When I punch the air

Why doesn’t it land?

I need something to connect

With my fist

Maybe it would ease the burn

In my chest

Cool it down

That’s too much, Kristina.

Why are you like this?

I am like this because I am sure I swallowed the white supremacy that I was force fed.

I cannot even face all of the slop that I have had to regurgitate.

Instead of the Black excellence

I’ve identified as Christian

And today I heard one refer to their privilege

As “White Blessings”

I hope you choke on it and it goes down like serrated knives

I am like this because my niece is scared for my life.

My life.

I want to tell her it’s not true. Her fear is completely irrational.

But I promised to be a truth teller.

I hate watching children protest

Not because of their awareness.

But because they are supposed to revel in their innocence.

It was NEVER supposed to be their turn to march about strange fruit.

I hate that I know there are other Black people whose ancestors were not born in Amerikkka and don’t recognize their Blackness.

You are BLACK.

You are BLACK.

You are Blackity BLACK BLACK.

Your first language, your gorgeous accent, your work ethic and your degrees WILL NOT SAVE YOU.

It is not a shield.

Wake up from your slumber

Your BLACKNESS burns

So damned bright.

Don’t be afraid.

Don’t believe what they told you.

AND I SHOUT THIS

As a Haitian-American woman.

You can own your BLACKNESS and your culture. They can live in the same place.

They have to.

We were enslaved and colonized

A world apart.

Don’t forget it.

We are cousins.

And I hate that I know there are those whose ancestors were enslaved in Amerikkka but are terrified of change and don’t want to rock the boat

And because of your fear, you spout tired and false claims about Black on Black crime and won’t look your Brothers and Sisters in the eye.

The flames in my chest that roar

The melancholy that invades

Because all who are lost will not be found.

 

 

 

 

 

4 thoughts on “It’s Called Anger

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