Unison: You arrived here too early, I wasn’t even ready.
My ancestors weren’t ready or even steady enough for the trip, but you made it.
My Bantu knots didn’t even set yet. Like a unfinished perm that’s hasn’t set yet on my 4c hair.
You didn’t care. Left my grandma in the kitchen hot comb in hand and unlearned wisdom in another because you were ready I guess.
To let go of my culture, style, and happiness. You just wanna to break me, didn’t you?
Break my chicken bones and steal the marrow like hot summer days down south, like plantations down south,
Like me taking trips to Virginia to see my family and finding out that my family members are still living over ghost of plantations. Mourning over ghost of plantations.
Like finding out that the people who live in my community are too afraid to say nigga but never been too scared to use one.
Take everything I have and turn it into your own. Use one and borrow my culture like a brand new coat from my cousin closets.
Demons liked to hide in closets but as I grew older I learned their real names. Pain, Oppression, slavery, government, this class, these people, this lack of my history in my education.
28 days to express and be my true self. 29 if i’m lucky they say. My history deserves all 365 days of the motherfucking year.
They tell me my history deserves electives, or a talent show, or a poetry slam, or a fucking after school special while your’s deserves a whole major.
They black face my intelligence and become blind when the truth has been shown.
They black face their own intelligence and call it liberated, call it liberal, call it just but it just ain’t us that feel like this.
You stole and sold many bodies. Walked them over a bodies of water, they never even wanted to touch.
It’s funny how you could build a wall and tell us to go back when you came here by choice. We came here by chain, and pain,and suffering but I’m the fucking invader.
I was knitted and handmade in my mothers whom. Place on Africa soil. Skin made of pure gold, but our culture is just wore as Halloween costume to you. Just a little makeup art. You could never be me.
But you try to buy our lips. Tried to buy her hips and her thighs, damn neared tried to buy me but you illegalized that shit yet you illegalize me and try to lock me away and throw away the key.
To whom much is given much is required. So, I’m/We are required to make it out. Not in a casket tho but through the tax bracket. Buy the house next door, paint it black, just so I could stunt on you.
You don’t even know what you gave me. Nights of empty stomachs, days of cotton, dry eyes, skeptical minds, and my voice horse just screaming fuck you to anybody that will listen.
So unapologetic, so much blood shed. But your white skin marked you as pure And my skin color marked me as a target. As if my life was made to be played like a game of darts. But no more.
We threw riots but you threw bullets.
We threw peace but you threw hate.
We throw hate and you call us criminals.
We throw our hands up and you still shoot.
We throw rallies you and throw hate speech.
We throw the 13th amendment you throw mass incarceration.
We throw critic you throw the term militants.
We throw “Black Lives Matter” you throw “All Lives Matter”.
We throw Obama you throw Trump.
We throw pain and you throw privilege
We throw nothing and you throw everything.
But no more!
By Tymeera Freeman and Al Lucas