New poem for our children! #BlackChildrenMatter

As I drove down W. Florissant two days after the decision, I cried.
I cried because I saw, not the burned down buildings,
But the pain of my people that those buildings reflected.
The same pain that filled my heart when I heard the decision
Even though I knew what it would be
I cried, maybe because God was crying

And I knew people were joined with me in crying
Crying through the rain of indifference
Crying because of the dehumanizing of people through mis-education, lack of healthcare
Crying because we have the number 1 prison rate, a cycle of school to prison pipeline
Crying when God sees his people in pain because they don’t know what to do with the situation

And we asked what is God not crying about
God cries when the youth cry out
God cries when people are robbed of dignity

Crying because of the militarization of police and the brutalization of us
Heartbreaking how people react to the devaluation of us
Crying because even as we die, we are denied first aid
Crying when our youth are killed for no reason
Crying out of frustration because we can't simply love one another

God is crying and crying throughout
Maybe because when God is crying we are not crying, when god is upset we are not upset--- but surely us in this room are crying, sharing in God's pain
Crying as immigrant families are separated by the millions
Crying because people are in poverty
Crying because in the time of peace, we did not prepare for war- we turned our heads and let the ball drop

Yes God continues to cry because of our lack of unity
God cries because the cycle repeats and justice is never served
God cries when we are judged on how we look. 
If we are made in god's image, how are we seeing each other differently?

So we ask:
What value do we put to human life
How do we politicize death of a human being
Why do people we love get dehumanized

For this I have no resolve
So I let my tears do the resolving
I cry, We Cry, God Cries

This piece was written by me but with collective input from survey as well as group facilitation. The end of the poem takes a dramatic shift in tone and style—reflective of the group facilitated creation of poetry. This is meant to be a performance piece with crowd participation. Hope you enjoy.

“Poets observe, challenge, provoke, inspire.  Poetry penetrates imperial conscious because it can’t be controlled--poets can’t be controlled or silenced--poetry, visualization and imagery provide clarity of what that alternative vision can be...”Michael O.

---Written to be performed---

Letter to My Unborn Child

I apologize---apologize for bringing you into a world full of hate and pain
A world that has nothing waiting for you but disdain
You'll quickly learn it’s all a game that never intended to have your name
Running across the screen in big bright green letters-
Letter to my unborn child

Don’t worry that they won’t like your hair naturally
They'll criticize your hips that naturally
Sway in the wind like a tree to a small summer breeze
They'll tell you in so many words, so many images that your natural ain’t beautiful
Don’t worry that you won’t see yourself in main magazines or commercials representing you in your fullness
And don't sweat that you will see yourself time and time again in shackles and orange jumpsuits or dead in the streets

Shackles and jumpsuits and dead in the streets
My heart never stops moving to the beat
The beat of your heart in my young womb
Although my heart is full of gloom
And maybe doom as I read the letters of your name--
Letter to my unborn child

See our people occupy the streets
Drunken, drugged up, and pimped out
But Baby don’t worry
Cus the group I ride with are a pack of lions
I run with lioness who don’t stress on a kill
Because we killin institutional power that keeps our people oppressed
We killin ideology that says we can’t ever impress

Don’t apologize for who you are, understand who you are
And whose you are
Laugh my child, go ahead and laugh wild
Don’t fear life, love others and hate strife
See the beauty that lies within, and the beauty that has been
A part of your rich history that at times seems a great mystery
You are more than black in America, I urge you to explore the diaspora
But more than that, know that I am your hope
And my hope for you is a future other than the one I see
----
Alternate ending:
But more than that- know I am your hope
We talkin' bout-- liberation, restoration, and transformation

We seek to build community with our colleagues
We seek justice boldly and the abundance of it peacefully
We seek equity
Yea yea yea, We talkin' bout-- liberation, restoration, and transformation

We are excited to be united, we seek prosperity for the common good
We talkin' bout-- liberation, restoration, and transformation
Yea that jubilee type of liberation, restoration, and transformation
That jubilee that challenges status quo, affirms our value and worth, energizes the masses and prepares us to change that future we are hopeful for!

~Letter to my unborn child~
1-17-2014

“Dear Heavenly Father, please keep your angels of protection around me”
“Dear Heavenly Father, please keep your angels of protection around me”
“Dear Heavenly Father, please keep your angels of protection around me”
All I could keep saying in my mind was “Dear Heavenly Father, please keep your angels of protection around me”

The face of evil stared down at me, 
Fist clenched, jaws tight
Verbal assaults sprawled out his mouth like flames of fire 
Each fiber of our relationship unraveled before my eyes
The very fabric of my being torn and snatched away slowly
Curled into a ball, 
Eyes hollow, blood shot red from all the tears,
Shrinking with every breath I took, 
I had reached my ends wit 
Nothing left but raw emotions, no refinement

The lion’s den hadn’t possessed this much terror when Daniel was thrown in
No more rationalizing the crazy sporadic behavior that had led to this
The man I knew was no longer there, the man I saw was unrecognizable
But I had too become unrecognizable to self
The woman I had created, the woman I had worked so hard to become had been stripped bare

One has to wonder how thy got there, but more importantly it is in that moment that one has to choose to either define oneself for oneself, or to live in the person they have been changed into

And I chose me, I will always choose me

Even when I’ve run off the road, when the path I find myself on was not in the direction of my destiny
When speed bumps and potholes that I chose to barrel over have slowed down progress because of injury, I still choose me
Even when life has to remind you that you have been here before and should know better, I take it as another learning and add it to my character as I rebuild
Or rather am rebuilt by the potters hand
I know that it is now not I who must try to create, but God who is the master builder simply has to mold me again
And in His doing, I am made whole!

We Paint Pictures of

Confidence...

Compassionate, culturally sensitive, and charismatic pictures

We paint pictures of women constantly challenging themselves to couple their faith with their actions

We paint pictures of chiseled bodies and good looks

Pictures of greatness, boldness, strength, and pride

Pictures full of colors, life, deep browns and purple hues

We paint pictures of strength, resilience, power, and authority.

Pictures of reliance on Jesus

We are the beautiful beings that embody the love of Christ

We paint pictures of women willing to admit their shortcomings and mistakes because we are striving to be perfect when we are weak

WE paint truth,

 faces full of smiles and

 an appreciation for nature

We paint awareness of the social injustices, racism, discrimination and prejudices that black women and people of color face

We paint pictures of our youth and fight for their equality and ability to see their present and future as brighter than ours

We paint pictures with no black, to avoid being placed in boxes or generalized

So instead, we paint pictures of vibrancy, healers, lovers

We paint pictures that inspire

And we paint pictures of intelligence and wisdom. Confidence and strength

Pictures of Big mommas

Pictures of smart, loving, down to earth, vulnerable, but not weak, and a tad bit sensitive women

We paint pictures that let the world know they are all our brothers and sisters

We paint pictures of grace and royalty. Of hope and blessings. Of peace and justice

We paint the picture of the black woman with a different stroke, different brush, and different color each time

We paint to show that like any great masterpiece, there is too much depth to ever fully be explored. And that is our great mystery!

As I flew out at the crack of dawn, I marveled at the greatness and beauty of God. The only reason I ever look forward to a 6am flight is to see the sunrise. In many ways, more beautiful than a sunset to me, I am always taken aback by the vibrant red that gives way to a deep autumn orange followed by the bright blue that slowly but surely overtakes the black sky. 

As we near our time to descend, the beast comes into view. Vast and tall, she seems to reach for the sky, her longest stretch seems to touch the clouds. I wonder if her creators were like those in Babel, seeking to reach the heavens. For in this moment, as she sits at the shores of a great lake, that stretches out like an oceanfront, unable to see where it touches land again, I am in awe, like always. 

I describe her as the best beauty God and mankind have to offer, combined in a mosaic blend. She is my first love, where my heart always finds it way back to, but she pains me as much as she gives me joy. As the plane carries me above Lake Michigan, touching the clouds the beast dwells under, my stomach drops. I always fear flying over water, that my great demise will come tragically when my plane suddenly plummets, not to the earth, but into the great deep blue. But I am not able to dwell on my own tragic fantasy, for I cannot stop thinking about Hadiya, or the 6 year old girl we mourned for last year, as I cross over lake shore drive. 

As we move back over land, I look at the constant movement. I’ve always loved her for that, constantly moving, always changing, ahead of the game! But as I look down at the highways I’ve traveled many times that wind like a snake, or the sharp straight streets that intersections create perfect crosses and diamonds, all I see are green lights and I wonder does she ever stop…

I mean surely, we all sometimes just need to stop! Take a break! Breathe…

But what would make her stop… We crossed lake shore drive, and over buildings that were familiar to me, neighborhoods I could identify, even from the sky, and it all moved. I wondered why the 506 homicides last year couldn’t stop her? Maybe, I thought to myself, if we placed all those bodies, all 506 at the circle…the circle, where interstate 55 joins 90/94 and then dumps you off onto  interstate 290... I wondered if that totaled 506, all those intersections..they totaled 529. Well not bad, because all we need are half of the homicides from January to make that number. So if we placed 529 bodies down at the circle, would she stop then?

A crazy thought maybe… that was until, just as that thought finished in my head, we landed. I turned on my phone and went to Facebook. Scrolling through the stories on the newsfeed, my god brother’s status catches my eye…”woman shot to death on lake shore drive!”

My heart began to drop, but stopped midway. The thought, no the reality of murder was becoming to familiar to it. No wonder my heart cried at lake shore..not just for those young girls, and hundreds of young black males, but now, this woman who had been murdered in her mini van on the ramp. 

No place is safe! At first, you had to be careful what blocks you took a stroll down that were not in your neighborhood. Then you had to be careful at stop signs on the southside. Now, you can’t even escape in your car on the ramp to the expressway?!?!? 

She’s a beast, that will not stop, she has become too accustomed to movement. By now, I am seated in O’Hare International Airport, waiting to continue on to Buffalo, with people from around the world, unaware of the torment and agony that dwells right outside the windows they pass. But I too, have just become a passer-byer, in my own home. I too, will continue on to my “final destination“, and not worry about the horror that I have left behind…

I have come to accept that I cannot create the change for Chicago..she must do it herself… she will continue to cry out as the clouds carry her cry out to the great waters, until those who dwell among her answer the call. The lake was frozen over as I headed back in the sky on my way to Buffalo… I hope that the hearts of those she carries has not frozen over too.

As we move to other parts of the state, we go north then head south. Owen grew up in Elgin, a northwest second ring suburb of Chicago. Elgin was majority white, over 60%, and only 7% black. A city that has seen significant population growth over Owen’s childhood, growing up Elgin had just under 100,000 people.

Owen describes growing up in a middle class family as relatively sheltered. “The neighborhood behind me had drugs and gangs, but the neighborhood in front was white middle class America.” Fortunately, the neighborhood Owen grew up in was fairly decent, 54% of households were married couples, and the median income was $52,000 and only 6.4% of families lived below the poverty line. His household however was female headed, so he fell in the small 11% minority of female headed households. Like a lot of black families, and just like Tonya and Sasha, he grew up with his grandmother in the house.

He says “my dad was around, but not really in my life.” Evan knew what it was like to not have a dad around too… which takes us to the other end of the state, East St. Louis, Illinois, a well known city for its blighted conditions, and for having the “highest crime rate in the United States.” But how many people have taken a personal look at East St. Louis and not allow the statistics like: 48% of children live below the poverty line or less than 10% of the population holds a college degree, to let them write off an entire community of people?

Evan describes his neighborhood as majority African- American (97%) and low income (median income for a family was $24,500). Quite the contrast from Owen, I doubt from the description that Evan was very sheltered, but more importantly, Evan describes his neighborhood as a community.

“Our street had a lot of kids on it. There were long narrow streets and they all looked exactly the same, 80th looked like 81st and 81st looked just like 79th. We had about 20 kids on our block all around the same age. Most of us tried to stay out of the streets, and had older siblings or parents that kept us out of trouble. We had people behind my house who were thugs. We fought a lot, but still remained friends. It was one of those communities where if I got in trouble at Jerry’s house, his mom would punish me and my mom. It was like a black ‘Hey Arnold’.”

Both Owen and Evan were smart. Owen attended public school until high school. From 4th-8th grade he was in “gifted” programs and “was distanced, somewhat, from some of the things other kids were doing.” Evan says he went to the “geek” school, “it was simply the public school that had testing requirements to get in.” While Owen seemed contented that he received a decent education, Evan says he got in trouble a lot for “lack of challenge”… “I talked back a lot, I was curious, but teachers who didn’t want to address my curiosity labeled it as bad behavior.”

 In 2007 that school closed… I wonder how many other children, who were “gifted” or “geeks”, attended that school in hopes of being challenged academically, but left with tons of unanswered curiosity???

These two black males, despite the challenges that stood before them, many of which had still not yet been realized before their teenage years, were destined for excellence… 

So there I found myself, at the event of who’s who in the city of St. Louis. Gathered with middle-class blacks for a ball to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr.’s Birthday and the second Inauguration of President Barack Obama.  I arrive with my little sister and mother who were in town for the weekend and meet my co-workers. My supervisor grabs me as I walk in to introduce me to some gentlemen I should know.

As conversation carries on, the larger groups break into couples speaking, leaving one gentleman and myself. He leans over and ask “so what whips David cracking across yo’ back this year?” with an ugly grin on his face. To which I replied “I don’t know, I don’t get whips cracked!” and then proceeded to tell him all the great things I’m looking forward to doing this year.

After that disturbance, the night gets worse as the mistress of the ceremony talks and says that she “believes President Obama is the manifestation of Dr. King’s dream!” Is she mad I thought to myself, delusion, or just straight crazy?!? How could one possible think that the inauguration of President Obama is somehow the icing on the cake for the struggle of equality and justice in black America? How could one possibly believe that having a President in the white house who quite frankly refuses to talk about Black America’s issues as to not be labeled as the “black president” except when he gathers a group of black fathers together and tell them to do better is the manifestation? A Black president who has received the fewest amounts of white male votes in the history of the U.S. meaning minorities and women single-handedly re-elected him, but sees that as not merit enough to bring recognition to the thousands of black lives lost in urban America as we do for the victims of Sandy Hook and the many other issues discussed in his inaugural speech. A Black President of who, I must remind myself is also half white, but he himself never forgets.

Personally, I love President Barack Hussein Obama, and I voted for him both times. I believe he was the hope America needed, the politician the GLBTQ community couldn’t have imagined he has become, the man all women have longed for. But he is not the dream realized!

“Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.

But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.”

And as we celebrate the 150th Anniversary now of the Emancipation Proclamation, and the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, I believe King’s speech to still be true! Dr. King I am sure knew that winning civil rights would benefit all Americans, but still he stood for Black Americans. Dr. King knew that white allies were important in the struggle for equality, and yet he marched with Blacks and whites alike. Dr. King knew that hatred surrounded him everywhere he looked, and yet he still preached love. Dr. King was aware of all the forces, the circumstances around him, but King did not shy away from the vision God had given him, a vision that as integrating as it was and still is, was a vision for the freedom and deliverance of a certain people.

Israel’s deliverance was not for the Egyptians as well, the very people who had enslaved them. Yet, their deliverance spoke to the all encompassing love, passion, and desire for justice God has for all mankind.

I don’t know if President Obama was given a vision from God to become the President of the United States. I don’t know if President Obama used hope as a strategized political platform or if he truly believed in the hope and change he spoke of. Certainly, I would like to think that, like King, President Obama was aware of the forces and circumstances around him. Certainly, I would like to think that President Obama knew he would have a hard time with Congress, getting the change he spoke of to pass. But yet, he sold the dream of hope and change anyhow. And while I appreciate being sold the dream of hope, for hope I believe is the only thing that counters despair, pain, disappointment, proven unfaithfulness, we are not yet able to un-cling hope. And that is reason enough to say that President Obama has neither manifested King’s dream, nor his own. But let me continue…

So as I come back to the event I dreadfully regretted attending, I could not continue to sit and smile and believe that he was the manifestation. I could not believe the dream had been realized when my heart bleeds for my people every morning I wake up. Do not mistake my words or judgment as racist, though they are biased. I simply seek to challenge the thought that one man, however perfect or imperfect he may be is the manifestation of a vast dream, when the majority of my people do not live in that reality.

I cannot, knowingly accept such foolishness, when the question presented to me earlier about “cracking whips and backs” speaks to the still enslaved mind of my people. How dare we address ourselves with such language? Some of you may be thinking that “cracking the whip” is just a phrase used to describe someone who uses there authority harshly, or maybe a horse comes to mind. Fair enough. But both harsh authority and horses are still relevant as we reflect back on the treatment of black slaves as less than human under a harsh rule.

 I cannot believe that the dream has been manifested when as crazy as it sounds, you have a better chance of survival in Iraq than in Chicago to not be shot and killed by a bullet. Where my old neighborhood sparks articles, blog posts, etc. to ask if it is the deadliest neighborhood in Chicago but yet no national attention is given. This is not the dream King had for urban America.

I cannot believe that the dream has been manifested when only 25% of Black males graduate from high school in Buffalo, New York. Nor can I ignore that in a city with a population of 250,000 people, there is an immigrant and refugee community of at least 12,000 people and funding for ESL programs is practically non-existent and the one international school in the city faces threats of closure every single semester. Certainly, that is not the dream King had for public education.

I cannot believe that the dream has been manifested when in the St. Louis region, 40% of children live below the poverty line…40%!!! How dare we be a country with isolated concentrated wealth in the top 1 or even 2% and have so many children going without                                   ? (You fill in the blank!). This is not the dream King had for children.

My dear sister who hosted this event, and those who may also think like you, I regret to inform you that your card has been declined. I cannot swipe it anymore, for each time it reads to me another reason why the dream has not been manifested, and I cannot bear to read what else it may say. But one thing I can tell you is that I will not believe the dream is manifested until words Dr. King wrote are true:

“As long as the mind is enslaved the body can never be free. Psychological freedom, a firm sense of self- esteem, is the most powerful weapon against the long night of physical slavery. No Lincolnian Emancipation Proclamation or Kennedyan or Johnsonian civil rights bill can totally bring this kind of freedom. The Negro will only truly be free when he reaches down to the inner depths of his own being and signs with pen and ink of assertive selfhood his own emancipation proclamation. With a spirit straining toward true self- esteem, the Negro must boldly throw off the manacles of self- abnegation and say to himself and the world: “I am somebody. I am a person. I am a man with dignity and honor. I have a rich and noble history, however painful and exploited that history has been. I am black and comely.” This self- affirmation is the black man’s need made compelling by the white man’s crime against him.”

When this becomes the declaration of my people, then will I believe the dream has been manifested. Until then, “keep hope alive!”

(Excerpts taken from: “I Have A Dream” Speech and Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?  Both by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.)

“Growing up, my neighborhood was pretty good. A few flaws here or there but nothing major. The community was friendly and everyone was considered family especially on our block.” Sasha was born in Chicago. She loved school, described it as both exciting and fulfilling. She anticipated going to school each and every day because she learned a lot of great stuff being educated in a charter school. Her neighborhood was one of unique style, as are many in Chicago, with one family frame houses and two-flats combined on a block with wide streets, sidewalks to play on and porches to sit and greet neighbors. Although Sasha paints a picture of what one would think of when posed with a thought about American neighborhoods, Sasha’s view of her neighborhood was limited. That “family” Sasha speaks of on her block, tore a family apart when one of her best friend’s was raped by her own cousin and the family moved states away. Sasha had not forgotten that tragedy that struck her friend, nor had she been exempt from the sounds of gun shots that sometimes rang through the front door as if they were the doorbell. But somehow, it was good for her.

Tonya grew up in the same neighborhood by division of the city, the largest neighborhood on the Westside and in the entire city by population density, Austin Community. But Tonya describes her part of the neighborhood very differently. Whereas Sasha was to the northwest of the neighborhood, bordering a very affluent suburb of Chicago, Oak Park; Tonya lived 15 minutes south of here, at the southern most part of the neighborhood, bordering a predominately Hispanic community, Cicero Township. Tonya often recalls in individual relationship building meetings with people the prostitutes and drug dealing she saw on a daily basis. Police presence is still vividly pictured in her mind as she flashes back to see women being thrown into the back of police cars and young boys thrown across them. She too however, talks of closeness and sense of community she felt.

Both their parents were cautious of them. Sasha never left her block and Tonya couldn’t leave her own porch for much of her childhood years. But fortunate for them, they had popular blocks that were frequented, allowing them to socialize with children from other parts of the neighborhood. Tonya lived next door, separated by an ally, to the community center, where boys would go to play basketball and girls would go to watch. She lived on a block mixed with houses and factory buildings, that after one was torn down became a vacant lot for play, riding bikes, and increased criminal activity.

These two met at a charter school, on the Northside of the city, in a vastly different neighborhood from the one they both knew. This school would take them on a journey neither could have anticipated. But one thing was for sure, Sasha would be excited to go to school to see Tonya and the rest of their crew everyday!