poetry

I've been thinking a lot lately about my roots. And being mixed. And what that means. 

I remembered a poem I wrote over ten years ago about being a mixed race, bi-racial person. I hadn't thought of this poem in years. Forgot it existed. I wrote it in a creative writing class at Aurora Community College taught by Wayne Gilbert. Really cool dude. Still out there making poetry. (Search for him on YouTube.) This was my first, and only since, deep dive into poetry and spoken word.  

Why are poets so confusing? I wondered. Why can't they just say what they mean in plain language?

I've since come to realize that the heart's language is not English nor Spanish nor Japanese nor any other human language we've invented. Our human languages are often no match for the language of our heart. So we try to translate our emotions as best we can using the language we can. 

No wonder we so often can't understand each other.

I went looking for this poem from years ago. My first attempt was unsuccessful. But I did find some other writing from that class including a short story I had forgotten I had written. It had an encouraging note from Wayne that it deserved time to be revisited and given a longer narrative. Sadly it's been in a box in a dark basement corner instead. Forgotten.

My second attempt to find this poem was successful. And it's not as embarrassing as I thought it would be!

Wayne made a big deal about how it was a perspective that he didn't have as a white man and essentially it was a story he couldn't tell. At the time, hell even now, I didn't want to have some strange and novel perspective. I wanted to be like everyone else. Hmmm, no. That's not quite true. I don't want to BE like everyone else. I just want everyone else to know, love, and accept me. And that seems easier for people to do if I share their qualities.

Alice Braden

Spring 2005

Jam Poem

In a small town near Somewhere

A two lane road stretches for miles

Smiles are exchanged across the lane

Mainly by those advanced and civilized

Civil greetings pretend to ignore the dividing line

Me, I'm on the outskirts of town

Being undercover suits me

Me, who once refused to take sides

But the days comes when I must decide, everyone must

On this side of the street is ''them''

On that side of the street is ''them''

Both are intimidating to me with no side

My mother's on this side, so I stand next to her

I pretend this side of the street is now ''us''

But then I see my father on the other side

That's your father?

Imposter!

You belong on that side!

You belong with them

Now I pretend this side of the street is ''us''

That's your mother?

Imposter!

You belong on that side!

You belong with them

I sat there on the dotted yellow line

Now knowing which way to walk

Or where to make my home.

My brother came and sat beside me and sang:

That aint yo mama boy

The big man said

That caint be your mother boy

The white man told me

Cuz she's fair as milk

And yous black as can be

He gave my shoulders a squeeze and turned and joined the crowd.

I stood and squared my shoulders

There is no decision to be made

It was made long ago

With no input from me

Sometimes I'm accepted

Sometimes I'm rejected

Sometimes I'll accept it

Sometimes I'll reject it

But this is just me

Here in a small town near Somewhere

Walking a two land road that stretches for miles

I recently read Welcome Home by Najwa Zebian. She mentioned an old poem that she wrote years before and how she would say it differently now. I've tried to give myself that grace with this blog. I'm scared to put anything in writing sometimes because I worry about how that writing will land when I've changed my mind at some time in the future. I appreciate Najwa accepting both her older work and how her thoughts have evolved as she's matured.

The biggest gripe I have with this piece is the false dichotomy I'm presenting, the literal black and white thinking, the lie that there are only two sides. I choose a different path in the end and that's great, but I didn't invent that path; it was there all along, pioneered by women and men long before me. That said, I know how lonely and isolated I've been. Sometimes I can't see past my own loneliness to the green grass beyond.

I thought the last line was a typo or Adobe choosing the wrong letter when I scanned it. Slowly I remembered how proud I was of that line "two land road." 

I like the slight dig at racial politeness. Everyone knows something is wrong but no-one talks about it. I think this has changed in the last few years. Even if some people are tired of talking about it, it's definitely more acceptable to bring up in "polite" society. 

I'm still grappling with the question of who chooses what I am and I like seeing that question here. Seems like I have a choice. But the crowd seems to choose for me. Maybe the answer is both and I can abandon another false dichotomy.

Another thing I'll point out is my brother's song. This is very different from something I'd normally write. I don't remember the details of the assignment, but it makes me think this part completed some requirement. I like it though. My brother is a darker complexion than me. His perspective is different than mine. I also like that he disappears into the crowd but I don't specify which one. The encouraging shoulder squeeze is heartwarming.