Praying to Pecola

In November of 2011 my sister gave birth,

Three months before her due date,

Lily came into the world,

And she was perfect.

We cradled her,

We whispered in her ear

We sheltered her

We held her close against our chests

We loved her.

She had milk chocolate skin,

Dark eyes that dared defiance,

And a smile that was entirely too old

for someone who arrived three months early.

In the three years that have passed since then,

She has been inundated by adjectives:

She has been called sweet.

She has been called precious.

She has been called beautiful.

We shower her with love,

and dread the day she leaves the house.

We fear the day that she enters the world,

We fear the day she gets called ugly for the first time

We can see the word on her lips as she echoes it

Her mouth unsure,

Like tasting a flavor it has not yet encountered

Not a spice, salt or sugar,

Something that tastes wholly different

Unlike anything she has ever been exposed to

The taste of cruelty.

We dread the day she holds up a white doll

That she will no doubt be handed

By some well meaning charitable white person

And asks, “Why doesn’t she look like me?”

We dread the day those eyes,

That once held an unquestionable authority,

Glaze over in tears and confusion,

And wonder if maybe

Their hue is anything less than perfect.

We know this will one day happen

We have heard from prophets like Angelou and Morrison

The stories of an era in which racism

Was worn on sleeves and hoods

Before we hid it away,

Before we buried an empty coffin called it dead

Before we named ourselves post racial

And pretended the scars our society sliced into humanity

Had faded into unmarred flesh.

They haven’t.

They are less scars than they are scabs

Wounds waiting within our kids

To be torn open

To spill scarlet once more

To become infected avulsions

The broken results of our children trying to pull out

Beauty standards they had no role in creating

Rotten teeth ideals that both bite and bleed

We have inundated her with adjectives,

In the hopes of using all the space in her heart

Leaving no room for slurs and slander

Leaving no room for hate and anger

Because she is ours and we have claimed her

We will not have her pray for relief from white Jesus

Will not have her weep for blue eyes

We will pray for intercession,

From Pecola, From Claudia, From Frieda

From Rosa, From Coretta, From Alice,

That God would reach down,

With hands as dark as coffee,

And cradle Lily to her breast,

Kiss her like cocoa butter,

Until she loves every inch of herself,

As much as we do.

A Prayer for Heavy Handed Boys

My sister told me I had heavy hands.
and it wasn't always my fault
But even play fights were prone to bruising,
and still I am sometimes afraid of my hands.
So I pray at the start of every day:

Lord grant me the strength,
that these fingers would stretch instead of clench
that these hands would swing not like clubs
but like chariots,
dipping down for a soul that could lead me home.

Oh great carpenter forgive me,
for every blasphemous profanity
that might escape my lips
at the countless blisters, burns and bruises,
born of a thousand projects
forgive me also,
for those which will not be completed
and keep in my hands the dull desire to create.

God make it so that the calluses
that I will no doubt collect
will always be the roughest thing about these hands
that even in play, these hands would catch
kids who leap into the air
testing gravity
daring it to slip up for even a moment.

Oh Mother of God,
make that these hands could be cradles
that they could shelter that which is most precious
that I could give, if even for just a moment
a small modicum of safety.

Please God,
Let Arthritis riddle my knuckles,
let them become knotted,
let my hands be warped into caricatures,
let them be purposeless with pain,
let them contort themselves beyond recognition,
let them fail to do all that which hands do,
Lord, let them do all this,
before they do what is sometimes too easy for them,
let my hands fall useless at my sides,
before they ever seek to cleave flesh from bone,
before they ever draw blood from its holy sanctuary.
Let my hands never be extensions of violence, God.

I pray by all my favorite saints and sinners,
that my hands would embody the creative forces of life
Lord let pens and pencils form familiar indents in my hands,
let it be, so that stories and stanzas flow freely
carving valleys into plain pages
let a river of of writing pour forth from these hands,
let ink and graphite stain my my finger tips,
let flowers of unintentional beauty encroach upon these digits
and let me love them for it.

At all times God
let me hear the faintest whisper,
the sound of my big sister,
reminding me to be careful with these heavy hands.

Things to Remember as I Burn Out

I am in control.
I need to believe this with mind heart and soul,
I need to understand that this will take its toll,
I need to work and work and work towards this goal,
I need to find the diamond hidden in the coal,
I need to push and push and push and make this rock roll.
and maybe it will roll back.
and maybe I will crack
and maybe I'll let this world run me through,
let the weights and fates determine that I didnt do enough,
that I was simply too invested in this bluff,
that I wasn't really that tough,
that I shoulda called it quits when the going went past rough,
and hit that critical point of no return.
where I was too stubborn to learn,
where I was too determined to have any concern,
for the things that creep slowly up and start to burn,
and even as the flames began to lick up around my ears,
I was too proud to extinguish them with tears,
had no time for the warnings of seers ,
was too bold to recognize my fears,
too optimistic waiting for that second when the smoke clears.
When the world would open up before me,
where the arch of the universe bends and I can see,
over mountains and across the sea,
and all the futures there could be,
every accidental opportunity ,
that point between my idealism and rationality,
the imposition of my dreams over reality,
the cut off between desires and morality,
where everything could click with the lightest touch of intentionality.
but here is the problem.
the clearing of smoke is actually rather rare,
and maybe it's true; the cliche that life just isnt fair,
and maybe we will be engulfed in more than our share,
of internal infernos that burn until our bones are laid bare,
leaving us exposed for the world to stare,
at charred skeletons who couldnt stop to care,
about repercussions and conclusions,
who left behind flesh marred by contusions,
and plans that were lost in the midst countless confusions,
in the pursuit of that one perfect solution,
that would grant us a touch of absolution.
for all that we desire is there,
that were we to reach out and take it,
something might change.
but not us.
we who once made our way down to the river,
who waded in without a shiver,
and screamed until the world began to quiver,
until the birds flew off in fright and the trees began to wither.
We who would shout and make demands  of Heaven!
who would call for compensation of seventy times seven,
who look upon burgeoning clouds,
and are not satisfied until the floodgates are pulled back,
who take up the title of rain maker,
who seek to be chain breakers,
who could be called earth shakers,
whose voices will cut through smoke and make it clear.
And maybe I will burn out.
But it will not be in silence.
I am in control.
I walk out from underneath rocks which would roll,
tread on diamonds that were once coal
and even if all that is left is a charred skeleton,
I was told that every skull has its grin,
and Yorick and I are in on this joke,
I will cough but will not choke,
as I step through this smoke
and change the world.

The Sounds of Summer

I have had a long term love hate relationship with summer,
between the whale like blubber that I need to get through the long winter months,
and my propensity for sweating when I do anything more active than lounging,
that period of May through September gets a little hard for me.
That being said I love swimming, and playing outside,
I am somewhere between a Labrador retriever and a 5 year old,
in terms of my enthusiasm for bouncing off of walls
and then out of the house
For a time summer meant
crashing through the perennially broken screen door,
Out into sunshine and scraped knees
Out into all the bruises and bumps that are part of growing up,
The loudest thing from my childhood was for a long time the sound of that screen door slamming.

Until it wasn't.

I don't remember how old I was the first time I heard a gun shot echo off the buildings in my city.
I don't remember at what age I became able to determine between fireworks and firearms.
nor do I recall exactly when the impulse to duck became second nature.
but eventually it did.
Flinching and twitching,
 dodging my way through the world,
I could never tell if it was the ADD acting up again
Or if my body was simply dodging bullets that weren't there.
I grew to hate silence,
if for no other reason than that it shatters
With edges like broken glass
So I wear sounds like they are a second skin
I surround myself in constant din
and I will never let the quiet in.
I sleep soundly through both sirens and thunder
but even then I have to wonder
because even dreams can be torn asunder.
and I fear being cut apart by broken peaces
of temporary twilight truces

Summers are scary.
There is a direct correlation between ice cream sales and gun violence
This is a reflection of an awful urban lesson
City kids grow up learning a sick sense of duality
It is a rather warped reality
to relish the vacation like every other kid
but keep in the back of the mind,
the knowledge that long summer shadows
hide many things
like bullets
like silence
and both of them scare me.
And I don't know what's worse.
The silence of peers
or the sounds of their screams?
I grasp at my ears
and they burst at the seams,
It's just how it be, That's just what I see, It's just as it seems.
And what worse than a bullet,
is the hand the sends it
malignant muscle memory
 and it's impact on the senses
bullets cross border and cultures,
 and bridges and fences.
Tell me why they can't mark that on the census?

So we sleep through the night when we can,
and we roam the streets when we cant.
Wish it were that only the gods own thunder
could wrench the sky and disturb my slumber
but right now, the cops and their kind got my city down under.

And even though my home is as quiet as it has ever been,
for the first time in my life I can't sleep past ten
and my alarm doesnt come from a phone or clock
My sleep isn't killed by guns on the block
but by badges in the street
and pain in my feet
and the point in my brain
where my shame and my pride meet.
We march because we hurt,
We fight because it works.
We lose because our curse.
Our wounds will never be as deep as Uncle Sam's purse.
Our ride will never be as smooth as the graveman's hearse
We will never be they who come first
Because that's America at its worst
patriotism nationalism and pseudofacism,
Secure in our faith that the State wont come for us
That the hands of fate dont lust for us
That our family has trusted us
enough to know our secrets and failures,
enough to know that we're in hell here,
enough that they would never send us to the counselor.
That's the trick ain't it?
everybody's broken
there pride in their silence,
their demons unspoken,
the violence of choking
their fire slow smoking
they'll say theyre just joking,
but they dont understand
 the coals theyre stoking

I don't have any answers,
I dont sleep easy,
I might get cancer,
I might like yeezy,
I'm as dumb as rock,
and mute as stone,
But if you come round my block,
you can see I'm not alone.

Compulsive Masculinity

In the era of unrealistic standards for women,
With the plastic precision  of barbie dolls,
and the physically impossible bust to waist ratio of Laura Croft
where the only thing that mirrors the warped results of a first attempt at photoshop
is the very standard that editing is trying to match.
We cannot ignore the corner that women in our society are literally being painted into,
but we also cannot ignore the reciprocal for our young men.
For every scantly clad, computer generated model on the cover of a magazine
there is an action figure being placed into the hands of a little boy.
That action figure has hands that are forever closed fists
that action figure comes complete with kung-fu kicks
that action figure is telling that little boy the exact opposite
of everything I have ever been taught to tell kids
See my kids have mantras that they echo around the classroom
"Hands are not for hitting"
"You can't just take that from me"
"I need help please"
That action figure, and the movies that spawned him
they tell kids that asking for help is for the weak,
they tell kids that the quickest way to solve the problem
is a combination closed fists, bullets and explosives,
and you can be damn sure whatever you want is always for the taking

I want us to remember and weep
for every little boy whose dreams are stained red
by the bloody myth of redemptive violence
whose games are permeated by deus ex machina guns
whose bullets only penetrate the bad guys.
I want to tell these kids bad guys only exist in nightmares
and political campaign speeches
but then I would have to explain to them what politics are
and there are rules about using filthy language around kids.
I want us to remember and weep
because damnit, it is OK to cry sometimes
Despite every movie, every adult, every cultural representation of MAN
that tells us boys dont cry
that tells us boys are meant to fight
that tells us boys are meant to chase down women or objects
that tells us boys are meant not to know the difference between the two
that tells us boys are all biceps and bravado
and it makes me sad that at age four,
I can already see boys looking at their hands and forgetting what they're for
so I want to remind them:
Guys, hands are not for hitting even when it seems like your heart is just for hurting,
they're for holding and writing and making
and even though you'll never see a Michelangelo action figure
with realistic brush stroke action,
or an MLK video game where players hold signs while marching and write speeches
that change a country
you can know that your hands are not molded into plastic fists
I want to remind them:
Guys, they can't just take it from you, your innocence and believe me they're coming for it,
they want to take it from you, replace it with extra helpings of testosterone and misogyny
but you can't let them.
Hold onto your hope,
because even though no one wakes up thinking:
"today I will tell a boy that manning up means hiding behind guns and knuckles
and forgetting any kind of empathy"
that seems to be the lesson the world has to offer
I want to remind them:
Guys, it's OK to ask for help, if we are helped when we need it and help when we are needed this whole world thing works, and I dont know of any obstacle that isn't lighter with an extra pair of hands.

But I can't say these things to four year olds,
I can only say them to you.
We've been sold on this definition of MAN for far too long
it's about time we asked for our money back
it's about time we canceled our societal subscription to compulsive masculinity.

Patchwork

I couldn't count on fingers, toes and teeth
the number of times she's crossed my mind
or the number of times that I have played blind
like I didn't notice her the second she walked in
like the lights didn't suddenly go dim
like my mouth wasn't suddenly filled to the brim
with every single not worth her time pick up line
that I held back, with a stupid grin to hide behind
cause for once in my life,
I'm too scared or to scarred to say anything.
Nowadays I am just a remnant.
I am the eraser shavings and smudged ink of every love story I've ever been written out of
I am the discarded candy wrappers of every sweet nothing I have ever whispered in someones ear
I am the shadow of every bruise left by a bad idea that got the better of me
I am one third the man I was when I met her
One third the man I wish I was when I met her
One third the man I have been trying to be since I met her
and for some reason in spite of every math class I've ever slept through,
all those parts haven't added up to a whole
somehow I am the remainder of one too many long divisions
far too many bad decisions
six or seven off the cuff clumsy incisions
cutting myself apart to get out of everyday awkward positions
that I, unlike most folks cant get a grip on,
the stuff people walk over, I'm more likely to trip on
but I'm bottoms up on on what the rest wont even sip on
my shoulders hold just enough weight, theres no space to put a chip on
and still I'm no good at tying knots, so I'll stick to the clip on
but still.
I am catching myself getting caught on of the corners of her smile
I am letting myself get lost at the edges of her laughter
She's got me think about everything before and after
and everything in between
and somehow it would seem
and I am just now starting to dream
that she is interested in things that are less than whole
that maybe she is waiting with love for a patchwork soul