Race Relations

[PandoraGlitters]

In honor of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday, I am setting a challenge until the end of the month of January to write about Race, relations or whatever bounty those two words provide.


Here's a short one for my friend who recently passed but I'll try to come back for something more challenging. See if you can come up with something your family said about race or family, race intersections.

Susan McCabe

I never loved you more than
when the City Manager's horrid
wife declared the Irish drunks

you lied "I'm Irish. My father's side."

Unless it was
how much I loved you when
you lied again to add
"and my mother's Jewish."

 

[butters]

1967


We crowned each other
King and Queen that night,
in the dance no high school would allow;

crushed gardenias and lavender,
stained taffeta and velvet,
drunk on their heady perfume.

We felt we could touch the stars they hung so low,
so fiercely bright,
but it wasn't their cold light that made you shiver

just the touch of my pale hand on your fevered skin:
But baby girl, please think first - Look at me. I'm blac...
I hushed your trembling words with one cool finger,

smiled as I whispered
Show,
don't tell...

 

[Angeline]

They were centered
in open doorways, framed
briefly in the blur beyond
my backseat window, children
in one room shacks hard by
the busy road.

Sometimes they waved
as we drove on
sometimes just watched.
Their clothes were
ragged, feet bare
and it was the same
Sun that shone on us
the same rain that fell
on us but I had shoes
and somewhere to go.

Daddy said
this is Georgia this
is Florida but what
did I hear sitting riding
clutching my pretty
white doll?

I had somewhere
to go and when
we were back home
back North when I
was the only Jewish
girl in school Jewel
Tarver was my only
friend.

 

[bogusagain]

I'm a fair haired hetro-sexual male
with deep enough pockets and
one too many lovers so I will pass
anything I say on race will just
sound patronising

 

[greenmountaineer]

Punch Line

My off color joke when I was sixteen
Made twelve year old paperboys laugh with me
Who gave them each day their daily bread from
Delivering The Perth Amboy Evening News.

Yeah, they all laughed but Bobby Hamilton,
The kid from the projects down on Bunn’s Lane.
Too bad I thought because it was funny
When Dad at dinner told Mother the same

Punch line whose brown eyes now punch me back
Years later while reading my daily paper
On the darkest day each January
When I remember them looking away.

 

[PoetGuy]

Cherokee

Only when she was finally bent
To his free will
Did she cry a little

And sing, sotto voce,
The Tsalagi for "Never,"
Or perhaps it was "Always,"

Or even, "I do not care."
Anyway, she sang to God, for each Sunday
He forced her cleave to him.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Wow. I'll respond to these individually when I am not at a bar drinking a martini, but for now, Wow. You poets rock.

 

[jessie8888]

Wow

These are wonderful. Makes me wish I could learn to write poetry. Thanks for sharing...

 

[Luna_Wolf72]

written the year my mum died.

My Mother~2004~

My mother never said, not really.
She never explained how hard it was
to be the white woman in the PJ's
with kids that didn't look like her.

My mother never complained, not really.
She never said more than a word or
two concerning the differences in color
when she had red hair and freckles.

My mother never questioned, not really.
She just took the days as they came and
turned them into a blessing filled with song
always Motown, always gospel, always black.

But she never said, or explained.
She just lived, loved, laughed, hurt
and taught us, all her mixed kids,
her hood rats, to do the same.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Chipbutty, the deletion of the k in your poem is brilliant. You really brought us to that hushed moment. Ange, your poem is so spare, so powerful. I love the way you used the word "hard" in the first strophe.

Bogus it is too bad you don't feel you can write on the topic. Kudos on the way you phrased the declination, though.

Greenmountaineer, solid hit. I can empathize with that so much. I keep trying to work out a "things my parents told me about race" poem, but it is still too raw. Will come back to it before the end of the month.

Poetguy, your poem is so vivid and horrifying in a sense, but also . . . well a little mysterious. It reminds me a little of the residential school abuses. Made me flinch. Great work.

And LunaWolf! I am so pleased to read your poem. I can picture that woman in the PJs. You do her great honor here.



Thank you all for your poems. I wonder if anyone else has something to say on Race Relations? I eagerly await reading more if it comes up and if not, see you guys in the other threads.

 

[Angeline]

Chipbutty, the deletion of the k in your poem is brilliant. You really brought us to that hushed moment. Ange, your poem is so spare, so powerful. I love the way you used the word "hard" in the first strophe.

Bogus it is too bad you don't feel you can write on the topic. Kudos on the way you phrased the declination, though.

Greenmountaineer, solid hit. I can empathize with that so much. I keep trying to work out a "things my parents told me about race" poem, but it is still too raw. Will come back to it before the end of the month.

Poetguy, your poem is so vivid and horrifying in a sense, but also . . . well a little mysterious. It reminds me a little of the residential school abuses. Made me flinch. Great work.

And LunaWolf! I am so pleased to read your poem. I can picture that woman in the PJs. You do her great honor here.



Thank you all for your poems. I wonder if anyone else has something to say on Race Relations? I eagerly await reading more if it comes up and if not, see you guys in the other threads.

I love your poem, dora. And it's good to see you here. I've missed you.

 

[greenmountaineer]

..........

Thank you all for your poems. I wonder if anyone else has something to say on Race Relations? I eagerly await reading more if it comes up and if not, see you guys in the other threads.

I would like to add something. I'm not sure how old most posters are on this site, but I was born in the late forties. I think my parents who lived in the northeasterrn US and who came of age in the Depression and WWII saw racism as a "southern problem" which was shown in its blatant form on the nightly TV news. I don't think it ever occurred to them that by telling a joke that deprecated a whole group of people they too were reinforcing racial stereotypes and were socializing their children in the same manner.

When I was a young child in the fifites, it was quite common to hear the child's rhyme of "eeny meeny miny, moe.." with catching someone other than a monkey or a tiger by the toe.

When I came of age in the turbulent sixties, the term "institutionalized racism" gained currency and I think had a sobering affect on at least a few people of good intentions who finally did some soul searching about their own attitudes and behaviors. I'm glad my parents, alluded to in the poem, were among them as was I.

 

[theognis]

The first black person I remember seeing was an old man. He had dark skin and wooly white hair. I was no more than four or five, and I was fascinated by him. He wore overalls with a long sleeved shirt, smoked a corncob pipe, and sat in a chair in his back yard under the shade of a tree.

One day I said hello, and we started talking. He sat in his chair, and I sat on the ground in front of him. He talked about the way things used to be, long before I was born. I loved hearing about those things.

A large praying mantis suddenly flew up and landed on the old man's left shoulder. I can see the picture clearly to this day. I was startled, but not quite afraid, because the old man didn't even flinch.

The praying mantis and the old man slowly turned their heads in unison to look at each other. They then slowly turned in unison back to face me.

The old man said, "Don't be afraid, son. It's just another of God's creatures." The praying mantis just looked at me, as if in silent accordance.

The old man and I resumed our conversation, and the praying mantis began to clean itself while we talked. When it was done, it flew away.

 

[wanting2]

Arid moonlight
trailer parked and fierce
Throw giggling bundles
blonde-haired youth over creeks swollen
Accepting us
though we lack your profundity
Midnight hair
ripe, nut-brown skin
Your tongue
music not written but felt
Teach me
again those things useful, true
I remember
because you let me live

...

my mother's best friend was a Navajo woman who, when my father, over the course of years and in rather blatant ways, showed his misogynistic tendencies, made sure my mother had a place to go on The Reservation with her two small children. before i was 1 1/2 years old they had me completely potty trained, walking and speaking another language when i needed something. after being in the hospital with a life-threatening illness at 18 months, i had to relearn everything and was lucky to not have brain damage or deafness... again, when my mother had little support system to deal with what life threw her way, we went to The Reservation.

 

[Angeline]

This is an old poem about the same memory (all true) I wrote about in the poem I first posted in this thread. And the title for it is an homage to this amazing poem by the great Langston Hughes.

Dream Deferred

In the Rambler wagon
rambling through towns
of indeterminate name,
we play cards,
count license plates and cows.

We eat grapes and nectarines,
peanut butter sandwiches
proffered from the front seat.

We submerge in the stupor
peculiar to long drives,
sleeping and waking.
We listen to voices.
We listen to silence.

The towns look the same,
churches and squares,
anchored by courthouses
framed in old men
on benches and rockers.

We slow and stop.
This town is not the same.
Ghosts in sheets and hoods
direct traffic, stop cars,
thrust papers in drivers’ hands.

I saw the paper for just a moment,
then Daddy cursed angry faced,
and threw it on the floor.
Mama’s eyes were round
and green and scared.

The cars crept in the heat.
I was quiet.
I held my doll tight.

Outside the town
it was cooler
and easier to breathe.

Later, a small hand
waved at us from a shack
at the side of the road.

 

[greenmountaineer]

The first black person I remember seeing was an old man. He had dark skin and wooly white hair. I was no more than four or five, and I was fascinated by him. He wore overalls with a long sleeved shirt, smoked a corncob pipe, and sat in a chair in his back yard under the shade of a tree.

One day I said hello, and we started talking. He sat in his chair, and I sat on the ground in front of him. He talked about the way things used to be, long before I was born. I loved hearing about those things.

A large praying mantis suddenly flew up and landed on the old man's left shoulder. I can see the picture clearly to this day. I was startled, but not quite afraid, because the old man didn't even flinch.

The praying mantis and the old man slowly turned their heads in unison to look at each other. They then slowly turned in unison back to face me.

The old man said, "Don't be afraid, son. It's just another of God's creatures." The praying mantis just looked at me, as if in silent accordance.

The old man and I resumed our conversation, and the praying mantis began to clean itself while we talked. When it was done, it flew away.

There's a poem there. I'm sure of it.

 

[theognis]

There's a poem there. I'm sure of it.

I thought of writing a poem about it, but seeing this thread, I decided I would take no poetic license and just recount exactly what happened, in plain language, just the way it was. It was a lesson I've never forgotten, taught to me by both the old man, and by an insect who (yes, who) came and went in peace.

 

[oggbashan]

American 1943

When the GIs came to England
They were exotic, rare
Around them we would stand
Wide-eyed, afraid to stare.

The uniforms were slightly wrong
As were the badges of rank
But they looked fit and strong
As they leaned against a tank.

Apparently some were lesser men.
We didn’t know, we never thought,
Or cared their skin was different then.
We had to be carefully taught.

 

[theognis]

Dragon of Love

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckGFc3cTHA8&feature=player_embedded

 

[EroticOrogeny]

I would like to add something. I'm not sure how old most posters are on this site, but I was born in the late forties. I think my parents who lived in the northeasterrn US and who came of age in the Depression and WWII saw racism as a "southern problem" which was shown in its blatant form on the nightly TV news. I don't think it ever occurred to them that by telling a joke that deprecated a whole group of people they too were reinforcing racial stereotypes and were socializing their children in the same manner.

When I was a young child in the fifites, it was quite common to hear the child's rhyme of "eeny meeny miny, moe.." with catching someone other than a monkey or a tiger by the toe.

When I came of age in the turbulent sixties, the term "institutionalized racism" gained currency and I think had a sobering affect on at least a few people of good intentions who finally did some soul searching about their own attitudes and behaviors. I'm glad my parents, alluded to in the poem, were among them as was I.

My parents were fairly liberal and brought us up to be tolerant of others.
I first hear of institutional racism when an undergrad, and was a member of SAR (Students Against Racism). That, and the Vietnam war, and just the common tribulations in coming of age. It's been a long time since I've heard institutionalized racism - crossed my mind as reflections on my past.

 

[PoetGuy]

Yellow Peril

It used to be Myrna Loy with taped eyes
and a slit silk skirt,
her smoky look like opium
drawing the loose, unwary male
into a closed room brocaded with sin.
Now Fah Lo See has turned tiger
and her children eat our children,
snarling joyfully in Mandarin
and plane geometry.

 

[theognis]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ns-kXeQCMk

 

[Angeline]

Here is a wonderful poem on the subject from a (too long) missing Lit poet, Cordelia. Her poems are well worth exploring.

Dark Feel in Yellow Skin
byCordelia©

being neither white nor male
as artform

raise my gaze
my arms
peel labels from my back

wincing
at imagined mailorderbrideclothes
wiping
footprints off my forehead
and sitting
UP

I carry my lack of accent
in my purse
next to social security

in case anyone asks

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Angeline, you rock. Thank you for drawing these beautiful poems into the thread. (I've missed you, too. Have my computer fixed (yay!!))

GreenMountaineer, in your post about your family and growing up you made me think of my own experience a decade later. I wonder if it is just because the midwest takes so long to catch up to the more progressive coastal communities? It is still so segregated in my home town.

PoetGuy, wonderful vivid poem. Thank you for contributing to the thread.

Ogg, Theognis and EO, thank you also for your posts.

I'd say that institutionalized racism is still present in our society though it has paled (pun intended) in comparison to the 70s of my childhood. I see evidences of this in the tests, for example, that I am compelled to use with my students. The questions often reflect an expectation of middle-class suburban experience. I suspect this hampers student performance.

 

[theognis]

Angeline, you rock. Thank you for drawing these beautiful poems into the thread. (I've missed you, too. Have my computer fixed (yay!!))

GreenMountaineer, in your post about your family and growing up you made me think of my own experience a decade later. I wonder if it is just because the midwest takes so long to catch up to the more progressive coastal communities? It is still so segregated in my home town.

PoetGuy, wonderful vivid poem. Thank you for contributing to the thread.

Ogg, Theognis and EO, thank you also for your posts.

I'd say that institutionalized racism is still present in our society though it has paled (pun intended) in comparison to the 70s of my childhood. I see evidences of this in the tests, for example, that I am compelled to use with my students. The questions often reflect an expectation of middle-class suburban experience. I suspect this hampers student performance.

You're welcome. I'm struck by your equation of an expectation of middle-class suburban experience with institutionalized racism. There are tens of millions of blacks, Latinos, Asians, and other non-white Americans living middle-class suburban lives, and huge numbers of whites who are not. Most people on welfare are white.