Aug 9, 2026 · 1 hr 47 min · 13 segments
The aura is strong with this episode of The Loudcast! Tune in to our first ever in-person episode to hear all three of our Loud Poets Slam Series winners; RJ Hunter, EmmaClaire Brightlyn and Aditya…
RJ HunterHost
EmmaClaire BrightlynGuest
Aditya NarayanGuest
When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked at the hinge, cut half down the middle, foundation to fringe.
And if I wanted to swing for a decent living, I must pick one limb or another.
That's what primary school feels like in a country that lives with the sins of another.
When the language is muscled so hard down your throat that it bloats with generational fibrosis.
When letters and verses you prayed with are prayed on like blight that prevails on a forest.
When grammar is dice cut and sliced up so finely you swallow it benignly with eyes shut.
When violence is fed intravenously so you can't tell your own bloodstream from poison.
That's when a hundred more years of colonial glory await you across the horizon.
When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked and it had to relent in submission.
Ages six through seven, I took lesson after lesson to lessen my Indian side, pried my muscles into a straighter line, revised my vowel signs, decided where to breathe, how much to breathe, and forced my breath through clenching teeth, deafened my ears against the screech of a mouth not built for English speech.
I'm trying to teach you how to speak, to help you succeed, have the life that you seek in a world that feeds and breeds on the fallen debris of imperial, colonial, So why don't you act like you're free while I edit the audio file on your collar? When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked and to live with this tongue was improper.
When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked at the hinge, cut half down the middle, foundation to fringe.
And if I wanted to swing for a decent living, I must pick one limb or another.
That's what primary school feels like in a country that lives with the sins of another.
When the language is muscled so hard down your throat that it bloats with generational fibrosis.
When letters and verses you prayed with are prayed on like blight that prevails on a forest.
When grammar is dice cut and sliced up so finely you swallow it benignly with eyes shut.
When violence is fed intravenously so you can't tell your own bloodstream from poison.
That's when a hundred more years of colonial glory await you across the horizon.
When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked and it had to relent in submission.
Ages six through seven, I took lesson after lesson to lessen my Indian side, pried my muscles into a straighter line, revised my vowel signs, decided where to breathe, how much to breathe, and forced my breath through clenching teeth, deafened my ears against the screech of a mouth not built for English speech.
I'm trying to teach you how to speak, to help you succeed, have the life that you seek in a world that feeds and breeds on the fallen debris of imperial, colonial, So why don't you act like you're free while I edit the audio file on your collar? When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked and to live with this tongue was improper.
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