Just Right
Just Right
What’s the right amount to share? What’s the right amount we’re allowed to care?
To acknowledge? To admit? Or to bare?
Tell me, what’s the right amount of truth I can divulge in this space, without you wanting to take space?
How do I fix the museums just right so we can agree,
They need to get their foot off of me.
The perfect amount that prevents you from taking flight
From the sight of me,
in pain or in brilliance.
I shudder thinking you’d get to see it, dismiss it, laugh at it, or kick it… down the road as King had told. How convenient, it’s not the right season… perhaps he foretold.
Why is it the time, now, to get quiet, or proud, at the sights and sounds of an erasure of our history? It’s a mystery how the parts of my history are treated differently. The parts of our past that gave purpose and direction, tethered in accountability that saves us from misconception. It’s the beautifully stained history, long before Bell, and Audre touched down,
That was paved by the voice of Truth, we never forget, not just the Sylvia’s are allowed to get down.
Humph.
Slavery, not bad? The most obvious failing plight, right? An easy place to find the right side of the fight, right.
Standing 10 toes down I look to my right,
To find you, my friend, for reassurance to fight alongside each other as we did when we chose to be kin. Instead,
I find you two thumbs deep on your phone, laughing at the most mundane shit ever sown;
Scrolling through my deaths, until you get to another zone. A safe one perhaps, far away from the stones,
That are aimed at me.
Yes, your sanctuary space where you can roll with Rogan, but only when your whereabouts are unknown. Or have a one-sided banter with Bondie,
Finger flexed at the tv, cheering, because she makes you feel strong.
Oh, I get it now, you must have thought this all along. What a punch to the gut. You must have thought this all along…
…
Have you forgotten how my presence could comfort you when you were alone?
How my culture could give you haven to keep you warm, and hugs to keep you from scorn.
The embarrassment I feel, I wish Martin wasn’t gone.
…
We picked you up, as we have others, dusted you off and fed you in our arms.
Remember?
Cooked up culture and classics, with a side of swagger, nutritional nourishment to give you purpose and encouragement.
Sent you on your way, always ready to embrace you upon return. Asking little of you, we said,
Love me, as I loved you.
Protect me, as I protect you.
Acknowledge me, as I have you.
We committed these words to memory. Never needing to be spoken…
Slavery was wrong, duh, now let’s find some tokens.
Now, you’ve come back. Hoping I’ll be your token. Having found new friends, who told you that we hate you. Who told you that we berate you.
Who convinced you into believing the love we shared was just “evol” spelled backwards. Ha ha, what a game at my despair.
Filling you with the idea, “you’re perfect” and could do no wrong, yet, clammer to show off “look how much I’ve grown!”
Believing their beliefs to be modest, you come in here toiling your basic demands… you say it’s “not much” just a tiny lil dam. tamp it down, and we’ll keep you around.
We ask what?
You say, you know, all your Black stuff.
Baffled, we look around.
You mean our stuff? Help us understanding… “Our” is inclusive, it is I, you, and we
Our burdens to bear.
Our flowers to share.
Our wisdoms to care… for.
In a fervent response you dare to go further, stating your new home has shown you the truth, a truth that somehow cannot include histories truth. Further still you move, telling me to not get emotional. To just calm down.
You’re not being racist, your just being anti-woke-ial.
After all, they don’t want to get rid of it all… just enough to be fair.
How is this fair?
They told you to tell me that it’s just too loud, they can’t hear. It’s just too bright, they can’t see clear. empathically imploring, “They feel left out, yet, targeted; and not for nothing, but they said it was for your own good. Victimhood is from the hood, and it’s bad for the greater good.”
Ahh I see, your position is now clear. Victim, you say? It’s my turn to share.
…
Initialed with authenticity, I Inhale my ancestorial misery. Exalted exhalation, let love be your un-waking.
Don’t get it twisted. My compassion’s made clear. My mission is care. And so…
I ask you, sincere… what’s the right amount to share?
What’s the right amount I’m allowed to share? What’s the right amount that you can bare? Please tell me if you’re willing to have this conversation, or if you’re just mistaken.
Otherwise, help me to see the problem here.
We made it loud so we all could hear.
We made it bright so it was clear.
We made it together, so there was no need to fear. But perhaps it’s unclear because they can’t see past their own fears. Not any that I hold near, but the one’s they cannot let go of….
We call that insecurity, my dear.
And yet, into our home, you come back to us, those who have loved you dear. Pointed tips of their fearful spears.
Humph.
With such a confidence, or is it need?
To safe us, from your own dirty deeds.
My poor friend, how porous your teachings must have been, to claim “poor us,” and demand you pour with us.
My poor friend, how blinded you’ve been to throw away your kin.
With fierce compassion, the best I can do to hold you strong, is tell you the truth of your image, and hope one day it’ll be gone.
…
Your right arm outstretched towards us, gentle and strong,
the pleading in your eyes with watery outlines.
So wrapped up in saving me it’s no surprise, you lost track of the whip…
Welded to your left arm. Clinched tighter and tighter, your hand now turned to a cold purple, you tell me, “don’t let them divide us, come closer where it’s safer…”
To your forlorn hope we dare escape?!
No.
Where does a fleeing Black man go to escape?
Where does a fleeing Black man go to escape?
When a Black man knows there’s no escape.
He shows a way from hate.
Thanks for the restack!