“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
~ Martin Luther King Jr.
Racism is DeadThey say they lost their lives.Racism is Dead by MadHat11D6
How many boys need to die?
Before this battle is over
Before someone stands up and says
This is wrong.
They say they lost their lives.
Lost their lives.
I reject the idea that their lives were lost
Like a sock in the dryer
Like a toy under the bed
Like a gun to his head
His life was taken.
On the darkened streets
Walking home to his mother
His life was taken.
When he called the police
To stop a robbery
His life was taken.
In his home.
His life was taken.
In his home his life was taken.
They say he had a gun.
They say it wasn’t about race.
That it was a tragedy
That they didn’t mean for it to happen.
So tell me why
Why a fifteen year old black boy
With a social disability and a penknife
Was shot and killed in his home
So tell me why
A white man walks into a theater with a gun
Kills twelve people
And lives to tell the tale.
Do not tell me
It’s not about race.
Do not tell me
I am being sensitive
A Racial StereotypeHe is a bumbling idiot.A Racial Stereotype by MadHat11D6
He never gets anything right
Even the simplest of endeavors
Becomes a full out catastrophe.
And he speaks
As if there is not a single language
In The Galaxy
He has properly learned.
They look at him,
And see a stereotype.
A poor reflection of something black.
I look at him,
And I see a seven foot tall lizard.
If I could speak plainly:
Jar Jar Binks
Is not a racial stereotype.
There is no universe
Where that makes
Any amount of sense.
And you look at me,
I could see it.”
If you do not see
The irony here
Then allow me to explain you something.
If you see idiot,
And think black
Are the racist one here.
And blaming someone else
Now don’t pretend
You are blind to race
Do not try to play like
The soldier in this war
You don’t even know what side you’re fighting for.
A racial stereotype
Is a misleading representation
Of an ethn
ChristopherI never knew what l o v e wasChristopher by MadHat11D6
How to love
Why to love -
I never knew and I never cared.
I had but o n e r u l e to live by
And that was:
Do not become attached.
Not to a person or an idea
Do not become a t t a c h e d
Because it’s easier that way.
When I saw him
The first thing I noticed was the fact
That he was about two years old.
And he was looking at me
And I was looking at him
And I thought we had an u n d e r s t a n d i n g.
But it seemed he had taken my apprehension
As invitation, as he took my hand
And simply insisted I take him to the ball pit.
An hour later and I had already decided to
I had one job!
I become a t t a c h e d to things
On anything it doesn’t already have.
If I hate you
I hate you.
If I love
A History LessonThey never want to talk about the 80s.A History Lesson by MadHat11D6
And by ‘they’ I mean our historians and by ‘our’ I mean Americans –
And they never want to talk about the 80s.
We know 1619 as the year our people became yours –
And by yours, I mean your property.
Taken from their home, their world, shackled on your ships
In a way you would not treat animals.
And by you, I guess I mean us because
White history is black history is my history is our history
It began in 1619.
And I write these words now because of Lucy Terry in 1746
Solomon Northrup in 1853
Fredrick Douglas in 1864.
Because Zora Neale Hurtson in 1956.
Alice Walker in 1983.
Geoffry Fletcher. In 2009.
I write these words now because they tell us we live in a place
Called Post Racial America.
As if we’ve gotten past it
When they just don’t want us to talk about it
And by ‘it’
I mean our history.
1978 – Our courts uphold equal opportunity.
1992 – The first race riots in decades
For You, ChildrenA story paints a pictureFor You, Children by apocalypso3
An anecdote for the mind and soul
To remedy the lost faith of kin
To tug on the moral fibers of our being
And, above all, to heal the fresh wounds of oppression
The woman with the endless love
Bound to a drunken brute
Slaves away for the sake
Of her child's future
While sinking in the depths of chaos
Portraying ethics through words
And words through motions
She evokes a sense of 'right and wrong'
"Have patience" she claims
For virtues are essential for personal growth
Her melodic voice entrances
The earnest children
Taking them to a place foreign
A place replenishing hope
For a chance of success
Her diligence, she embraces
Striving for disoriented files
And ornery consent
In a pale faced form
She struggles for her son's freedom
She battles outside demons
And inner desires
For an encouraging education
To bring better prospects
For a "father-less" son
Tribal garments are no longer welcome
For she, of all, know
The western world has won the war
And so can her son
Rwandan Screen Timeguilt spokeRwandan Screen Time by YouInventedMe
with angry eyes
from the throats
of eight hundred thousand
for the great
FrankensteinMy mouth is sewn shut with a soft pink ribbonFrankenstein by Oseltamivir
My eyes hide their venom behind
I curl my fingers 'round my
and twist and pull those joints-
those nerves which
forgot how to hold shape or
It wears on me like
an itchy, old sweater,
as he paces the room with his questions
and his answers
My jaw should be set and
hard as a mountain;
my lips should be trembling and
forming my outrage
But I'm sewn like a doll-y
with pink ribbons and stitches-
a smile on a mannequin-
some beauty from her silence
I cannot fathom why I've come undone
But more so, why I
have chosen to sew these
frayed and exhausted parts back together
to impersonate an idea of something
to make him feel better
when he's asking his
to hide that I have no voice
to ask questions of my own.
If OnlyFrom a mother to her child
If only I could have held you
for an instant, perhaps
I could have told you
what I really wanted for you.
Because it certainly wasn’t
this, whatever this is.
If I could have seen you,
glimpsed the colour
of your brown-blue
eyes, seen your dimples
or lack thereof, just so I
could better imagine you.
If only I was able to
look after myself,
as well as you…
Little Johnny Martello
from up the street
came in today. I was
minding him because
Mr. Martello was still
at work and Mrs. M
was at the doctor’s.
He’d be as old as
you, or near enough.
Thin black hair cropped
short, shorter than I’d like,
but it made me think of
your hair and who took
you to the hairdresser’s,
and who decided on your
style. Who? Who are you?
I wish I knew.
Sometimes I turn to find
your hand, as if I had
always held it, instead
of never. How big must
you be now? Already in
school, going well, surely.
I dreamt of you last night.
Phosphene Credowe are flowers against the abyss
we are wounds yet to heal in god's skin
out of which vibration will pour
we are arc lights
powering the omnimax eyes of the universe
dying every second
we are supernovas
yet here we sit in the dust
ashes rather though we would be
we are sparks that fly from the campfire
our lives devoted to chaos
we are shooting stars burning against human will
we are entropy
nitroglycerin hearts forever beating themselves to death
we are alive
we are aflame
we are the sky
and one day
we will fall on you
and you will be powerless
to stop us
Identity"White reflects all colors on the light spectrum,"
my teacher once said.
I wondered why it took a scientist to discover
a lesson that history has already taught us.
White doesn't carry home its dead
It is a moment without metaphor,
without the elegance of ambiguity.
What happens does not signify anything,
does not borrow the body of what it is
to create the soul of what it is;
it does not lend itself out to betoken
other things. These are seconds
without such generosity.
It is not a moment of young onions
grown tender for the harvest, or persimmons
frosted over by the sugars of age. There are
no solemn rail cars rusting into poignancy.
There is only a young black man
who is only a young black man
bullied by the sting of insult and indignity
too great, his proud mouth burnt by wrath
as he careens down the sidewalk
There is only a loose-tongued white man
who is only a loose-tongued white man,
older and leaning heavily on a cane as he turns,
a bag of something in his free hand, fretfully
silent now as he looks into the face
his epithets have spoken to life
one ugliness begets another.
Cups of coffee leave the parking lot
behind me, where presumably all
colour blind.She saw him at the park once. He was the colour of dirt; with bird eyes and white, mapped palms. Her little forehead lined as she felt the bile force its way up until her saliva was acid. She counted her toes and bit the inside of her cheek, should she run? Are they fast runners? She figured this one must be if he kept himself out of jail. The dark man flashed a mouthful of pebbles and held out his hand- which would have swallowed hers.
'Don't touch me.'
Her hands were all knuckles and her baby eyes tore into his. He faltered and stepped away, a half mouthed sorry. He looked upset, a grin spread like fire between her dimples.
Suddenly she imagined force-feeding him barbed wire and then tearing it back out- the way a clown pulls coloured cloth from his sleeve. She imagined tying the left of his limbs to a heavy tree trunk and the right to a truck. Dragging and pulling until his joints sang high with dislocation and his arms snapped like twigs. The way she likes the crackle of dea
Black and WhiteI met him in the sandbox.
It sits just past the streetlight mamma tells me is old fashioned because it looks more like candy than a stoplight. I don't agree, but I'd never tell her. (she only insults it in this manner after she forgets to look for it and runs a red light)
I was not building sandcastles, or playing house, or pretending to be princess of anything. I was building roadways and mountains and intersections for my little yellow jeep to purr its way over; ignorant of all traffic laws. (Did you know that if you purse your lips and blow, you can grrr just like one?)
He had green eyes to match his green tractor, and we built farms and dug trenches until our little arms were sore and then we planted pebbles while we chanted grow corn grow.
I think I remember her skirts, and the red of her hair, and the twisted rouge of her lips as she yanked him stumbling to his feet and sneered.
She had his green eyes.
I do remember what she said, Dont play with her Michael. She