By the Harlem River we sit and weep.
By the South Negril River we sit and weep.
By the River Mantua we sit and weep.
By the Mississippi River we sit and weep.
By the Volta River we sit and weep.
By the Nile River we sit and weep.
Our silent tears can not erase the pain-filled years.
These tears fell on the riverbank’s soil and fertilized it,
from this soil grows hopes and dreams that must be harvested by future generations.
We wept not only for what was lost but for what will never be.
Our melancholy can not be seen through stonewashed saginn’ jeans.
Our depressed affects painted with the finest Pink Friday MAC lipstick.
The joker and clown always wept the loudest when alone.
Our home is abandoned and the finest have been carried away in chain-gangs.
We serve and protect a king not our own for a few crumbs from the royal table,
“Look at us now we getting paper.”
Exiled to a stolen land,
we feel as if the divine mother has let go of our hand.
We wept, but many have forgotten why.
We wept, we yell, we cry, but many think our pain is an inconvenient lie.
Instead of “Independence Day” we need a Freedom Day.
A Day of truth.
A Day of love.
A Day of pride in who we are.
Artificial fireworks will never replace
the Starlights that led our ancestors to freedomland, because these lights illuminate life.
Independence is a myth that separates BUT
“Chinese Crisis” Theater of the Oppressed Exercise
I used to be sweet.
I used to be friendly; even elected as such by my class.
I used to be a pushover.
I used to sweet.
Now that I have left my home and my community I am now:
The perceptions of me have changed but not the light inside of me.
The mirror that used to reflect beautiful ebony now reflects white standards back to me.
If you fear and type me with your analog stereo than all you will see is what you want me to be.
Directness is honesty.
Passive aggressiveness a deceptive crime.
I used to worry about what was thought of me…
But now I see before I spoke “a bitch” was all you thought of me.
My light will shine even if your eyes are too sick to see.
We’re riding together but sit worlds apart. The stockbroker, the mother, the hobo living in separate realities, yet riding in the same car. The A Train zips from beaches to hoods to ground zero. Our liberal metropolis is a kingdom of progressive “niceties” . The A Train is a silver chariot carrying us through our politely segregated city.
The Lush beauty of this life within myself. Awaken my soul. Open my eyes. I want to see, touch and taste your love. My womb is filled with a creation that is divine. My spirit’s doula says “push it’s time”, so I take a deep breath inhaling courage and exhaling resistance. My soul has awakened because I have given birth to my destiny.