Nina sings…My skin is yellow. My hair is long. Between two worlds. I do belong. My father was rich and white. He forced my mother late one night. What do they call me? My name is Safronia.
The film “12 Years a Slave” was just one person’s interpretation of another person’s memory condensed into a 90 minute dramatization. If we were shocked and traumatized by the events that occurred in this film, just imagine that real people, at a real time and at real places experienced something far more unimaginably brutal than anything that we’ve witnessed on a silver screen or in a book. This history is suppressed, distorted and sectioned off into a month, a chapter and paragraphs within a mainstream of fabrication. Indescribable is the feeling that settled in my stomach when I imagined Patsy’s reality. How are the descendants of the enslaved and the slave masters, the colonizers and the colonized ever supposed to heal from the ugliest past when that past has never truly been faced in societies that are supposedly free? Instead this history is transformed into distorted stories, dysfunctional behaviors, lies built upon more lies and anger.
What happens to the anger?
Excerpt from deconstructingshe.com