Sunday, November 30, 2014

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.

Monday, November 10, 2014

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.




Saturday, November 1, 2014

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.