"A young man
called me a
racist
yesterday.
He said
with no care
it must be so,
because of my hair.
The hair on my scalp
designated
my predisposition
to one's color of skin.
I actually laughed,
because it caught me
off guard,
I've never been accused before.
That moment
not so lost in time,
ran through my mind
once, twice,
three times more.
I had asked,
I see, that's interesting,
but what makes you think this?
Have you seen me
ever once before in your life
before this time?
No,
but he shook his head,
for in his point of view
there was no need for justification,
I must be racist
because I had a haircut
like the white guys did
in the Buzzfeed video
he saw on his Facebook.
I laughed again,
because the only time
I was ever so mad
at a man
was not because he was
African
or that he was a lesser man
but because he
was trying to kill me
in Afghanistan
not because I was or wasn't
Mexican,
but American.
So frustrated I was,
thinking back to how many times
I've laid a fellow brother to rest,
and I'm not talking skin,
I'm writing of my fellow kin
who have shared the din
and roar of combat with the enemy.
Thinking back to,
the few
who didn't make it home,
who's blood
I had to wash out
off my blouse.
The enemy didn't care about skin.
They didn't ask
which chump
I had voted for.
Or if I was pro-choice
or against Jesus Christ
or how much I've studied
the Sunni and Shiite split,
which I admit,
I know way too much about.
No one asked me anything.
So when this young man
approached me,
when I'm trying to buy some
beans and rice
and informed me
that I was a racist,
I was upset.
He must be blind,
he must incorrectly
assume I am white,
he must have an issue
I'm about to fix.
But before I did anything...
his mother came down the aisle.
She looked at him
and me,
and almost sobbed out sorry.
You see,
there's a lot going on lately,
and I don't blame him.
I know a few things,
like the muzzle velocity
of a 9mm round,
the recipe for homemade pupusa,
and how to train
a dog how to lay down,
but what has me frowning
is that I can't help
a young man's
perception
of a new haircut.
Of just staying in regulation.
For there was no conversation,
no back and forth,
no chance to reach out
and cool out and speak.
I had no paint,
for those who have seen
and heard and experienced
have a canvas
that won't accept a new coat,
and that's no one's fault.
There is no wrong here.
But a painter
cannot paint on a canvas
not there,
a preacher
can't save a non-believer
who half-listens,
and a young man
can't be shown
that hair
don't make a man racist.
In a life
where skin color
were just crayons,
black, white, brown, yellow and red,
the accuracy of such an accusation
is skewed.
But to the young man,
who more than likely
lived a life where these colors
had a different view,
his words rang true.
For perception
is as fluid as water,
but hardens like concrete,
and it doesn't change once it dries.
And at that moment in time,
that's all I was,
a kid trying write on concrete,
trying to talk
and write some chalk
on this little sidewalk.
Except chalk
never stays.
It always dissappears.
And different ideas
never appear.
Changing concrete
talks that aggressive, intrusive,
violent thrusting of the jackhammer,
drilling away in chunks
concrete with noise
and pain and calamity.
It's a damn shame.
If only perception
worked so efficiently,
Instead of one or the other.
Black or white,
Democrat or Republican,
Liberal or Conservative.
Killer
or the enemy's target.
There's no in between,
when you're dealing
with concrete."
News for You
By jfarrell
People of Britain,
I’ve got news for you;
It ain’t about left or right;
It’s about right and wrong.
“If we don’t get brexit, there’ll be riots…” WRONG!
When you make threats, you devalue democracy;
“we have low wages because of immigrants…” WRONG!
You have low wages because your boss can get away with it.
The World watches as we try to welch on our commitments;
And the World wants to do business with Britain?
“Have cake and eat it.”
How arrogant.
This once great nation, a refuge, a home to all,
Has become a cesspit of lies and hate;
I’ve got news for you, Britain,
The World is watching,
Or are you too stupid to see that?
"It's been a bit,
since I've written real words,
real verbs, letters lined up
to litter the page
with alliteration,
metaphors, hyperboles,
other devices that help gain
your undivided attention.
It's been a bit,
I almost quit,
because the last time I was on stage,
I felt like a tripped.
I felt like I didn't perform,
I knew I was pulling punches,
because there was much to consider,
but now it's got me a little bitter.
I held back.
I held back,
lowering my tone,
juxtaposed to my actual voice;
loud.
I held back,
because of the
familiar face
In the crowd.
I held back,
instead of letting it rip,
taking people on a little trip
to recount how one's lid
was flipped.
I held back
because I was scared
that I wasn't hip
and I wasn't hop,
when I was raised on Wu-Tang
and Nas
in a place where
where rain constantly drops,
and I know how
the beat drops,
the mic rocks,
and how rhymes can make time stop.
I held back
because the tone of my skin
has people guessing
wrong my ethnicity,
if you think I'm white,
you're not right,
and to be honest
that's not point.
Because I come from a place
where I was too nerd to be brown
and too chale be white
and too polite to be hanging out
with the gangsters
stealing cars
and shooting at other's backs,
and if you think
I'm talking about blacks
that's the problem,
assumption causes caution,
because not only were those
want-to-be thugs
of fairer skin,
my only friends
were much darker kin.
In the Marines,
we call ourselves green,
and you're either
dark green,
light green,
and there's no disillusion,
you disagree?
Shoot,
perhaps in the Army.
And yes,
the Navy too,
there's no turning back,
I'm no longer holding back,
what I'm saying is true.
The point of this piece
is to bring peace
to me,
that I was wrong
to hold back,
to withhold from the reader,
because how can I call myself
a poet
if I'm not painting a picture?
With your mind as the canvas,
and my words as the paint?
I watched poets come on stage,
deliver works of art,
things beautiful,
and I saw a beautiful, torn heart
put her hand up in the air
to an artist work,
like it was gospel in the church,
with thoughts on me! I saw,
but I held back,
and what I provided last time
was a finger painting
of child's skill.
I need to be real,
paint a real picture,
my motions and emotion
the finest paintbrush,
now fluttering about
all over your mind,
hopefully breathing to life
that I,
a man,
am more than some accusation,
of being mean heart.
Of being a relatable object,
supposedly,
to a poem so eloquently put
'he broke my heart,
and called it poetry'?
Get out with that
hand raised in the air
while another poet
spills out her pain,
and perhaps next time
I won't hold back,
paint a picture
of how her heartbreak
did become my poetry.
Yes, I'm being specific,
and context would make
for a much hotter piece,
but I'm over this,
over being scared,
I've conquered mountains
and crossed bridges.
Reader,
I respectfully submit,
give me another chance.
I won't hold back."
All and sundry,
Seems to be,
In a perpetual race,
To achieve, to chase.
Like the way each day,
The sun finds its way,
The racer endeavours hard,
To prove each given word.
The race is on,
To be known.
EXCEED THRIVE EXERTION MOTIVATION ASTRONOMIC AND IGNITING THE FLAME.DRIVING WITHOUT EXPECTATION WITHIN THE CHALLENGES THAT COME FOR-WROTH AND ARE PRESENTED TO THE BOARD GAME. NEGLECTING OBSTACLE AND DOUBTS TO CHANGE FOR A WORLD THAT IS NOT THE SAME.HOPES AND DREAMS SUSTAIN A BLANCE OF DETERMINATION MUCH NEED TO LOOK BEYOND THE STAR,ONE STEP CLOSE TO THE PLANT WE CALL MARS...TO UNDERSTAND THE IMAGE OF WHO WE ARE.... ENLIGHTEN ME FREEBASE THE MIND BYOND AND FAR
I look up at the sun; I can feel my face turn bright red. I wipe my sweaty hair away from my forehead with my arm; it’s too hairy for a girl. I step away. I look at the dog house I made. I didn't need to make it; we don’t even have a dog. My ma made me go outside because she doesn't want me to see how much she drinks.
I walk to the middle of the yard and sit down. I take my hammer and a left over nail and hammer it into the dirt. That's all we have in our yard. Dirt. Most people have grass and a garden and a fence to keep all their childrens in. All we have is dirt and dust and a metal gate that stabs your hands and legs if you try and climb over it. I run my thumb over a scar on my leg. I keep hammering the nail into the ground, taking it out and startin’ over. I hit my thumb with the hammer.
"Damn," I throw it away from me and spit at it; it lands near the gate. A man is standing there. His skin is dark.
"You alright?" He says to me. "I saw you hit your thumb with that hammer, there."
"I'm fine," I say.
He pushes the gate open and walks towards me.
"Are you sure?" He says. He squats in front of me and takes my hand in his.
I nod and take my hand away from him. He smiles at me.
I hear the screen door with no screen in it open up. It's my ma, in her dressing gown with a glass of something.
"Hiya," the man says.
"Hello there," my ma says. She loosens the tie on her dress and presses the glass up to her neck.
"How old are ya, boy?"
"20." He stands up. "How old are you?"
I laugh once. He looks down at me.
My ma raises her drawn on eyebrows and closes the collar of her dress.
He holds his big hand out for me to take. I take it. I get up.
"I'm Heathcliffe," he says.
"What kind of nigga has the name Heathcliffe?" I ask him.
He shrugs. "I do." He turns away from me and walks back towards the gate.
"I'm Lowery," I say to Heathcliffe as he closes the gate.
"Nice to meet you ma'am." He tips his hat. I walk inside.
"What did he say to you?" My ma asks.
"Nothin'."
I crawl inside the dog house I made. My dress snags on a nail I didn’t hammer in all the way. I see a pair of legs walk in front of the dog house hole. They’re a man’s legs.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Heathcliffe.”
I crawl out from the doghouse. Heathcliffe is holdin’ paint cans.
“I got you some paint for that there dog house.” He holds the two cans out to me.
“Set ‘em down over there.” I say and point my tool box. I put my hair back over my ears. I don’t want him to see how red they are. My back is facin’ the house. I hear behind me the door open and slam shut.
“Yoohoo! Heathcliffe, is that you?”
“Yes ma’am it’s me.” He tips his hat.
“Heathcliffe dear, I was wondrin’ if you know how to fix a broken sofa. The leg on ours’ come off.” She leans up against the doorway.
“Why yes I do ma’am. I can fix that no trouble.” He looks at me and then walks for the house, taking off his dirty hat.
I get into the house last.
“Heathcliffe sweat heart, could you fix the sofa outside?”
“Outside, Miss? It’s awfully hot.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll even make you some lemonade.” She smiles at him.
“Alright ma’am.” He nods and drags the sofa out the door.
My ma sits down by the kitchen window to watch Heathcliffe.
“Make him some lemonade, will ya?”
“He’s got tattoos, sweet mercy.” I hear my ma say.
I walk over to the window and look. Sure as Hell he does. They’re nice ones too.
“I hate tattoos.” She sips her drink.
I smile.
Ma keeps findin’ odd jobs for him to do around the house, mostly outside.
I go outside to Heathecliffe to take him a cup of lemonade.
“You don’t have to do this ya know.” I say. I thrust the cup at him.
“I know, but I wanna.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer me but I see him smiling.
“Hey, you know, I’ve been thinkin…since I first met you.” I cross my arms.
“What about?” He says without looking at me.
“Your tattoos.”
He straightens up. He turns around and smiles at me.
“I want some.”
“Do ya?”
I nod. I know he’s gonna laugh at me and tell me girls shouldn’t get tattoos. My mama always says you can’t catch a man if you got tattoos.
“You got any money?”
“Yeah, I got some. Not much. I could take some from my ma.”
“You get a holda’ that money, and I’ll take you to a man; the same one who done this mess to me.” He moves his hand all over the places with tattoos.
“I like ‘em.”
“Thank you. So whad’ya say?”
I nod.
“I’ll come by your place first and we can walk togetha’” he says to me as I walk away.
“No, I can’t be seen with a nigga in public. Just tell me where it’s at.”
“Sure thing ma’am.” He usually smiles when he calls me ma’am. He didn’t. I feel sick. I frown at myself.
As I walk inside I see my ma standing at the window, stirin’ her drink.
I hear the radio announcer’s voice ramblin’ on. I keep lookin through the crack in the door to make sure ma isn’t coming this way. I finally find my ma’s emergency money. It’s not a big wad but it’s enough. I leave her room.
“I’ll be at Christine’s,” I say. I walk out the door, slamming the screen.
I walk into town and I see Heathcliffe sittin’ on the sidewalk edge.
“Hiya,” I say. I smile.
“Ready?” He gets up, pattin’ his thighs. I nod. “Where you gon get it?” He looks me up ‘n’ down.
“My side.” I start walkin’ towards the building.
“Whatd’ya want?” He opens the door.
“Virgin Mary shavin’ off all her hair.” I walk inside. Heathcliffe laughs hard.
“Where in the hell did you get that idea?”
I shrug. “I had a dream ‘bout it.”
He laughs again.
“Does it hurt much?” I feel sick.
“Yes,” he says.
“Oh.” I sit down.
A man walks out from the back.
Nothin’. I don’t feel a damned thing. Heathcliffe walks up from behind me and slaps me on my back.
“That hurt.”
“Sorry.”
We walk home. I’m holding his hand. I don’t care who sees me with a nigger. My ma sees us through the window. She walks out the door and walks up to him and I. She never leaves the house.
“What were you two doin’ might I ask?”
“I got a tattoo.” I walk right on past her.
“You did what?”
I lift my dress up. Heathcliffe can see my panties.
“Put your dress down, child!” She slaps me. She grabs my wrist and drags me to the house. “I knew being friends with a nigga was a bad idea. Go home,” she says to Heathcliffe.
“No ma’am.”
“Excuse me?”
“Lowery?”
I turn ‘round.
“Yeah?”
“Wanna eat with my folks?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
“You’re not goin’ nowhere, Lowery.” She digs into my shoulder with her fingernails.
“Yes I am and you can’t do a damn thing about it.”
I walk away from her. I grab Heathcliffe’s hand and walk out the gate; it doesn’t close behind me because it’s too rusted.
One in front, two behind.
Two in front, one behind.
Look back -
There are many behind.
As a team or individually?
How shall this race be won?
The longer I run,
The longer the race goes,
The longer the finish line is in sight.
The longer it is in sight,
The closer it may be.
O my mind! How it plays evil tricks!
The heat on my head,
My body, my hands, my legs.
O how my chest beats
With thy heart trapped in its cage.
How can I bear this pain any longer?
How much further must I run?
How many more obstacles must I pass?
Closer now I get,
Many more, yea, I hath passed.
One passed, one more to block the way.
One trouble gone, seems another has arrived.
A burden is rid, yet another takes its place.
The impatience grows inside me,
Yet the humbler I feel
As my feet hit the ground
One by one.
One by one is how the race is won.
One by one, each second is gone.
One by one, each step closer to the finish.
One by one, each obstacle is passed.
One by one, each round is done.
Two little sheep,
One black and one white,
Grew up together,
And it was all right.
Both full of beauty, wit, and grace,
But all along, it was a race.
My blood line is from the South
You say my name in plain English
I have a pronunciation in Spanish
My blood line is Inca and Spanish
Nicaragua is the name
Karen, is my name
So, Americanize me!
Today, I saw your sun
Today, I have an accent
What are you waiting for?
Civilize me!
My eyes are brown
I have two legs, two arms
Brown hair
Deep creamy white skin
Now, do I have to wear short clothing?
So, you can accept me?
My skin is white
What are you waiting for, American me?
My mouth is shut silent
What are you waiting for?
I, too, have a tea set and; drink from a tea cup
What are you waiting for?
Lynch me
I look at your moon
Mine, is in the third world
What did I do to you?
I have distorted your world.
What are you waiting for?
Kill me.
Work me to death, educate me,
American me
I, too, know, I can walk alone.
This is your sun
Mine, is in the third world
Americanize me.
- Karen Oviedo