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Tashyana Handy
Poems
Oct 2016
You and I, my brother
He looks at me for the first time in years
And tells me I’ve changed
And I can’t help looking at him
Completely enraged
But I convince myself that it is not his fault
I must have done something to provoke
The appall
The disgust
And though I know that it is my turn to apologize
I stand there in silence
For the first time in years
I stood there in silence
Allowing the thunderous noise of
Nothing being said
Question my intention
Of calling him brother
Defiance
I am in so much trouble now.
I can see the cracks between his skin
Where his beard masks the frown
Of doubt and denial
But he doesn’t tell anyone
He doesn’t ask God to restrain the trials that he must now go through
Knowing that his little sister is not like what she once was
She is sixteen now
And fierce
Outspoken
Frank
Not gentle
Ruthless in her ways
And yet silent when she truly speaks
He tells me he misses me
I tell him that
That makes two of us
He begs for the stories that have radicalized my behavior
But I tell him that I have lost my trust
Not in the way that most poets
Tend to romanticize so that they appear profound
This is what is truly raw and reeling
You won’t understand the feeling
When the sanctuary of your mind is ripped apart
Like a **** victim
And everything you are
And everything hidden away in your heart is taken away from you
Yet you are expected to rise from the ashes
And be strong and courageous
Because the men in your life have taught you how
Your femininity is never glorified only hidden
Never respected only acknowledged
He tells me that he believes in feminism
And I ask him what kind
Because the only sense of feminism in this society
Is the acceptance you get when you are badass
Or Emma Watson
It’s the approval you receive when you are able to compartmentalize
And not bring your emotions to work
The only feminism I see is rights given to women for the sake of equality, and not of justice
He tells me that I am wrong
That the game is changing
But how on earth can the game change when the rules of the game
Are set by those who define the word oppression.
I anticipate his disappointment
A practice I know all too well
A practice of which I have mastered
When people ask me if my older brothers were rugger players
And eventually I have to let them know that I paint
Write poetry and can’t even punch people in the face for dishonesty
Haven’t they taught you anything?
I should be ashamed of myself for not being able to
Control the gut wrenching things that I feel
Cause apparently a male spoken word poet has so much depth
While the rest of us just talk about our feelings
Feelings that we should be ashamed of
Feelings that we should put away
So that we can become so much more
Self-aware and apologize for all our naturally provoked disparities
He asks me to be gentle
And I tell him that I don’t know how
Cause for the years he wasn’t here
They’ve awarded me for insensitivity
And I’ve just grown numb
You see
I was given two options
To be way too pretty to understand things or
To understand things the way someone else did
And not how I perceived it
And now I am an artist in deceiving
For even though I feel things
The way I feel them
They remain dead inside
Until my brother see them.
Written by
Tashyana Handy
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