I’m dead in America. This is a country where women can murder their children, cry a few crocodile tears on tv, take a short tour of prison and be out in time to spend Christmas with their families. This is a country where I could be shot through the heart by a maniac drunk with undue power and HE get sympathy because he claims he feared for the life that HE still has. This is a country where I can’t leave my children alone with a babysitter without bearing witness to them being viciously beaten by someone I trusted to care for them. This is a country where joyful days and meaningful marathons are spattered with blood because sick, twisted souls decided a bomb belonged in the middle. I live in a country where I can’t count on my children going to school and coming home alive and enriched without having to worry about some bully waiting for them around the corner. For what? Because they don’t like their shirt, or their hair isn’t the right color or because they “think they’re better than everybody else”. This is a country where black skin gets you black listed and where light skin can make you the white elephant and you’re pretty much damned if you do and damned if you don’t. You say that I have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But you can keep that bullshit. My time on death row began once I left the womb.
TK
Friday, July 12, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Residue of the Black Man
I saw a watered down version of a Black man. And that made me sad. There he was, a brother of deep, dark sable who had no idea how powerful his black skin was. I watched him as he slowly scanned the room and conformed to what the white men around him did. When his eyes fell on one that had his shirt untucked, he slowly untucked his. When he saw one that sat differently, he concentrated and mocked until he had perfectly assumed his posture. He loosened his tie when he saw that the next one did. And when his neighbor took his off, my brother removed his altogether. In conversation, I heard that he copied and recycled all the phrases around him until he felt like his speech was just right.I watched him Google Fall Out Boy and Imagine Dragons and study just so he could join in on their conversation. (I mean, who the fuck has a pulse and doesn't know about Fall Out Boy?) He sounded amazed when they told him about the slightest things they had done. He played house nigga and shucked and jived to whatever beat they happened to be playing him at the moment.
What I saw made me sad, but the things I have heard from this man made me want to weep. I suppose the fact that my skin is only a few shades lighter than his is what caused him to want to confide in me a few days ago. It was a conversation that began innocently as he spoke to me about his ex-girlfriend. He began to tell me about the ups and downs they experienced and because the end of a relationship can take quite a toll on anyone's emotions, I spoke to him with kindness. As I was walking away, he said, "Crazy ass Puerto Ricans, I tell you". That statement puzzled me, so I doubled back to find out why he said it. When I asked him why he would refer to the mother of his son that way, he said "Because it's true". So, I asked if he felt that way about her before they dated, had problems, had a baby and split up. His response was, "Not about her specifically. But it seems like a lot of the Puerto Rican girls I date end up being crazy." I first began with discussing the fact that if he has dated "a lot" of women of any and all races, then he is probably doing something wrong. I asked how many Puerto Rican women he had dated ("Seriously, three. But I messed around with a few back in the day"). I asked him whether or not he dated any other races. He responded, "Yeah. I've dated White girls, two Mexicans, an Indian girl and one chick that was from Hawaii." I looked at him for a while. "Well, what about us? Have you ever dated a Black girl?" You would think I had punched him in the chest as I asked that question. "I-I-I did back when I was in elementary and middle school. But not since then." My eyes must have asked the question for me because my lips never asked him why. He proceeded to explain to me that it was from the lips of Black women that he received his worst criticism. It was us who always referred to him as "Ol' Black Ass", "Midnight", "Charcoal" and all other sorts of hurtful names. He also proceeded to tell me that this is why he always said he would never marry and have children with a Black woman. "I don't want my kids to have to go through the same shit I did", he said.
It is true that I come from a family that encompasses many skin tones. My mother is a light-skinned Black woman. Her father is still often mistaken for a White man . Both my biological father and my step-father were dark-skinned men and I high five my mother every time she says "There ain't nothin' like a dark skinned man". Though there is not a huge disparity, my brother and I though born from the same mother and father, differ in skin tone. But at the moment he said he didn't want his kids to go through what he did, it made it even more clear to me that not everyone was so lucky. This man had been making it a conscious effort for his entire dating life to date someone that looks nothing like him or like his own mother and father because it is his people that have torn him down for his appearance. It has been us who has helped him to develop such a complex that he has decided to protect his legacy from his blackness. Then everything else started to make sense. It came together for me why he put up with her keying his car, flattening his tires and repeatedly referring to him as a "punk ass bitch". Now, these are some of the same things some of my sistas would have said, but the difference was, the Puerto Rican woman who keys his car, flattens his tires and calls him a "punk ass bitch" can give him those light babies and make him feel like he has triumphed over the darkness. That Black woman who may or may not have committed those same offenses could not. Even if he played it safe and went with one of my lighter sisters, he would always have the fear in the back of his mind that when she was angry, she would scream to his son that he was just like his "Black ass daddy" or "that sorry ass nigga". I was saddened for him, but I had to defend us too. I had to tell him how wrong he was for punishing us all for the sins of a few. I had to remind him that he had in fact never dated a Black WOMAN, but that he had dated Black GIRLS and never gave the mature Black woman a chance. I had to bring up the fact that there was something about me as a Black woman that made him feel comfortable enough to confide in me and that if he had ever given a Black woman a chance and not perpetuated then insecurities we have also been led to have about ourselves, then that trust could join with love and make something beautiful. Then I had to give the 1,2 punch, the ol' two-piece and a biscuit, if you will. I had to tell him that because he has allowed himself to be completely broken, emasculated and made into less of a man, he will likely NEVER benefit from the love of a strong Black woman because we will no longer have him. I had to tell him that I did not appreciate the fact that when he had a conversation with me and then had the same one with his White friends, he seemed to move from the hood to the burbs. I had to ask why when he spoke to me, the new J. Cole album was "dope", but when he spoke to our pigment deficient friend, it was "a good album and musically sound". Nevermind the fact that I am educated and a lifelong musician. He had to make the conversation black enough for me. When he spoke to me about the Black man who sits two rows away, he was his "dawg", his "ace" and his "homie". But when he spoke to our neighbor, the guy had been "his good friend for a very long time". I had to tell him how sorry I felt for him that then blackness he hides from is the same blackness he runs to when it's convenient. I had to say how sorry I was that he WAS a Black man, but that because he is fearful of the plight of the Black man, he would never know how to RAISE one. I had to tell him how much of a disservice he was doing himself that because his mind was so clouded, he would never know the beauty of our people. I had to tell him how sick and sad it made me that so many like him exist nowadays. I might have ended it all with, "I am a Black woman who is educated, reads because she wants to, appreciates blackness in all its forms and can be authentic at all times. You? You don't even know who the fuck Fall Out Boy, and Imagine Dragons are, you loser." But today, Black people, I wept for all of us.
TK
What I saw made me sad, but the things I have heard from this man made me want to weep. I suppose the fact that my skin is only a few shades lighter than his is what caused him to want to confide in me a few days ago. It was a conversation that began innocently as he spoke to me about his ex-girlfriend. He began to tell me about the ups and downs they experienced and because the end of a relationship can take quite a toll on anyone's emotions, I spoke to him with kindness. As I was walking away, he said, "Crazy ass Puerto Ricans, I tell you". That statement puzzled me, so I doubled back to find out why he said it. When I asked him why he would refer to the mother of his son that way, he said "Because it's true". So, I asked if he felt that way about her before they dated, had problems, had a baby and split up. His response was, "Not about her specifically. But it seems like a lot of the Puerto Rican girls I date end up being crazy." I first began with discussing the fact that if he has dated "a lot" of women of any and all races, then he is probably doing something wrong. I asked how many Puerto Rican women he had dated ("Seriously, three. But I messed around with a few back in the day"). I asked him whether or not he dated any other races. He responded, "Yeah. I've dated White girls, two Mexicans, an Indian girl and one chick that was from Hawaii." I looked at him for a while. "Well, what about us? Have you ever dated a Black girl?" You would think I had punched him in the chest as I asked that question. "I-I-I did back when I was in elementary and middle school. But not since then." My eyes must have asked the question for me because my lips never asked him why. He proceeded to explain to me that it was from the lips of Black women that he received his worst criticism. It was us who always referred to him as "Ol' Black Ass", "Midnight", "Charcoal" and all other sorts of hurtful names. He also proceeded to tell me that this is why he always said he would never marry and have children with a Black woman. "I don't want my kids to have to go through the same shit I did", he said.
It is true that I come from a family that encompasses many skin tones. My mother is a light-skinned Black woman. Her father is still often mistaken for a White man . Both my biological father and my step-father were dark-skinned men and I high five my mother every time she says "There ain't nothin' like a dark skinned man". Though there is not a huge disparity, my brother and I though born from the same mother and father, differ in skin tone. But at the moment he said he didn't want his kids to go through what he did, it made it even more clear to me that not everyone was so lucky. This man had been making it a conscious effort for his entire dating life to date someone that looks nothing like him or like his own mother and father because it is his people that have torn him down for his appearance. It has been us who has helped him to develop such a complex that he has decided to protect his legacy from his blackness. Then everything else started to make sense. It came together for me why he put up with her keying his car, flattening his tires and repeatedly referring to him as a "punk ass bitch". Now, these are some of the same things some of my sistas would have said, but the difference was, the Puerto Rican woman who keys his car, flattens his tires and calls him a "punk ass bitch" can give him those light babies and make him feel like he has triumphed over the darkness. That Black woman who may or may not have committed those same offenses could not. Even if he played it safe and went with one of my lighter sisters, he would always have the fear in the back of his mind that when she was angry, she would scream to his son that he was just like his "Black ass daddy" or "that sorry ass nigga". I was saddened for him, but I had to defend us too. I had to tell him how wrong he was for punishing us all for the sins of a few. I had to remind him that he had in fact never dated a Black WOMAN, but that he had dated Black GIRLS and never gave the mature Black woman a chance. I had to bring up the fact that there was something about me as a Black woman that made him feel comfortable enough to confide in me and that if he had ever given a Black woman a chance and not perpetuated then insecurities we have also been led to have about ourselves, then that trust could join with love and make something beautiful. Then I had to give the 1,2 punch, the ol' two-piece and a biscuit, if you will. I had to tell him that because he has allowed himself to be completely broken, emasculated and made into less of a man, he will likely NEVER benefit from the love of a strong Black woman because we will no longer have him. I had to tell him that I did not appreciate the fact that when he had a conversation with me and then had the same one with his White friends, he seemed to move from the hood to the burbs. I had to ask why when he spoke to me, the new J. Cole album was "dope", but when he spoke to our pigment deficient friend, it was "a good album and musically sound". Nevermind the fact that I am educated and a lifelong musician. He had to make the conversation black enough for me. When he spoke to me about the Black man who sits two rows away, he was his "dawg", his "ace" and his "homie". But when he spoke to our neighbor, the guy had been "his good friend for a very long time". I had to tell him how sorry I felt for him that then blackness he hides from is the same blackness he runs to when it's convenient. I had to say how sorry I was that he WAS a Black man, but that because he is fearful of the plight of the Black man, he would never know how to RAISE one. I had to tell him how much of a disservice he was doing himself that because his mind was so clouded, he would never know the beauty of our people. I had to tell him how sick and sad it made me that so many like him exist nowadays. I might have ended it all with, "I am a Black woman who is educated, reads because she wants to, appreciates blackness in all its forms and can be authentic at all times. You? You don't even know who the fuck Fall Out Boy, and Imagine Dragons are, you loser." But today, Black people, I wept for all of us.
TK
I Am Trayvon Martin
Wet, murky, cold.
Grass against face
Helpless, stiff and paralyzed.
You know how you have those moments where
Everything feels like an out of body experience?
I'm having one now, but it might be for real this time.
I had a slight thirst before and had set out to quench it
That was a couple of hours ago.
I don't feel the thirst anymore though.
I don't really feel anything.
Everybody's crowded around me snapping pictures
Like I'm a celebrity.
But I can't remember anything I did to deserve it.
They are moving around using words like "gunshot",
"Wound", "Evidence" and "victim".
But there's no way they could be talking about me.
I'm pleading to them as loudly as I can
Somebody please come help me up.
It's cold out here and I'm all wet from the rain.
I guess I must have put on a few pounds since
This morning because I can't even lift myself.
This ground against my face is not the best feeling,
But I guess I'll wait until you finish before I ask for help again.
In the meantime, how am I gonna explain to my dad that
I didn't do the dishes because I played video games all day?
And I know my mom is gonna wonder why I'm so late
Calling her back. Maybe that was her texting me.
I heard my phone ring a few times, but I couldn't answer
For whatever reason.
I have a million things to do and a million calls I'd rather be
Making, but here I am, lying face down in the grass.
People are still taking pictures and
I hear one of them saying my name.
They're asking questions, but it's funny that no one bothers
To talk to me.
"He followed him around this corner and he saw him with his
Hands in the pocket of his hoodie."
Followed. Hands in the pocket of his hoodie.
Now that you mention it, I do remember that!
Yeah! I heard the dude behind me
But I didn't know what he wanted.
Maybe he thought I was up to something.
Young, Black. I guess I fit the profile.
I figured I better mention this creepy ass cracker to my
Friend, just in case he tried something.
I saw him looking at me a few minutes ago and he just
Didn't seem right.
All I had in my pocket was a bag of Skittles my step-brother
Asked for and the watermelon Arizona I got for that
Thirst I told you about.
But he didn't know that.
I figured maybe if I put my hands in my pocket like I
Had a gun, he would put that together with young and Black
And leave me alone.
But, nah. This dude was up to something.
He gained on me and it looked like he had something in his hand.
Was that a gun?! Why pull a piece on a kid walking home
In the rain?
I heard my heart beating in my ears when he grabbed me.
My life flashed before my eyes and I knew I had to fight
For what was left of it.
Neighbors! They don't know me that well, but
Maybe if they hear me screaming, they'll come get
This dude off me.
Help! Heeeeeeeelp! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!
I screamed so loud my lungs hurt.
Instead of somebody coming out, some weirdo sets
Off a firework.
Not like one of the Fourth of July combo ones,
But one.....single....firework.
But I guess it was something about the firework
Because it made the dude stop what he was doing.
It must have been one loud ass firework too
Because I went deaf for a while after that.
As a matter of fact, before these people showed up,
That was the last thing I heard.
Now they are in a circle around me but I wonder if they
Even know that I can hear them.
They're asking about this one dude, a cop I think,
Who came over to me.
It looked like he was trying to give me mouth to mouth.
I never understood why he thought I needed it,
But he didn't really give me a chance to ask questions.
A whole lot of strange stuff had happened tonight.
These random people are asking about that scar on my knuckle.
It's a really funny story behind that.
I would be glad to tell it if they would just...help...me...UP!
Wait. What are they talking about?
"Bashed his head on the concrete"?
Who did that?! Did somebody show up to help me?!
"Slim jim"?!
Who the hell needs a slim jim to go to the 7 Eleven?!
"Might have been high on something"?!
It's been DAYS since I smoked weed!
"Zimmerman feared for his life?!"
"Zimmerman"?! Is that the creepy cracker's name?! And HE was
The one with the gun! What did HE have to be scared of?!
Man, help me up, so I can tell y'all what REALLY happened!
Okay! Okay! Somebody must have heard me.
They're turning me over.
Okay. Here we go.
Wait. Something doesn't feel right.
What's going on with my chest?
The air just isn't circulating right.
It seems like it's passing straight through me.
It's not circulating at all.
And why am I so damn HEAVY?!
These people keep talking so loud!
I can't even think straight!
They keep going on and on about some "victim",
A "fatal gunshot wound", some "911 call" and the "time of dea--"
Wait. Everybody out here is looking at ME.
When they say "victim", they look at ME.
And for the "fatal gunshot wound", they keep
Pointing at that hole I never saw in my hoodie before.
Damn.
I should have called my mom
And done those dishes.
I should have explained those pictures of me on Facebook too.
I've never been a gangsta, but it was fun pretending.
Oh, and I probably should have pulled up my grades too.
I just hope that somebody tells my parents that I meant to.
That may not be as good as doing all that, but
There was no way I could have known that I would never get
The chance again.
I put this hoodie on to keep warm.
But nothing could have prepared me for this
Type of cold.
Grass against face
Helpless, stiff and paralyzed.
You know how you have those moments where
Everything feels like an out of body experience?
I'm having one now, but it might be for real this time.
I had a slight thirst before and had set out to quench it
That was a couple of hours ago.
I don't feel the thirst anymore though.
I don't really feel anything.
Everybody's crowded around me snapping pictures
Like I'm a celebrity.
But I can't remember anything I did to deserve it.
They are moving around using words like "gunshot",
"Wound", "Evidence" and "victim".
But there's no way they could be talking about me.
I'm pleading to them as loudly as I can
Somebody please come help me up.
It's cold out here and I'm all wet from the rain.
I guess I must have put on a few pounds since
This morning because I can't even lift myself.
This ground against my face is not the best feeling,
But I guess I'll wait until you finish before I ask for help again.
In the meantime, how am I gonna explain to my dad that
I didn't do the dishes because I played video games all day?
And I know my mom is gonna wonder why I'm so late
Calling her back. Maybe that was her texting me.
I heard my phone ring a few times, but I couldn't answer
For whatever reason.
I have a million things to do and a million calls I'd rather be
Making, but here I am, lying face down in the grass.
People are still taking pictures and
I hear one of them saying my name.
They're asking questions, but it's funny that no one bothers
To talk to me.
"He followed him around this corner and he saw him with his
Hands in the pocket of his hoodie."
Followed. Hands in the pocket of his hoodie.
Now that you mention it, I do remember that!
Yeah! I heard the dude behind me
But I didn't know what he wanted.
Maybe he thought I was up to something.
Young, Black. I guess I fit the profile.
I figured I better mention this creepy ass cracker to my
Friend, just in case he tried something.
I saw him looking at me a few minutes ago and he just
Didn't seem right.
All I had in my pocket was a bag of Skittles my step-brother
Asked for and the watermelon Arizona I got for that
Thirst I told you about.
But he didn't know that.
I figured maybe if I put my hands in my pocket like I
Had a gun, he would put that together with young and Black
And leave me alone.
But, nah. This dude was up to something.
He gained on me and it looked like he had something in his hand.
Was that a gun?! Why pull a piece on a kid walking home
In the rain?
I heard my heart beating in my ears when he grabbed me.
My life flashed before my eyes and I knew I had to fight
For what was left of it.
Neighbors! They don't know me that well, but
Maybe if they hear me screaming, they'll come get
This dude off me.
Help! Heeeeeeeelp! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!
I screamed so loud my lungs hurt.
Instead of somebody coming out, some weirdo sets
Off a firework.
Not like one of the Fourth of July combo ones,
But one.....single....firework.
But I guess it was something about the firework
Because it made the dude stop what he was doing.
It must have been one loud ass firework too
Because I went deaf for a while after that.
As a matter of fact, before these people showed up,
That was the last thing I heard.
Now they are in a circle around me but I wonder if they
Even know that I can hear them.
They're asking about this one dude, a cop I think,
Who came over to me.
It looked like he was trying to give me mouth to mouth.
I never understood why he thought I needed it,
But he didn't really give me a chance to ask questions.
A whole lot of strange stuff had happened tonight.
These random people are asking about that scar on my knuckle.
It's a really funny story behind that.
I would be glad to tell it if they would just...help...me...UP!
Wait. What are they talking about?
"Bashed his head on the concrete"?
Who did that?! Did somebody show up to help me?!
"Slim jim"?!
Who the hell needs a slim jim to go to the 7 Eleven?!
"Might have been high on something"?!
It's been DAYS since I smoked weed!
"Zimmerman feared for his life?!"
"Zimmerman"?! Is that the creepy cracker's name?! And HE was
The one with the gun! What did HE have to be scared of?!
Man, help me up, so I can tell y'all what REALLY happened!
Okay! Okay! Somebody must have heard me.
They're turning me over.
Okay. Here we go.
Wait. Something doesn't feel right.
What's going on with my chest?
The air just isn't circulating right.
It seems like it's passing straight through me.
It's not circulating at all.
And why am I so damn HEAVY?!
These people keep talking so loud!
I can't even think straight!
They keep going on and on about some "victim",
A "fatal gunshot wound", some "911 call" and the "time of dea--"
Wait. Everybody out here is looking at ME.
When they say "victim", they look at ME.
And for the "fatal gunshot wound", they keep
Pointing at that hole I never saw in my hoodie before.
Damn.
I should have called my mom
And done those dishes.
I should have explained those pictures of me on Facebook too.
I've never been a gangsta, but it was fun pretending.
Oh, and I probably should have pulled up my grades too.
I just hope that somebody tells my parents that I meant to.
That may not be as good as doing all that, but
There was no way I could have known that I would never get
The chance again.
I put this hoodie on to keep warm.
But nothing could have prepared me for this
Type of cold.
TK
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