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Blinded by diversity’s shining corporate light,
shared, discreet hypocrisy in all its might.
Time of tales, stories of others,
differentiating and highlighting their brothers.
We celebrate what it is, or what it may seem.
Selling tickets only palatable individuals can redeem.
Promoting our fake selves to their theme,
in exchange for a promotional photo or a meme.
Then we watch:
Who disgraces justice’s name?
With the idea of colourblindness telling us we’re all the same?
But no, we question the value of critique.
Truth and justice. We are scared, too weak.
And then the man in the tux begins to play,
undermining their story, telling it his way.
Vivaldi, Monteverdi and Puccini,
Who is really telling this Story?
We listen to hear but there’s no breakthrough,
our silence is complicit in supporting the CaLD zoo.
And when the lights turn on the stolen wealth stage,
our Dress code confirms who to watch in their grateful cage.
A racist anthem telling us to stand,
a minister shooshing with mouth and hand.
And then the words of anonymity,
I cannot, but listen cynically, to these words of…Harmony!
Isn't it time we realised?:
What does it mean by our uncritical participation of integration?
Or Standing at and listening to the colonial station?
Because that station isn’t just out of tune and painstakingly loud.
It is more dangerous, implicitly and explicitly, conservatively and “progressively”, under fucking ground,
and in the roots of our settler background.
It’s our contribution to the silence of this violence,
the inaction and reaction not affecting our finance.
In the comforts of our living rooms and positions of gratitude,
believing giving up power results in total personal desuetude.
So instead we decide: that an acknowledgement is enough for today,
While tonight we will have “ethnic” food and a Chardonnay,
And there we will say:
We beat the hate and ignorance unconscious bias game.
Washing away racism at work and school in Harmony’s name.