Month: February 2014

This poem came through me during the lead-up to my leaving to study in Switzerland. One day (or several days) I reflected on the up and down nature Fortune played in my life. At the time that I wrote the poem, I had very little money and the austere lifestyle I lead was far different than the one I previously led as an executive assistant working in corporate headquarters for Fortune 500 companies. Yet, the lifestyle I lead as an executive assistant was far different than the one in which I grew up. My early (memorable) life was spent in my grandfather’s house. There, I had to be careful to not run in the house (hard assignment for a child with a LOT of energy to burn) because my great-grandmother’s china collection was housed in the china hutch and there would be hell to pay in several lifetimes if I made anything break. After we moved from my grandfather’s house, we moved into a housing project. That too, was in many regards far different from living in my grandfather’s house.

While sitting at my favorite coffee shop and thinking about the various changes of fortune that I had gone through up until that point, I realized that each period contributed to who I was as an overall person. The Pauper (not having money) taught me how to survive without much. The Queen (having plenty of disposable income) taught me how to thrive. After having experienced both and finding myself not quite pauper and not quite queen, I was able to understand and accept that funny place I found myself – in between.

THE PAUPER AND THE QUEEN

I once was a pauper, I once was a queen
But now I find myself in a place in between

I’ve known how it feels to hoard and how it feels to waste
Both coexist like bitter and sweet on the tongue – just a taste

Sometimes I use the lessons of one, sometimes I use the lessons of the other
Just as a child differentiates when to call its father and when to call its mother

The queen provides lessons on how to thrive
While the pauper provides lessons on how to survive

At the core of my being exist the pauper and the queen
Offering a rich wisdom to this place in between 

 

Several years ago (over a decade now that I think about it), I wrote a small collection of poetry that seemed to flow effortlessly.  A lot of it was relationship-based.  Yet, one day I decided to write a poem based on what I perceived an adult Black man may feel living in the United States.  This was written over a decade ago, however, the murders of Trayvon Martin and Jordan Davis make this poem seem a bit quaint in comparison to current events.  To more accurately reflect today’s reality, I should probably change the title to “A Target in my Skin.”

Please note, this IS officially copyrighted material…

A Victim in my Skin

To hear you and the media tell it, I’ve done it all
From raping a woman to shoplifting at the mall.
I walk around everyday just trying to mind my own
But naww, you just can’t seem to leave me alone.
You pull my car over in the middle of the night
With a bad drawing of someone I don’t even look like.
You follow me around when I shop in your store
As if I want what I can afford and a lil’ sumthin more.
When I walk down the street on a quiet, dark night
You hold your purse tighter and step quickly in fright.
How many days and nights have I innocently spent in prison or jail,
Because when it comes to us, the justice system continues to fail?
The picture you paint is always “perpetrator of the crime”
But really all you see is the brown skin, time after time.
Have I lost my right to a judge and jury because of my melanin tone?
Or, are all of my rights forsaken and just plain gon’?
Even when I present a polished, professional look and hold my head high
When the raises, promotions and opportunities are passed out, I’m passed by.
I matriculated and earned my Bachelor’s degree, Master’s degree and Ph.D.
But with all that said and done, even I must live in fear of the LAPD.

I ask the question, when will the painful racism end,
And I can stop being a victim in my skin?

When I lived in Saint Louis, I had two relationships – one that set a high standard for relationships and another that plunged the depths of low.  The high standard relationship was everything I could ask for – until it ended.  I took the end pretty hard.  I lost about 10 pounds instantly and didn’t really function much day-to-day after the semester ended.  Despite the difficulty I was going through attempting to adjust to the loss, I still vacillated between wanting to randomly see him and not wanting a visual reminder of that which I felt I had lost.

One day, a while after the breakup, I saw him.  Based on the myriad emotions I felt at that moment, I decided to write what I thought would be a poem.  However, there were no rhyming words at the end of the stanzas.  It felt like poetry when I wrote it and still feels like poetry when I read it now.

If I See Him

If I see him, all that was good in my life is forgotten, replaced by the deep well of regret that I wasn’t The One. 

If I see him, my heart’s staccato rhythm is for several moments erratically offbeat. 

If I see him, my heart relocates from its usual spot off-center of my chest and instead is on the ground. 

If I see him, despite my better judgment, I want to walk into his arms and have him hold me. 

If I see him, I instantly wonder if I look good or if I should have worn a different outfit that day.

If I see him, I always want to place my hand on his back, underneath his shirt so that I can feel his body heat radiating on my hand. 

If I see him, I struggle to keep the emotions of my heart from flying out through my eyes.

Fortunately, I don’t see him.