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Emily Miller Mar 2018
This is a love letter
To the African-American community.
Black, if you wish,
Or simply “neighbor”.
To the African-American community-
My people would not be here if it were not for you.
Here as in alive,
Not as in the states,
Because we came to the states to be alive,
Something that would not have been possible back home,
But you helped us stay that way,
When our trades were not accepted
By soft-palmed,
American-accented
People of the US.
When we came here to escape death and oppression,
We were welcomed not by the blonde-haired, blue-eyed people we saw in the advertisements from the war,
We did not step off of the boat and into the arms of the benevolent angels we had heard of,
No,
We came to America and found you.
African-American community,
At the time,
You hardly had a home to give,
And yet you offered it to us when we had none.
Your culture was ravaged by war and slavery,
And yet you encouraged us to preserve our’s.
African-American community,
My people came here with no English and no education,
And to the residents here,
The two are synonymous.
My family,
Though skilled in trades handed down by generations of people in our tribe,
Father to son,
And mother to daughter,
Our traditions were passed down,
But when we arrived in the new world,
We were like babes in arm,
Hardly knowing how to walk.
African-American community,
This is a thank you,
For taking my people by the hand and pressing their fingers into the soil,
Teaching us how to coax life out of it.
Teaching us how to translate our language of terracing in the mountains
To sowing in the fields,
When none would take us for work,
Season after season
Of my family hushing the mother language off the tongues of our children
So that they would sound less foreign,
More American,
Black community,
You taught my family how to prepare for a blistering Texas heat,
When they were built to withstand an Eastern chill.
Black community,
You showed my people what it was like
To build a life from the ground,
The strange,
Alien,
American ground,
Up.
You took my people and led them out of the darkness of oppression and corruption
And into the light of the real American dream,
The one where people who have been beaten into the earth can rise up like a Phoenix.
Black community,
You showed us what to do with the dirt and the sandy loam
Until we built upon it churches,
Homes,
Harvested from it sustenance,
And within it,
Buried our dead.
Black community,
This is a love letter,
Because love is the only reason I can think of
As to why you had mercy on my battered, broken people,
Accepting our calloused hands in thanks,
As we had nothing else to offer.
Neighbors,
This is a thank you,
From the small, inconsequential non-natives,
Round and sturdy,
And the savage language with unfamiliar roots,
From my people,
With un-American eyes,
Coal-black and slanted,
Thank you,
On behalf of my ancestors for the actions of your’s,
Neighbors,
Thank you.
Your people were not the ones that struck the beads and herbs from our hair,
Snatched the language from our lips,
And took the ribbons tied to our shoulders and wrapped them ‘round our throats,
Choking the accent out of our mouths,
Neighbors,
That was not you.
Within God’s walls,
Moj Boze,
Ti Bok,
The ones built on the ground you brought us to,
We are told not to condemn the descendants of those who hurt us,
But to praise that of those who did not.
So here I am,
Neighbors,
Writing you a love letter
Because all I have to offer
Is my thanks.
My people,
Though Americanized
And void of the language and traditions that they were told to abandon,
Stand strong today,
And I,
A woman,
Just as stout and ungraceful as the tribe that bore me,
I am educated.
I not only learn English,
But I master it.
I earn my money and I keep it,
No man takes it from me,
Or refuses to sell me land because I am unmarried,
No government can remove me
And ****** me into a camp
Or a foreign country where I will not be a bother,
And although my people have been stripped of their name and placed under the color-coded category of person
On the spectrum that everyone seems to abide by,
You,
Neighbors,
Stood by us.
Thank you.
Leena Feb 2018
Different by color
But the same inside
Always kept separated

Making my rebellion
To those who say they own me
Because I am not property

Everyday is a fight
Working for no money
Night and day

Family torn apart
Whipping for trying to run
One day I will be free

Invisible and forgotten
By those who are above us
Nothing but a waste of their money when we're free

Those who treat us as equal
Are the ones who freed us from this terrible life
Are our saviors forever

Some of us will never find our family
We will adopt the children torn from their families
We are free without knowing our rights
So are we truly free
I wrote this when we were learning about African American history
Mena Mulugeta Jan 2018
Beautiful African girl
you are worth more than
a million things often
times You don't realize
you worth more than a dream.
Love who youve become,
love your skin

realize you are sweet
just like milk & honey.
Beautiful African girl
do not be afraid
and not accomplish
things.
Look back at this
and realize what you mean.

Beautiful african girl
you’ve got a dream
go fulfill it never-stop
in what you believe.
Em Jan 2018
Yes all lives matter
but not all lives
have been marginalized.
There's no right end of a gun
One dies and
another is shunned
One is black and the other is white
Can we stop
and stand
and fight
For ours, their's, everyone's
Equal
Rights.

This is not a discussion
about one man's arms
but of another man's life.
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
As thousands of migrants sojourned from Timbuktu
All destined for Libya from the ancient Kingdom of Mali,
One ,a patched lip skinny kid , greeted them''Assalamualaikum''
''Why are we dying in Libya ?'' asks the young migrant called Ali.

For several months , everyday , from sunset to sunrise
Ali said he too dreamed of being a part of the mass migration
'' Oh my dear brothers, I wish your plans were otherwise ''
For many of you will not reach your final destination.

Ali said Libya was the cradle of modern day slavery,
Death trap ,a magnate that lures desperate poor Africans
Escaping prosecution, economic hardships and poverty
Just for them to end up dead like sardines in cans.

Oh Africa Ali asks,where are all of your leaders?
What have we done to deserve this unspeakable evil?
Is it because of the hues of our beautiful black leathers?
When did we become the slavery anvil?

Man to man , is so unjust '' he quoted Bob Marley
'' But Arab to Black Africans is another sad story ! ''
'' Why are Black people being sold into slavery?
Why is the whole world sitting so supinely?

~ Ivan Brooks Sr ~
Man to man is so unjust ''says Bob Marley
''Arab against black man is another story'' says the migrant called Ali
Oluwatosin Dec 2017
IDIOGBOLU

Every first hour of dawn.
In the torn gut of this town
Limpid whales pout wine bellies
and weaklings die. Alive.

Gray spaces on walls
mark the remnants of family names
They brag like moist tags
tale soaked,
incomplete.

The South wind
so gravid with echoes barely blows --
murmurs can be heard in the night-filled day
like wails from a thousand hounds
howling away in travail.
The nights have no moons
Only stars
govern the light.

Ah Idiogbolu! Wake up from your slumber
The five founding fathers who set-out at sunset
tripped and fell beneath the oak!
Their houses, haunted, stand uninhabited till date
the roofs rustle still,
hard with ghostly tremors,
When the dead visit and find no one home.
sadgirl Nov 2017
meanwhile,
summer is not
ours

it is not
a celebration,
it is teddy bears

on street corners,
bodega flowers
on makeshift graves,

distorted faces of
home-printed memorials
on t-shirts

the same color and
texture as what
the dead boy was selling,

meanwhile,
summer is nothing more
than closed houses,

decks with grandmothers
scowling down at the teenagers
who are not sure

if
they
are even real
Kinda inspired by Danez Smith.
joel jokonia Oct 2017
i guess i do like the pain
cause i laugh after its done
how crazy it was
that my mum actually bit me
no like true story my mum bit me

you might think she is abusive
but i like her character art is impressive
she turns totally off reason
keeps her senses imprisoned

i tried to explain
but the rage rain rained upon me
all she wanted was to stroke me
i swear i lose my mum in that moment
cause i try look in her eyes and she nowhere near

she strokes me and unknowingly i hold her shambok in my hand
i stare at her to understand
but all it does it highs her temper
now she is pulling her shambok a little stronger
i try to talk but she is trying to pull
she cant listen
and she plays victim

the struggle continues
i watch her anger elevate and it fascinates me, weirdly
so i resist a little more
she starts pulling me to the kitchen
now the scene has more attention

pulling out drawers
trying to put hand on anything pain inflicting
and still i am resisting

made it to the door and out
her voice a bit loud
realising that whatever i try will not demotivate her
so i gave up and let her, as usual
let her stroke me to her satisfaction
and goes on and on
about me being stubborn because i am older
how i think i am stronger cause i am a man
man, whats wrong with mum

she strokes me with her shambok still
as i stood still
amused by her accusations
but am patient and let her

after she done she is angry still but satisfied though
now her eyes glow
she tries to conceal it by playing anger
i smile
it took me a while to understand, while
she was in her act
i had travelled mindlessly in my mind
thinking how a silly situation
of her calling me and me not responding
had become a series of chaos

little packages do become dynamites
this is what bothers me though
i do have a thrill everytime we have a misunderstanding
i dont understand this
i guess i am just my mother's child
my mum sometimes
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