I haven’t written a poem about it. I feel bad about that. I’ve
been trying to figure out my entry to it. the cognizant way I can talk about
the throbbing pain in our hearts and minds. the feeling of waking up another
morning to another dead son, another dead daughter lost to the churning cycle
of systemic violence. a few weeks ago, I couldn’t escape it, not even in my
dreams. the cops at my job all of a sudden didn’t recognize my face. the old
white people shopping my section took my messy hair and oversized hoodie as threats.
the fear had infiltrated my safe space, and I couldn’t escape.
the ideas I’ve had, the prompts I’ve created to help bring
voice to this hurt and anger have only produced more hurt and anger. the things
that I do know are exacerbated by the sickening facts. ‘every 28 hours’ is an
incorrect estimate. an unarmed black man is killed by a law enforcement officer
around twice a week, but that still doesn’t leave enough time to bury our dead.
to mourn the life before another is stolen just as fast and heartlessly. these
lynchings executed by the government-sanctioned mob are still following the
blueprint created hundreds of years ago. no, we are not hanging from trees for
hours. they prefer to use bullets and to leave the body where it lands, even as
the victim struggles to hold onto this life. no, they do not cut off body parts
to take home as souvenirs. they try to co-opt our dying words, our empowering
statements. it is very much business as usual in the land of white American
fear. it is the same ‘ol quicksand for black folks. but now, everyone can see
that we are all sinking.
that is probably why another aspect of our struggle has not
left my mind. I have never been able to separate my blackness from my
queerness, my race from my gender/gender identity. that’s why in the spirit of
this renewed fervor against the institutions that hold us all back, I am still
genuinely appalled at the beliefs that some black folks hold onto that continue
to reinforce sexism and homophobia. it’s amazing how often my brethren and
sistren uphold problematic viewpoints that reinforce values that destroy their
own people. i.e. I plan to carry a child one day. I know some people are gonna
have a problem watching me waddle around, all big belly and boi swag, with my
partner in tow and wonder how I got that way without a working penis. there are
people that are not okay with aspects of me now, but fuck with me because I am
a good person, good poet, good enough to not have crossed them yet. I fear for
the gay men finding themselves in the movement and knowing that they won’t be
accepted if their physical presentation doesn’t match up to someone else’s
adopted idea of masculinity. we talk about educating our own children, but do
not talk about how homophobia was brought over with Christianity, how the kings
and queens of our tribes had same-sex partners, how we worshipped transgendered
gods.
at the one protest/march I attended in the last couple
months, there was a woman marching with her interracial partner. she was
commenting on the white protestors who were obviously detractors, young white kids
looking for an opportunity to destroy property, to make their voice heard over
other black people in attendance. suddenly, a young black man came up and swung
at her, attempted to silence her with force. they were separated (she
justifiably went after him, she wasn’t no simp; he disappeared), but the rest
of the march was tainted. she chanted, ‘This is what MISOGYNY looks like,’
loudly over the crowd, and separated herself once we arrived at the police
station. it became a divided movement in that moment, and it showed how solving
the problem of white supremacy does not automatically cure patriarchy. or
homophobia. it is all connected and killing people without prejudice. as
someone who lives an intersectional life, I can’t just comment on one thing.
and so, there is no one poem.
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