Discussion of poetry
written by a black poet,
an “African American”.
She raises her hand,
a color paler than the pages themselves,
and she asks the questions:
who?
what?
where?
when?
why?
All questions that should have been answered;
not only for her
but for all of those who do not know,
who do not understand.
Who will never understand,
what their struggles were,
where they were taken to,
when the times changed,
why we are who we are.
A history that has been unwritten
from the books and the minds, the very souls
of those it embodies.
Like a word with no definition,
a canvas with no painting,
a book with no words,
empty.
Only bits and pieces,
of scraps and memories,
retained behind closed walls
labeled “elderly home”.
Or in the very back,
on the very last page,
as the very last sentence,
in a book known as “American History”.
If only we knew,
then maybe we would know
what we are worth,
what we are capable of.
It is quite impossible to comprehend the ending,
if you are unaware of its beginning.
So as I went to answer that hand
I realized,
I myself only knew but so much more.
Shame then filled my body
and my pride, hit with one shot.
We must do better,
for the sake of those who came before us;
for those yet to come.
Ignorance has become the blind fold
we aren’t even aware that we are wearing.
She showed me mine,
and now I’m showing you yours.