The Daddy grew up in the South. He lived in projects and old houses in essentially black neighborhoods in the inner-cities.
The Daddy thought about this hospital which was in his neighborhood but was no part of the neighborhood-- this hospital which, except for a few janitors and cleaning ladies, was staffed totally by white people at the time. He thought about the older black men occupying benches below administrative offices peopled by young white males (No blacks, no females) who were literally climbing up escalators of success. Then he wrote this poem entitled "where i live."
where i live
1
where i live
vicious dogs bark loudly at
smiling couples strolling past then
crawl meekly back under the house when
alpha owner buses home at the end of day.
2
where i live
homeless men with stomachs empty and coats rain-soaked
medicate aching backs, stained teeth and tired bones
with swigs of red Gallos straight from a dirt-stained box while
averting eyes from Gradys, which won't help unless
they drink themselves a minute closer to death.
3
where i live
phrases like "quality care" and "community health" flow like
red Gallos from empty suits high up escalators as
neighbors just below sit on weather-beaten benches
averting their eyes from Gradys, retreating into
Gallo boxes, lifting their heads to an ever darkening sky but
seeing nothing in particular. 
"Shoot, you cowards! You can't kill a revolution. You're only going to kill a man!"
--Che Guevara, Bolivian revolutionary
The Daddy's new book, The Sixties? Yes, I Remember, was written in memory of Emmitt Till, the 14 year old black boy from Chicago, Illinois. While visiting relatives in Money, Mississippi, Till allegedly whistled at a white woman in a grocery store. Later that evening, he was pulled out of his bed, beaten to death, and his body was thrown in the Tallahatchie River.
This act angered Americans, white and black, and galvanized the country. Many blacks who had refused to register to vote out of fear, now registered in droves. American had had enough.
IN MEMORY OF EMMITT TILL,
ANOTHER MANCHILD IN THE PROMISED LAND
CUT DOWN MUCH TOO SOON
Black male, curious youth
Galvanizer of a movement to reclaim humanity
Sometimes, when I walk along the banks of the Mississippi
I hear your hands push above the water, makng waves still
I see your muscled black right arm
Jump out of water, soar above the fog
Clinch your right hands tightly and
Thrust it high into the sun
(But only for a second) then
Descend just as quickly back into the hole
From which you came, making waves still
Above the hole
I see the wind gather steam, spin in circles then
Skip across the water and circle the shore as if to say:
"I'll never let you forget."
When he was about ten, he lived about a block from a hospital. Blacks in the neighborhood didn't trust the doctors, nurses and staff who worked there and only went there in the event of an emergency. The women said they were "fixed;" their "tubes were tied" so they couldn't have children again. The men said they weren't given proper care, and they treated rudely. However, the older men, drunks, and addicts would sit on benches just off the front entrance, drinking cheap liquor, nodding, or sleeping.
The Daddy thought about this hospital which was in his neighborhood but was no part of the neighborhood-- this hospital which, except for a few janitors and cleaning ladies, was staffed totally by white people at the time. He thought about the older black men occupying benches below administrative offices peopled by young white males (No blacks, no females) who were literally climbing up escalators of success. Then he wrote this poem entitled "where i live."
where i live
1
where i live
vicious dogs bark loudly at
smiling couples strolling past then
crawl meekly back under the house when
alpha owner buses home at the end of day.
2
where i live
homeless men with stomachs empty and coats rain-soaked
medicate aching backs, stained teeth and tired bones
with swigs of red Gallos straight from a dirt-stained box while
averting eyes from Gradys, which won't help unless
they drink themselves a minute closer to death.
3
where i live
phrases like "quality care" and "community health" flow like
red Gallos from empty suits high up escalators as
neighbors just below sit on weather-beaten benches
averting their eyes from Gradys, retreating into
Gallo boxes, lifting their heads to an ever darkening sky but
seeing nothing in particular.
YOU CAN'T KILL A REVOLUTION; YOU CAN ONLY KILL A MAN!
"Shoot, you cowards! You can't kill a revolution. You're only going to kill a man!"--Che Guevara, Bolivian revolutionary
The Daddy's new book, The Sixties? Yes, I Remember, was written in memory of Emmitt Till, the 14 year old black boy from Chicago, Illinois. While visiting relatives in Money, Mississippi, Till allegedly whistled at a white woman in a grocery store. Later that evening, he was pulled out of his bed, beaten to death, and his body was thrown in the Tallahatchie River.
This act angered Americans, white and black, and galvanized the country. Many blacks who had refused to register to vote out of fear, now registered in droves. American had had enough.
IN MEMORY OF EMMITT TILL,
ANOTHER MANCHILD IN THE PROMISED LAND
CUT DOWN MUCH TOO SOON
Black male, curious youth
Galvanizer of a movement to reclaim humanity
Sometimes, when I walk along the banks of the Mississippi
I hear your hands push above the water, makng waves still
I see your muscled black right arm
Jump out of water, soar above the fog
Clinch your right hands tightly and
Thrust it high into the sun
(But only for a second) then
Descend just as quickly back into the hole
From which you came, making waves still
Above the hole
I see the wind gather steam, spin in circles then
Skip across the water and circle the shore as if to say:
"I'll never let you forget."
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4 comments:
That's some kind of powerful poem, daddy, thank you.
I really liked the first one.
I wonder if the black colleges would add your book to their shelves if you donated a copy?
Wonderful suggestion, Kit. Sad to say, our young
ones aren't as sharp as they should be on our history.
struggle and achievements. I've read through Mac's book three times now. Powerful in evoking the mood
of the sixties. A keeper!
Akannie: Thank you.
Kit: That's a good suggestion. I had never thought of it. I'll ask a librarian friend of mine who attended Spellman how would I go about it. I'm coming over to check out your blog now. Thanks.
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