By TJ Sangare
Contributing Writer
“Write your own story, dramatic scene or collection of at least five poems inspired by the readings of the course.”
For my final project in African American Literature, we had the option to choose any direction that demonstrates our understanding of the texts, and synthesize the work of the semester. I chose the Creative Call and Response. I never thought I would say, “I enjoyed this final assignment,” but unlike most finals, the format of this project allowed me to step out of my comfort zone and explore poetry. For all but one of the poems, I explored different themes and writers from this semester and connected their work to ideas and events relevant today. In “Bullet or the Ballot,” I sought to convey some of the same feelings I share with Malcolm X and highlight the wickedness of the country we live in. In “Black Woman,” I outline some struggles and hardships Black womxn endure that are often ignored by society. “I’ve Known Rivers” is a cento poem with lines from various Langston Hughes’ poems; this piece regards the anxiety, PTSD, and generational trauma of being Black in America. Lastly, “Middle Passage,” the name speaks for itself.
The Bullet or the Ballot / How many more times
The Bullet or the ballot
Some freedom or some bullshit
Telling me “pursue his dream”
Nah, I feel like it aint working
“Stay calm, and stay peaceful”
“Keep ya hands up, don’t resist”
“They wouldn’t shoot for no reason”
“I don’t care if he got 4 kids”
It’s crazy what I’ve seen.
I’m ready to explode.
George yelled “I can’t breath”
Trayvon only 17 years-old
They telling us to chill
Don’t riot, don’t loot
Trump’s exact words were,
“When they loot, we shoot”
They’re supposed to protect us
They’re supposed to serve
But they killing us on the daily
And control us like a herd
I can’t imagine if it was my own mama
Got her child stolen, because they black
8:46 with his knee on his neck
How fucked up is that?
Uncle Sam is the problem
Uncle Sam is the criminal
Uncle Sam will look you in your eyes and unload 16 shots
And keep a straight face, as if he got nothing on his subliminal
Malcolm I need you
Why cant they understand?
They think we got a death wish
We just want peace and equality, cause aint no freedom in this land
We spell “Amerikkka” with three K’s
How many more will we let them kill?
They traded their robes in for a badge
Trayvon Martin, Darryl Mount, Laquan McDonald, those are my Emmet Till’s
If I could change matters, I would spare a life
I’m up all night, thinking about these lost souls
Rest in power
Rest in paradise
Not everyone rests in peace, what goes around comes around
Keep thinking you got away with it
Cause you goin rest in piss
And you karma goin’ be my favorite
It ain’t goin’ be no regular piss
Its comin straight from me
Got my hoodie on, fist up, head down
Screaming “I’M A REVOLUTIONARY…BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY”
They killing us in the streets
They killing us in our homes
They don’t even try to hide it
Just like them colonizers, call it Columbus Syndrome
I’ve had enough of this peaceful shit
They ain’t goin’ take none of mine
Got the boots strapped, and I’m ready for war
We screaming out, “how many more times?”
To be black and women
Ingredients;
1 tablespoon of the sun’s nectar
3 drops of colonizer tears
4 cups of oppression
and
2 teaspoons of unnoticed
Blood
Sweat
and
Tears.
I am the angry black woman.
The same angry black woman
Who carries her child just to die
By the hands of the ones with a
Stethoscope and a pointy hood
I am an angry black woman
The same angry black woman
Who defies the gender norms.
Beret on tight glock on the hip of the right
I am an angry black woman
The same angry black woman
Who receives unlimited bullets
By the pigs
when i’m sleeping
I am an angry black woman
The same angry black woman
Who had someone’s unmentionables
Stuffed into her
By the very black men
That are supposed to set fire to the world for us
i will never understand
why the world
will pour it’s misogynoir into my belly
like pure gasoline
and then leave
when i explode
the middle passage
It is dark. I don’t know how many days have passed. How many weeks it has been. I think I might be dead. But I cannot smell feces and rotting flesh. Both others and my own. The pale ones let us crawl out of this confined space once a week. Always naked. Always cold. They make us dance. They throw the dead ones over for the big fish with fins that stick up from this never ending blue abyss. They stalk us. They whisper to me, “you must taste so juicy let me get some of that dark meat.” my chest no longer produces the nutrients for my daughter. I am afraid she will be the big fish next meal. There are hundreds of us. Packed in on top of eachother. Different tongues. Connected by chains. I would rather drown for the next 400 years than to see where the pale ones will bring us. And what the pale ones will do with us next.
