Monday, October 15, 2012

Skin, a persona poem

“I don’t see color,” she said. 
As she smiled and turned 
Was it so easy to
Disregard
Denounce
And deny me?
Was she too blind to see
The history that was written
Into my epidermis?
This color don’t come for free
I’ve been charged 
Done paid the price 
For my color
Too many shades
Removed from my 
African ancestry
And she said, “I Don’t see color” 
How could she so 
Conveniently ignore
The weight that I bore? 
The brunt of 
stereotypes 
miseducation 
misunderstandings
people’s prejudices playing favorites
with me
Did she think she could erase my past
With one sweeping stroke
Of a sly tongue 
Trying to avoid the 
Consequence of seeing me? 
Did she think I would
Shrivel up 
Let go 
Accept
Her desire to white me out of
History and a collective memory 
Reminding folks of what 
Browness truly means?
She straight up
Tried to play me
And before my nerve endings 
Received the electrical impulses 
From my brain I screamed
STOP, right there
Did you think it’d be
That easy to escape from me? 
I’m in everything your eyes 
Can see. This skin has
A long legacy 
Belonging to proud people 
My melanin plays griot storyteller
And if you stopped to see
You might just learn 
What it’s like to be me 
Every layer of my skin 
Is embedded in an 
Identity, who’s past
Has made her path quite clear
Don’t let your eyes 
Fail or fool you into 
Believing that I am not me 
This color is your destiny 
Bleaching creams
Need not apply and I
Don’t care to hide
From the sun’s golden touch
And the nourishment
It provides
You may not see color 
But your gonna see me 
Take a good look
I’m the largest organ
On the human body
I deserve some respect 
Preaching color blindness 
As if you could forget
The haunting voices
of my ancestry are speaking
to you through my genetic code
If you listen close
you can hear the cries 
of caciques left to die 
If you listen close
you can hear the prophecies 
of Yoruba healers 
calling out
If you listen close 
You can hear the
Pounding of power filled
Hands on congas
If you listen close
You can hear the bomba
In my skirt
If you listen close
Your eyes would tell you
What a tragic mistake 
It would be 
to try 
And deny me




Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Skin (working title - also work in progress)

You
you’ve been become an expert
telling stories about who I am
reading my skin like tea leaves
you think you know my past
no charge for your services
arguments to no avail
you say
you, you dominican
you guyanese
you indian
you brazilian
Statements
not questions
your conviction
even has me trippin’
believing the fairytales
tales of my skin
see my skin
be telling stories
before my mind begins to think
before my mouth begins to speak
your eyes are sending you messages
too dark to be favorite
too light to know pain
she can’t relate, you say
she speak so well, you say
she got that good hair, you say
forgetting/unknowing
your words like daggers
created gashes in my self-esteem
funny you seem surprised
for someone who’s become an expert
in my skin; a storyteller
telling stories about me and my skin
weaving strongly spun tales
you’ve waged a war on my skin
forcing me to make weapons
out of words
that seem to fall on deaf ears
you think you know me
think you know my history
know who I am
and where I come from
and have the audacity
to not believe me
when I tell you
 who I am