chiraqi refugee (a work in progress)
i had just given up my dream of moving back to new orleans
decided to stay and work within the system
when i saw the floods, the people swimming to safety
the bodies piled behind the dome
and i quietly thanked my angels for making me stay home
in chicago
i watched on television as all of the places i remembered
languished under watery graves
at the people trying to get away
and my baby said the thing i would never have allowed myself to say
mommy, they look like slaves
just as i was trying to use this teachable moment
to talk about the insidious nature of poverty
and dismissive public policy
something distracted me
two words from the tv
left me
speechless
these refugees
i remember the outrage
you can’t be a refugee in your own country
you can be displaced
you can be a survivor
but we are NOT refugees
i heard the people shouting
demanding their dignity
i can’t say that
i don’t feel the same kind of pride
in staying alive while my people continue to die
but the graves in my city are the kind you would expect in a war zone
blood and bone
tears and despair
waiting for the american government to finally hear our cries
and go there
i am a chiraqi refugee
who fled to the land of jim crow and slavery
and old fashioned southern hospitality
just trying to live free
i didn’t have to wait for murder number 353
before i decided it was time to flee
i gathered up what i could carry
right after my 8th student was buried
and i got out of there at the first sign of rain
i learned from what i saw with Katrina
and i don’t have to wait around
for the sirens to sound
i know to get out early
my children and i ended up in different cities
as our exodus landed us in different parts of the country
it was almost a year before they were returned to me
now we
live 8 of us in one house
with a few others who have been in and out
trying to escape the devastation happening at home
trying to get far enough away that the sounds of bullets flying
can be drowned out by mosquitoes
question
if a body falls in the playground
and nobody was around to id a shooter
does it even make a sound
i am a refugee
returning to the land of slavery
going back to the land my grandfathers abandoned
searching for a better life
in the big city
pity what they’ve done to the place
so many gym shoes laced and thrown on the line
we gone blow out all the power in no time
hell, i can’t even find where to cop a dime no mo
all these po ass mommas on the grind
trying to come up with enough money
to bury their last, first or only child
from rogers park to the hundreds
it’s all wild wild in chicago
old man
young woman
or lil baby
you just never know
and
i do kinda wonder what part of you
you would have to undo
to bury a 6 month old gun shot victim
wonder if her mama just feels like her baby was still born
but what can we say to all the mothers of all the babies who are still born
in chicago
reminds me of the congo
and i am inside hotel rwanda
trying to get word that everyone is okay
i feel that way
like a refugee
watching the mass genocide of my people on tv
leaving a candle burning in the window for all those who came after me
to the land of jim crow and slavery
and good old southern hospitality
reversing the exodus of our history
just trying to live free
