I: Hands
In the same breath
we two desperate black girls
last-minute haggling
over justice, practically begging
with money in hand
yet, we can not buy
I daresay,
it is not our dollar bills
which are curse'd in their eyes
but alas, our hands
II: Pillars of Sand
And in the same breath
our woeful black boys
like us, but worse off still
are struggling, reaching out
continuously failing to gain
equality, or even respect
they do graduate from college
build pillars out of grime, and dirt, and sand
but in the back of their minds
there is a voice that whispers, always
urgently, and full of anxiety:
speak 'properly, ' cut your hair ultra low,
dress like them, and blend in
maybe they won't notice
the pigment of your skin
oh, but most of all don't ever let your mask slip
because all it takes is one misstep
for the pillar to collapse,
as easily as a sandcastle
whisked away by the smallest of waves
it becomes dirt once more
and despite your many accolades
all you are to them
is a monkey, and a thug
~Nika
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I have reread and thought about this before posting my comments. It's a humbling for me to comment on your passionate words because I am a part of the society which has denied equality and respect to African Americans. In my years as a high school teacher I tried to make my classroom a welcoming and safe place. But there young black males like the ones you write about who had been so wounded by society's indifference BEFORE they met me that they could not trust me. Fortunately there was a youth advocate named Frank who counseled and guided them, made it possible for them to feel trust. I thought of Frank's wonderful spirit as I read your poem. I wish I could give him a copy because he would fully appreciate your passion. Your closing metaphor of the sand castles built over time swept away in a second cut me to the quick. I'm adding this poem to my collection so I can come back to it again.