Dear Prospero
Prospero,
You will be surprised and maybe frightened that I’ve written to you, considering my circumstance. I don’t know you, but you know me. At least you act as though you do. Yes, your words have been carried to me by the wind. My legacy blemished by your tongue, in the eyes of Ariel, Caliban, and history. You’ve spoken of that of which you do not know, and I have been listening. I would like to perhaps revise your story of my past before it becomes confused with history.
The image that you have created for me, the image of the “blue-eyed hag” filled with rage, is nothing other than an unfounded production of your prejudiced imagination. We are not so different, you and I, and that is why you think you know me. We have both been estranged from our worlds, you by distance, but me by you. Your arrival ushered a New World and a new reality upon us both. Despite all we have in common, it is always a temptation for the eyes of the Self to demonize the image of the Other, and you, Prospero, have a taste for forbidden fruit. Allow me to exile you once more, this time from the garden of patriarchal myth and fantasy, your new home.
The truth, Prospero, is that you are afraid. You are afraid because you crave order, you crave control, funny how fear is the brother of desire. If it is sunshine that you want, it is clouds that you fear. Desire order, fear chaos. Desire providence over this island and fear me - Sycorax. I’ve watched you on our island from a vantage point more distant in time than in space, but close enough to feel your unwavering insecurity in your relative impotence. I suspect that despite your patriarchal blinders, you’ve seen my power lingering on the island. You’ve felt it in the wind, you’ve seen it in the moon, and you’ve heard it in the waves. You are a liar but not a fool. You are capable of seeing things as they are, but first you must see past what you want things to be. Oh, master of illusion, your lies have not only colored my image, but also your own self-image. Your power isn’t supernatural, and it most certainly isn’t divine, your true power is your knowledge. Your knowledge has played you for the fool who thinks he is God. The source of your knowledge is books – books that don’t tell my story. None of the leather-bound volumes that you worship were written in the words of the Other. How could they? After all, neither Dante nor Homer were present when I locked Ariel in the tree, or you would know I was only trying to protect him from the likes of you, not “imprison” him. But the writers of your books didn’t bother recording my past, leaving you to write your own history of me. The past is the chaos that makes you shudder, but history – history is the order you crave. Malleable, within your control, smooth lines, sharp edges, black and white, heroes and villains. To you, this island is nothing more than the stage you use to perform a play where you can finally be the hero. Every great hero needs a great villain. You don’t curse me because you hate me, you curse me because you need me. I am your great villain.
I have always wondered. Was your power too weak to preserve your Dukedom in Milan? Could your magic not set your boat back on course, before you landed here? If so, what makes you think you are strong enough to rule on this island, under this moon? The folly of your knowledge is that it is written in the language of control, your power is that of abstraction. You haven’t just enslaved Caliban and Ariel, but you have enslaved the seas, the sky, and the sun. They are mere pawns in your anthropocentric game of chess. My power speaks not of dominion, but of harmony. You map the waters, Prospero, but I swim in them.
Sycorax
Land Acknowledgment
I acknowledge that the land where I created this project is occupied former Arrohatec lands.