R.I.P. Black Man

I’m currently reading a book of poems titled, Resisting Arrest edited by one of my favorite poets, Tony Medina. The poems in the book are profound. They are the truth. But they are not like mine. Sometimes I wonder why my own poems don’t seem like mainstream activism. Why am I not angry about the same things as every other black poet seems to be? I am. But why am I not as passionate about it in my words? Because I’m on the front lines. I hear the conversations in my class. I have the arguments with young black men who assure me that what I’m teaching has nothing to do with what they plan to do later on in life. I go home every evening frustrated by a system that isn’t worried about the number of black and brown children who aren’t educated, they are simply worried about the number of kids who aren’t passing. And believe me, in my world, those two things are very different. I am one of the biggest cheerleaders for my students. I believe they can do what they want to do, but sometimes I stand by helplessly and watch them choose things I wish they wouldn’t choose. I attend funerals. Plural. I attend candlelight vigils. Plural. I hear about and read about my students going to prison. My viewpoint will not be the same as others. And I accept that. I also understand that all voices and viewpoints are needed to heal what is killing our community.

Black man

have u grown

so weary

that you’ll choose

to die

on the corner

defending turf

that belongs to the city

or that you’ll

hang out car windows

communicating

through violent

sign language

the message:

WILL ACCEPT BULLET IN BRAIN.

Have you grown

so weary

black man

that the only thing

worth fighting for

anymore

is a false image

of respectability

not family, not love, not community

Black man

have you grown

so weary

that

you’ve decided that

killing off

men who look like you

is the easiest way

to perform an

ethnic cleansing?

Who bribed you

convinced you

to work for

the enemy?

Terrorism in the

black community

written off as

temporary insanity.

Somebody should

have seen the signs

and strapped your ass

to a desk

in high school

and stuck that

needle in your vein

fed you

true knowledge.

I should have

bribed the men

who abandoned

you

paid them to

police my classroom

and stand behind you

with hand

over mouth

so you couldn’t

plot criminality

when

it was time

to learn

reading and writing.