claudia rankine's citizen an american lyric

'What feels more than feeling?', the narrator asks as if she is missing something obvious (131). You and your partner stay in the car for a few more moments. Trayvon Martin is on every radio station in the car. It's a new day and instead of humming, you just sigh. You cannot tell which of the many children are his, because it seems they are all part of his scope. You both laugh so hard that the restaurant starts to smile with you.Ī father watches his child play in the street with other children. 'Oh, my perfect life, she answers' (127).

The waitress hands your card back to your friend instead of you, so you ask your friend what else her privilege gets her. The injury is 'feeling you don't belong so much / to you-' (125).Ī picture of watercolors, ink, and photographic cutouts shows a red fetus with shells for eyes, and arms grasping the neck, jaw, and mouth. Of all the things you are not, they seem to indicate that you are injured above all.

You wish that somebody could call out to you and not 'you'. No memory should live in your body right away, and yet when you lay it down, it lays into those bodies. Mouths and voices become disentangled when they address 'you' and your body. The body can drown when it enters the earth, so you must care for it viciously. In public, you are only half owned by the world, which is somewhat reassuring. Patience bridges the you and 'you', the you that is addressable as soon as you wake up. You sit between existence and non-existence, as do all the pronouns. Before even understanding what 'you' means, you are 'you'. At times you feel that you can float above your ache.

Claudia rankine's citizen an american lyric