Video: In the garden we sat weeping: A Poetry Reading with Suzannah Omonuk

On April 19, 2023, Religion and Public Life hosted a poetry reading featuring Suzannah Omonuk, MDiv '23. She said, "I see my craft as a poet as being first and foremost grief work. To re-imagine and commit ourselves to a more peaceful and just world, we must first grieve the harms that have necessitated this pursuit."

FULL TRANSCRIPT

[MUSIC PLAYING]

SPEAKER 1: Harvard Divinity School.

SPEAKER 2: "In the garden we sat weeping" a poetry reading with Susannah Omonuk. April 19th, 2023.

DIANE MOORE: Welcome, everyone. I'm Diane Moore. I'm the faculty director of Religion and Public Life and it is our incredible pleasure to host this event with our remarkable Suzannah I want to say-- I want to first confess a dirty little secret about being a professor at Harvard. The truth is-- and it really is a truth-- that we learn so much more from our students than we ever teach. And I have been at this for a very long time. Gray hairs to prove it.

And I confess that is absolutely the case. Suzannah Omonuk's work blew me away when I had the privilege of teaching her two years ago in the fall when I first encountered her. Now Suzannah showed up in a class that was on Israel and Palistine and we had to shift the focus of the class to literature because of a change in the-- too many things why we had to do that.

But we-- and I was worried that because the course description was going to be very different than what we ended up doing, and we did lose a few people, but we gained a few people. And Suzannah was there the first day, and she stayed. And I didn't know till later that she was thrilled with the change for reasons that I think are obvious to all of us in the room who know her. But Suzannah's really quiet in class.

She's one of these people that barely talks, and it was a relatively small discussion-based class, so I never want to put students on the spot, but I'm always eager to hear everyone's voice. So we would break up into small groups, and she would be chatting away but in the large group, she was very quiet. But I also noticed that when she was chatting away in the small group, everyone was rapt with attention.

And when Suzannah posted responses on the discussion board and everyone was invited to respond to one other person, people always responded to her. And when she did speak in the large group, Suzannah's power and eloquence and insight always turned us to a deeper, more fluid, more generative dimension of what we were studying.

So then imagine my great surprise and good fortune when I had the privilege of being assigned as Suzannah's MDiv of faculty advisor, which is what we have now, the product of Suzannah's remarkable work here at HDS that she brought with her the gifts of her incredible poetry. And now also, this is her MDiv final project work is a collection of these poems.

And I am so proud that we are able to offer this opportunity for more than a few of us to be able to hear your incredible gifts. And thank you so much for sharing them with us and for the privilege of learning from you over these two years. So please welcome Suzannah Omonuk.

[APPLAUSE]

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Thank you, Dr. Moore. And before I begin, I want to say thank you to everyone for being here. This is a little bit terrifying. I've never done an hour long read of my own work. I've certainly recited poetry before, but mostly other people's poetry so this feels-- I don't know. It feels like the beginning of something different to have something that belongs to me after having benefited from the works of previous authors and poets who have inspired me since I was a little girl.

So like Dr. Moore said, this is the work of my thesis, but I've been writing this poem since I was born. And I think-- I think every poet or every writer of any kind has been writing their stories since the day they were born. And so when you finally sit down and put word to paper, you're not necessarily saying things that have happened to you that week, that year, or five years ago, you're speaking to the depth of being, of who you are at the core and who you've always been before you were even born is a belief I hold.

So my big encouragement for you all who are here is to lean into whatever gifting you have that brings out that process of reflection and introspection in you. For me, it's poetry. For other people, it's the work of academic writing or painting or dancing. You have to have a thing that makes you honest, and you have to have a thing that helps other people be honest when they're with you, and for me, that's poetry.

So the first-- well, before I begin, let me give a brief. This is a small enough group so it works perfectly well with my idea that instead of deciding which poems I read out, I'm going to open it all up to you to give as broad a generalization of a topic or a question, and I'll try to see which of my poems can best address that question. This is also similar to something called [INAUDIBLE] which is divination by way of poetry or by way of text.

It's an ancient practice that people have done for years where they're like open the Bible or a book that they really revere and just turn to a random page and have that be a message for them, and I think that's such a powerful way to engage with words beyond just the functions of language. This first poem is something I'm beginning with as a prayer for myself and for all of you because the things that I do talk about are pretty heavy and so it's sort of blessing to lead us into things, and then I'll open it up to whoever as a question about whatever.

This is "Freedom among the wreckage". "Hymns of hope from angels and ancestors sit here with me while I unravel my sorrow from that of the whole world. Let my fear be quieted by awe. Let this lament crescendo into lyric meek and wild. The tempo and harmony like the cries of cliffs and mountains. Creation groaning from the shadowed depths of apocalyptic darkness, and there, the silence of wisdom will wake and whisper and we will know the truth, and the truth shall indeed set us free.

At the naked mouth of the forsaken, a new dawn shall flower. From the soil and ashes of endless fight, a lone daffodil will unfurl under the fresh glories of new morning. A newborn baby cooing and yawning against the breast of her tired mother. And there, the daylight will break and never again to be put asunder and there, the daylight will break and the love of liberty shall prevail forever." Thank you. I'll now open it up to questions, topics.

[APPLAUSE]

Who's going to go first? It can be as broad as-- it's probably really helpful if it's broad like-- yes, go ahead. OK. "Seasons and change" Hi, Ananda. Hey, y'all. Ananda is my friend from Uganda actually. We went to the same high school, if you can believe it and then we met in America years later, but we had never met when we're in high school in Uganda. So yeah, she's at the college, and also happy birthday. You look gorgeous.

So I guess that the back had asked about "Seasons and changes". And this is a poem I wrote about teenage girls having a sexual awakening in the front pew. I feel like that's a change if I ever saw one. That moment where you discover that you kind of like boys, but also you're a Christian girl who has been raised in the evangelical faith tradition and so this is-- yeah.

And also, I forgot to give a trigger warning at the beginning, but there is mentions of suicide, sexual assault and homicide. If any of those are triggers, you're free-- just feel free to engage with that as little or as much as you want to. "For teenage girls who had their sexual awakening in the front pew. The girls Bible study was a fever dream of pink floral bibles and shame and Rihanna lyrics.

Salvation was the length of our skirts and everyone agreed to say Christian girls did not have breasts, or shoulders, or knees. Holy and broken and hallelujah and the church said, amen. Our heads bowed with obedience and nodded with duty when the pastor said our bodies were the temples of God, but they did not warn us that even the greatest of temples must someday come to temple ruins at the hands of men like them.

Men like Matthew, the youth pastor who knew I loved poems. One night when we were alone, he told me he wanted to write poetry to me with his body. It was a tempting offer but Michael, the choir master, had already taken me captive in his bed. His name became a hymn in my mouth, and I sung like a choir of 10,000 angels. To hide a lie, you have to say something lovely so the church said, amen.

The sexuality of teenage girls was a thing of shame, but thank god they cleansed us of it by taking it for themselves, devouring our bodies like we were the holiest communion and the church said, amen. 16-year-old Hannah washed down her abortion pills with a sacramental wine and nearly bled to death. In the same way, after supper, she took the cup saying, this cup is the new covenant of my blood. Do this in remembrance of me and the church said, amen.

Leah was 17 when the church drummer convinced her to take naked pictures of herself. He scattered her body among the boys only group chat like it were unleavened bread. And after he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them saying this is her body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of her and the church said, amen. Sunday school had its own rules of grammar.

By smearing lipstick and spritzing perfume on it, the word misogyny could be turned into modesty, and we learned also that feeling desire was synonymous with being dirty. But what are if not the Jerusalem dirt holding steady the feet of Jesus bent at the waist scribbling a warning to the Pharisees who had brought to him a woman they accused of adultery? Jesus pointed to the body of the woman and said, let he who is without sin cast the first stone and the church did not say, amen." Thank you.

[APPLAUSE]

Any other questions, topics? There's happy ones in here too, I promise.

[LAUGHTER]

Venus.

Venus? OK. So a background for this is that at Harvard University, like we all know, back in the days of enslavement-- when slavery was legal, Harvard University held slaves and Venus was a young African girl who was brought from the Gold Coast and worked for Harvard's eighth President, Benjamin Wadsworth, and took care of the students who were at Harvard at the time.

And so this poem came as a result of me trying to imagine what her life would have been like as someone who didn't really have or wasn't given an opportunity to continue down in history, like the slave master Benjamin Wadsworth, who kept a detailed record of his own life. So one thing I like to think about, too, is the power of imagination, to build stories, where stories should be but have been erased.

And so the story of Venus is something that came up after I read a little bit about how enslaved people lived back in the day, and then sort of read a little bit of her information that was provided by historical record and then, sort of, weaved in imagination, and dreaming, and thinking and to see what a story can look like when we have forgotten something, but we're trying to remember something that we should actually remember.

"The story of Venus". "I don't know why they named me Venus. Maybe it is because my skin is a midnight sky or perhaps it is because the night I was taken from the village, stars fell from the heavens and shattered like glass beneath me. Piercing through the soles of my feet and swimming into my veins, the galaxy forced her way into my body and sat in my belly singing a lullaby and slitting her wrists.

Ghost men of skin as pale as dry bones put a price on my head and sold me to a man who swallows God whole and vomits him out at the pulpit. He tells me I belong to him now and smiling I say, oh, you're in luck. Every last piece of me is a gift I want to give away. Come closer. Take a good look and let me know if you see anything you like. Fingers-- great condition, minimal wear and tear, perfect for domestic labor.

Nose-- wide, flat, but handle with care. Could never forget the metallic smell of rusty chains cutting into the decaying flesh of sister for months and a slave ship that gently journeyed towards hell. Thighs-- mm, good choice. Smooth and strong, but bloody from the day for different traders rammed their way through the door in between and broke the locks. Only one of them returned after that.

I watch them, you know, the ghosts, hiding themselves away in the dark corridors of their lofty dwellings of brick, weaving nothingness out of paper and ink, learning they call it. I see knowledge chuckle to herself as she peers at them through an open window. They are searching for her inside their tall gates except that's not where she really is, is it? Knowledge is free and unbound, running wild over swaying trees through caves down waterfalls, and even out of the lips of a girl with skin the color of a midnight sky.

Yes, even out of the lips of a girl with skin the color of a midnight sky. Oh, daughters of the great green Savannah, weep for me. I have been uprooted from among you where I grew and have been carried into a diabolic land where ashes fall from my raging heaven. Bitter, cold, beautiful. Weep for me for I shall never again dance on dewy grass on a moonlit night surrounded by the song of a tribe.

No more shall I be burned by the black desire of a warriors lust, and in a wild daze wonder to myself how a man whose very hands had torn apart bears and lions could yet hold me softer than an early morning rain. Weep for me. For the way I shall slowly be forgotten because little slave girls with sad eyes do not get invited into history. How shall you remember me? By a tablet of stone that bears the name I received in a baptism of chains? How shall you remember me? Shall you remember me?"

[APPLAUSE]

OK. Now I'm definitely going to just read out a happy one just because or I can read out this is-- "This is for the one who grieves". "Drizzling, drowning, down pouring water bearer. Let the ocean melt away from your eyes. Weep, wail, thunder is the only true refuge for a heart that storms. You are not losing your mind. You are finding it somewhere among the hollow bamboos of the Bayou.

The North wind is blowing wild and you are chuckling in silence, but to douse the raging embers of fury, your heart must become a waterfall. To fill up the vacant deep of the sea, the clouds must cascade, the river banks must break free. and in that same regard, this is sacred lingering. Holy chrysalis with your wings still growing, you are not yet there. You are not there yet. Seek not the time may fly for it is you that must.

Yesterday, a crawling thing on its knees. Tomorrow, a brave butterfly singing away the wind. No more beating the clock. Just this once, let's spare time. You're on your way to there where the shy son halo's the gray haired day, but you are breathtaking even here, slightly behind schedule."

[APPLAUSE]

OK. This is something I wrote. I-- I'll just let it explain itself. The title is "Every dark skinned little girl has been called ugly". "Love child of the midnight sky and the noonday sun. Complexion drinking in sunlight, corals spiraling like galaxies. This universe is a hallelujah and you are the distant accord of amen, amen, amen. Look into a mirror and see the whole cosmos reflected back like an echo, echo, echo."

[APPLAUSE]

Is it time for a little break or do like a Q&A? I'm happy to keep going, but--

SPEAKER: You have-- we would like to give time for some processing, maybe asking a question or two of Suzannah and then we'll be taking a short break. You can grab some food from the back of the room, and then we will finish out our program with Suzannah sharing more of her poetry at that point. If anyone has a question they'd like to ask her, I'll pass you the mic.

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Or something that you need to process. Yes.

AUDIENCE: Thank you so much. I love you.

SUZANNAH OMONUK: I love you too.

AUDIENCE: A lot of what you're writing about is really heavy and it's dredging up some-- I'm guessing, dark stuff. What do you do to take care of yourself as a writer?

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Yeah, that's such a solid question. I think being surrounded by others who also are-- I guess it's a tough line because you don't want to form a crying club, but I think you need to be with people who make you feel safe to be honest, and if in that season of your life, your honesty looks like breaking, you have to be with people who are allowing you to be that as fully as you can.

Other ways is just-- I'm very drawn to nature, and I think that can take on a cliche sort of meaning, but if you really sit down with trees and plants and look at the way that they grow-- for me, especially, I really love to look at the center of flowers or like-- I don't know how to explain it. You know that middle part of a flower or like a tree where everything branches out into other things like how stars look when there's a hot center in the middle and then they--

I use that metaphor a lot as the fact that it portrays something really, really true and fundamental about existence, which is that we all begin from a place or we were all born out of darkness from a space of intense chaos and complexity, a tightly wound core of things that you know are there but you're too afraid to touch or too afraid to deal with. It's fear, it's doubt, it's anxiety, it's existential dread, it's racism, it's homophobia, it's your own religious like going back and forth-- your own religious wrestling.

And that space, we're always afraid of but that's where the flower comes. That's where the petals grow out of. That little space. So when I go out in nature and look at trees even the way the trees grow out from the soil, there's always that central one place where the thing first finds its beginnings, and we each have it. That core that's deep inside of us. It's just that the core is really difficult to look at and to experience, but you have to be there with people who allow you to see that.

And it's not a scary thing to face the dark chaotic aspects of ourselves. So I seek out people who allow me to be fully myself and allow me to be like that flower. Sometimes I'm in full bloom, and I look beautiful. It's gorgeous. It's spring. But other times, I'm barely there, right? I'm dead. I'm like in the ground, whatever. Like, this is how we have to let ourselves be and in extension, allow others to be those things.

There was a questions asked about seasons and changing, this is how-- this is what we are. It's the stuff we're made of and a lot of terrible things happen in our world, because we're so afraid to allow ourselves to be the full complexity of the seasons and of the changes and because we're so afraid to let ourselves be those things, we prevent others and actively prevent them from being that themselves is how things like homophobia happen, like religious control.

There's a deep intensive compulsion to prevent people from seeing themselves as they truly are, but that's an externalization of a fear that we have. We're so afraid to see ourselves as we truly are, so we don't want anyone else to be as they surely are. Anyway, that was a rumble but--

AUDIENCE: Thank you. I am in awe of you, Suzannah.

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Thank you.

AUDIENCE: I'm just building a little bit on what you described. I'm very curious about your process. Like when does all of that, that you've described, when and how does it come out in words and phrases? And how do you-- how do you begin that process of moving from experience into your beautiful poetry?

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Yeah, I think it takes a very big pause. You have to have a big silence in between the experiences that you've had and like, I guess the reflection is the pause. But I think that there is a pause before reflection and introspection even happens. You know that moment of, like, you experience something so shocking or you've seen these gruesome things happen and, like, the person is just in total shock.

There is a space in between where the mind-- thought is-- cannot even be thought. You're just so-- the being is so deeply entrenched in that experience, and this is how a lot of things happen for us. We don't think of it that way. But being bullied or someone insulting you, that is like attacked something core in you. It's attacked your inherent humanity. And so doing big pauses helps in conversation, but also just in life in general.

For example, I'm graduating in May. I have to do a big pause. I have to do like a month or two or three. That's where these ideas will come from, but I don't go into the pause wanting the idea to come to me or wanting the poems to come to me and I just say, I'm going to sit here and wait and see. And then afterward, after the pause, it naturally flows into that the next step of creation, which is acting, which is action.

But that only comes after pausing and stillness and waiting to see. And I love this idea. I think I've heard it expressed in the-- I think the Jewish Sabbath. How it happens is that they begin the week from a place of rest not the other way around. Like, oh, we're going to end the week with rest. So pauses should be the way that we begin things not how we end them. So, like, that space for my mind has come up with judgments, criticisms, doubts and fears about what has happened.

I can just sit there be quiet about it, and let it teach me what it needs to teach me. And I'm not saying I get this right all the time, but it's certainly an ambition, a goal of mine. I'm determined to make a part of my practice. Yeah. So this next one is kind of a fun one. I think one night I was kind of curious about what types of questions people ask on Google.

So I decided to Google the most googled questions of the year and they were just effortlessly poetic and made me think about how-- yeah, it's just this thing about honesty and authenticity, again. Like, when we're in our phones googling something, it's secret, right? So people don't really know what our Google search is, but it turns out we're mostly asking the same types of questions all the time.

So this is literally just a list of the top questions of 2022 and then I organized them into a poetic form. "The most googled questions of the year 2022". "Who am I? Who are you? When is the next full moon? What song is this? What time is sunset? Where have you been? Where can I find happiness? How to lose weight fast? Who is the richest person in the world? Why not me? When calls the heart?

Where do the Crawdads sing? Is it going to rain today? Why are flags flying half mast today? Who died today? Are dragons are real? Are jellyfish immortal? Are you afraid of the dark? Can we go to heaven with tattoos?" Personal favorite. Another personal favorite of poetry is this is "The poet's prayer" which clearly, I must pray often. "The poet's prayer".

"Immeasurable one of highest heavens. Oh, holy one of inexpressible worth. Stoke our chapel bell hearts with embers. Touch these altar incense lips with flame, and we will call to you with poetry. Allah, Elohim, most merciful, Adonai, [INAUDIBLE] We beseech you fly. Tumble gentle from your throne of glory. Stars now sail the skies like grief does our eyes. All day long, our lungs beg for liberty.

Omniscient keeper of the realms, where have you gone strolling? The earthlings have been dreaming your name. If you have grown bored of our prayers, we will call for you with poetry."

[APPLAUSE]

This is "A sequence of events occurring in the wrong order". "First you kill them, then we pray. Thoughts and schedules shortly after shooting. The hands of time hasten anticlockwise. A train rush travels home backwards. 23 kids in a classroom die before they can live. A big black man becomes a soft newborn in the street. Body all bloody and crying for his mother. Nine months to enter the world, nine minutes to say goodbye to it. Thoughts after gunshots. Prayers but only after God has already shut his ears."

[APPLAUSE]

Oh, more friends. Hi, friends. We were all present for the events of January 6th, 2021 when the State Capitol building was marched into and this is a poem that came to me after reflecting on that morning. This is "January 6th, 2021, the headlines that morning". "Unprecedented chaos. Intolerable attack. An act of treason. A bullshit attempt to hijack the legitimate right of the other party to say, fuck, no, I don't want you.

An insurrection is a re-enactment of every assault ever done on a woman's body and the body of a woman is the US State Capitol building on January 6th, 2021. Covered head to toe, doors bolted, shut legs refused to part, they were begged to stop. And it was just like the news reported, attack on democracy. Under siege. Invasion on a girl somewhere in the whole world felt it. Voter suppression is just a really dirty word for rape.

Yes, the future is female, but what is prophecy to an unbeliever? Ungodly, unholy, manic panic, ripped underwear and a small war closet sway over your city gates."

[APPLAUSE]

OK. I've done quite a little bit of activist poetry and so these are poems that I wrote for myself. Throughout the past couple of months, I've been doing a lot of inner child work. And if you don't know what inner child work is, it is an intentional or remembering of your childhood but not on a mental level. It's bodily and it's sensational. It's sensory. You Remember the things that happen to you as a child that are still affecting you to this day.

For example, with my poetry, I've had plenty of times where I try it out for like open mics when I was younger and there would be like, oh, your voice is like-- you're too soft spoken or, like, they would laugh or things like that. And those fears, I realized, were still present with me whenever I came to recite poetry, but I realized I couldn't do that anymore. I respect the craft too much to let fear to make a mark on it.

And so inner child work was vital to me during the process of writing these poems because I had to be truthful. I can't tell people to love themselves, if I'm still struggling to love myself. And so this is called "Healing the inner child part 2". "Exhale. Let the lungs say goodbye. Inhale. Let the heart pulsate with the ache of leaving the echo of living. Do you hear it? There's a funeral song for each passing second.

You are a dream slowly running out of sleep and the soul speaks a soft good night. Listen carefully. This is all that's left to do. To wash your hands at the sink, to let the water splatter against the walls and finally, to watch the sin stream away from your broken righteous fingers. There is no more blood on your hands. Your whole life has been the day of judgment. The sentence is served to completion. Let go.

Let the whip go to pieces against your bruised back. Cry often. A gorgeous eye is not a storehouse for sorrow. It is better to light a candle than to curse your own darkness, but you are neither the wax that melts nor the wick that flickers. You are the fire that kindles the whole candle. Your being is the flame and the flame is a light unto itself leaping and levitating into your own dying. May you burn bright on your way there. May you burn bright indeed."

[APPLAUSE]

OK. Oh, and for people who just came in for the second session, hello. [INAUDIBLE] Hello, Nathan. [INAUDIBLE] Earlier on, we were trying to do sort of an interactive. If you feel you have a question or a general topic that you're sitting with that you think you want to bring up, I can recite a poem that falls into that in some way. So-- yes. When you can't. No, it's fine. When you can't. I have one.

God bless the glass of wine at your pained ankles. God bless the red and purple painted under that gorgeous eye. God bless the weeping, wailing baby hanging on to your hip bone. God bless your own fractured heart and pelvis. God bless the plates and dishes in the sink. God bless your filthy linens. God bless every filthy little lie you tell yourself to stay alive in the night. God bless the folds in your flesh.

God bless the weight of love or loss that wrinkled your waist. God bless the pieces of you that went to war and never returned. God bless the shrapnel's of bullets that returned with you. God bless the tremors and earthquakes that have made a home of your body. God bless the parts of you that were strong enough to forgive. God bless the parts of you that were strong enough not to. God bless mothers. God bless daughters.

And those are actually the final two sentences of my thesis because I don't know. It was important for me to be honest about the fact that the core wound of my life is a really difficult relationship with my mom. So a lot of my ability to empathize with others comes from a really, really rough upbringing and it's not immediately clear when you meet me. Like, our traumas are not immediately clear when we meet each other.

And so I wanted to make that the last two lines of the poem that if people are ever curious about me, they can know that, oh, I'm super open and naked about the thing that has broken me the most in my life. And because of that, I'm able to empathize with others who have that in different languages. Like, our pain has different languages, but it's still the same pain. And so I did a lot of inner child writing in here and, like, that's something I want to leave with you all.

Post this if it's something you need to Google, or if it's something a friend of yours has brought up like really dig into that idea, because for me, it's been the wellspring from which all of these other things have grown out of. We rarely think about the period of childhood, but that is such a vital period come into this world. It's your first of everything. And so if you had firsts that were all marred by trauma and by pain, it means you're going into the world having those glasses-- those broken glasses or those glasses of trauma and horror and terror, and you're seeing the world through those glasses.

It's not your fault, but there is another way and that's freeing. There's freedom in that. There's freedom in taking the reins of the things that have happened to you and being like, well, can't change the fact that, that happened, but I can transmute it. Another word is alchemize. I love thinking about alchemy a lot. It's an ancient spiritual science where in people take base or materials or like something that's not good, it's objectively like worthless or bad like a traumatic experience, and then you mix it with something else like poetry or music like a piano and then you make something beautiful, but to enjoy.

This is what being alive is about. It's about transmuting. It's about taking moments that are of joy being, honest about the joy, sharing that joy. But where there's no joy to be found, you have to transmute. You have to alchemize because these are the only two things our world is made of. The contrast of light and darkness, of sorrow and joy. These are the only materials we have so regardless, we have to create with both sides.

[APPLAUSE]

Thank you. Thank you. I think there's five minutes left. So Dr. Moore, what were you thinking about the last five minutes? We could do-- I could do another question or two questions. Yes, Nathan.

AUDIENCE: [INAUDIBLE]

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Oh. Yeah. I love it. I love it. Yeah.

AUDIENCE: [INAUDIBLE]

SUZANNAH OMONUK: No, I do have one like that. I wish I had-- I wish I had it longer, but it's OK. Just-- OK. This is actually called "Good girls don't go to heaven".

[LAUGHTER]

"Don't tell me good girls go to heaven when they spend their lives begging for their own sovereignty. Conditioned to expect and endure little. Then one day, I touched a glass of wine. Suddenly, all the lies in me got tipsy and started tumbling down the stairs. Rose petals strewn around the perimeter of my heart. A lot had to die around me before I finally found the courage to fight for my own safety. I am through with obsessing over meaning in order that I may feel meaningful.

I am. I am the walls of Jericho roaring at every empire that ever held me captive. Guilt is an old trick of a capitalist delusion. An illusion I learned from religion, but no more. I am living in liberty. I am laughing and crying at the feet of Jesus."

[APPLAUSE]

I love that one.

[CHEERING]

Thank you. I'm sorry? Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I've definitely given this one before, but there's a special request for "An afro is a halo". And I wrote this-- the alternative title is "For those who have never seen themselves depicted in celestial art". "An afro is a halo". "What use is an angel glued to the canvas of a painting? All the black angels live on Earth.

Every protest crowd is a prayer shouted into the ear of heaven. Celestial wings must be traded in for feet that can march to protest injustice. Somebody has got to let gravity win for things to change on the ground. The angel must fall from glory. Every freedom chant is a scream stuck in the throat of an angel falling from grace. What use is an angel sculpted in marble? Every black angel is covered in flesh because somebody has got to bleed for God to pay attention.

Maya Angelou and Mandela and their mothers because the world needs people with spine, people who do good things with their pain. Somebody has got to trade in soft feathers for thick skin. The revolution will not be glorious. It is a hellish thing to watch a man beg for his own life. If another unarmed black man cries out in the streets for his mother, God will hear, and she will flood the entire world.

What use is an angel trapped in a glass case? Every black angel lives here. And instead of white robes, plenty of hats, teachers and activists, janitors and nurses and little black girls with afros for halos".

[APPLAUSE]

SPEAKER: Hey, Suzannah--

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Yes?

SPEAKER: The close-- do you mind telling us about the title of your thesis in this event.

SUZANNAH OMONUK: Yes. The title of the thesis is "In the garden we start weeping". The we in this is, is basically me and Jesus because I think my faith tradition is inseparable for me in some ways. I think the life and teachings of Jesus have been super beneficial in processing a lot of grief that comes-- that comes with being alive as a black woman in this world.

And so Jesus wept a lot, and this is my way of like carrying that same-- bringing that same honesty to life and being like, if something if wrong, if something needs to be released from the individual self or the collective, if an idea has been outdated, if an emotion is keeping people bound, it just needs to be released. It needs to be let go. And so this is actually something I created via AI and Collage Art.

So just encouraging you all to see what you can do with your talents these days. They're making it super easy. But yeah, it's just this sculpture of a person that looks sort of like soulless, like there's no life in there, but they're crying these incredibly colorful and beautiful things. And this, I think, is like a visual for me of what alchemy is. Is taking the base of materials of life, the lower emotions like sadness and grief and anger, even doubt, even suicide, all of these things and then you say, well, cannot hide it anymore, so I'm going to just express it.

And I'm going to let it go. And I'm going to allow for whatever comes out and whatever happens in that process. And so you think you're crying like nothing or you think you're just crying salty tears but this is everything that you're doing in the world by being honest about your own struggles and the struggles of people who are like you or look like you. So yeah.

[APPLAUSE]

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SPEAKER: Copyright 2023. The Presidents and Fellows of Harvard College.