(Shouting) Who hurt you? Do my parents know the answer? Do they blame the whip? Do they blame the hand that held the whip? Which hands do they blame that help the whip? Our grandparents? Our grandparent’s parents? But who put the pain in their hand first? Said. This is how you beat the black when the black ain’t acting right. This is how you get it to submit before you give it to love. Said. Love is surrender. Ain’t no love like the love of a nigger who is beaten til it surrenders. Who hurt you? Who unloved you like this? It happens every time. I’m in a public place, someone’s unruly child is becoming a red, hot kettle. Screaming and steaming from the ears. Cursing at his mother and throwing himself on the ground. Boiling over, demanding attention. And I can’t take it. Man, I would’ve been slapped until next week. I mean, my mama beat me and look how I’ve turned out. But at least they kept me out the street. They beat at me and they loved me too much. But those things are the same, right? How is it that I’ve come to create an ugly out of my own fists? My hands weep whether I love or I punch. This is not family tradition, but a tool to literally beat the African family. And tell them this is how a simulation works. Like compliance. Like a suit and tie. Like white Jesus. Who hurt you? Who unloved you like this? My sister said I only knew when mom would yank my hair back. Said we only knew a mom who yanked our bony bodies back to the porch. I think she only hit me once. Threw a glass paperweight at my body. I was a bit too slow to dodge it. The next time she tried to box me, I had learned how to fight back. Experienced the wrath of the parents masters and studied them. How to dodge the whippings. Whips and not (become?). I know we became whipping on kids so (massive/master?) wouldn’t get a chance to. And history has shown us that violence is next to godliness. That submission and servitude are the same thing. That fear and respect must always live in the same space. A belt don’t build character. This ain’t how warriors are made. Getting my ass whipped didn’t bring me closer to God. I mean, if you could’ve endured the whipps, whoopings, yeah, you could handle anything. Like paranoia. Exactly. Like PTSD. Uh, uh. Like therapy. Like a child who knows who brought on me, brought us into this world. Therefore, who can take us out. Like a child that knows more about fear than love. Like a cycle we don’t know how to break. Like abuse we know stems from slavery. From whiteness. Like abuse we are trying to unlearn. But it’s difficult to unlearn what you think made you. I don’t blame the whip. I don’t blame the hand that help the whip. I blame the man that put the pain in their hands first. Said. This is how you teach the black so the black can act white. This is how you get it to obey. Get it to surrender. (Applause)