ground strokes that do more to improve perception than all the 'trash-talk' of activists who espouse political followers that measure life's achievement in
court control. Two young Black women, like all the rest of this legion of tennis girls, systematically leap on left legs to wallop crushing serves as
severe and deadly as any act from a female MeD’ici. Committing acts of service and conquest to please family, friends, and countless fans. Winning
matches but only accomplishing momentary draws against prejudice. For to some, their very presence here rubs and stings the wound of racism raw.
Zyskandar A JaimotAug 30th, 2008 - 18:09:22
Le Sel Noir - the black salt
(Venus and Serena Williams win the French Grand Slam Doubles Championship at Roland Garros Stadium, Paris, June 6, 1999)
Two sleek Black bodies dominate this center court. Barriers, even gentle mesh tennis nets, which divide sides
are never benevolent. Chip-and-charge. Volley-and-serve. Back and forth these young dark women, beads jangling from long corn-rows of flying hair -
which look like amulets; small bones, shiny precious stones, charms woven in braids to protect both from evil; these women
streak across an manicured surface as if their body muscles flowed and contracted like free-moving African rivers.
Two proud young women, taking life by the throat with the aid of tremendous serves and syncopated movements as cooly choreographed
as any by 'Boojangles' Robinson - these women who would have been merely trophies for Ebo warriors in another continent of time,
worth many heads of cattle, chickens, arable fields not like in this civil society where both will never have to worry
where their next pair of sneakers or the next new Mercedes is coming from. While TV commentators lob praises like warm-up hits
between teens who battle for unbeatable forehands from polycarbon rackets as youth passes when minutes tick by in matches measured
by shouts of 'FAULT', or 'DOUBLEFAULT', then 'OUT' echoing from judges. Murmurs pass through the crowd about 'unforced errors' and sins
of the fathers visited on daughters as passionless officials wear designer sunglasses sit high in chairs to judge what was up until now,
a game dominated by ponytailed opponents with perfect tans. White girls outfitted in sweatbands, colour coordinated with pastel
towels as they blot perspiration from soft skin as their youth passes. Minutes tick away in matches measured by the blur of powerful overhand serves.
All these women to keep loose before a return sway and then bounce away from riots transferred from 'Rap' CD's on drug infested streets
as if bigotry could be eliminated through sweaty effort. Undoing our geometry of sameness in this unforgiving dance of adolescents
playing the match. Listen to these two young Black women as they occasionally shriek and wail bringing back echoes of shouts from a different era of mothers crying for babies ripped from protective bodies when slavery and subjugation was an accepted and profitable game.
These two Black women staking-out their claim to not mere equality. Deliver meaner strokes that slash inside lines which cut as sure as hateful words.
The N-word and worse which are said under breaths flicking net tape to drop forlornly as hope from lives of these girls trapped in adults ego to win
endorsement dollars and top-seeded rankings. But two Black women, defy our bias, knocking back what appear to be sure winners with crushing
ground strokes that do more to improve perception than all the 'trash-talk' of activists who espouse political followers that measure life's achievement in
court control. Two young Black women, like all the rest of this legion of tennis girls, systematically leap on left legs to wallop crushing serves as
severe and deadly as any act from a female MeD’ici. Committing acts of service and conquest to please family, friends, and countless fans. Winning
matches but only accomplishing momentary draws against prejudice. For to some, their very presence here rubs and stings the wound of racism raw.
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