A repost of a poem I wrote a couple years back. I think it fits perfectly with the BlaPoWriMo prompt: write a poem for the “don’t-care negro.”
. . .
What does it mean to be Black in America?
For you, it means the same as it did half a century ago.
When a Black man was charged with rape
Just for staring a white women in the face,
And the Mammy loved her white employer so much
That she didn’t give a damn about the men of her own race.
After your ancestors fought in a war for their Freedom.
Began a movement simply by refusing to leave their seats.
Marched on Washington for their Civil Rights.
They would turn in their graves
To see injustice remain as it did
Just so you could continue to sit on your couch
Complaining about the color of your skin.
We often play the race card for menial things, but when something serious happens, we ignore it, we disappear behind the opinions of others, we fool ourselves into believing that it has nothing to do with race when, in fact, it does. I’m an optimist. I would like to say that we live in a post-racial society, but reality sinks in every time I watch the news, or simply turn on the television and see stereotypes prancing around on sitcoms. What hurts me the most is that minorities clearly see it, but the ones who have the power to change it only choose to do so when it affects their wallets. I would say that this poem, written a couple of years ago, is a call to action. A manifesto. I want everyone, not just black people, to get off their lazy asses and channel their Civil Rights brothers and sisters. The fight…
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