ReportWire

Tag: black lives matter

  • Opinion | What Does ‘White Guilt’ Mean in 2025?

    Victim politics gave us pro-Hamas activism and a powerful reaction in the form of Donald Trump, argue Shelby Steele and his son, Eli.

    Tunku Varadarajan

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  • FBI fires agents photographed kneeling during 2020 protest

    Leaders of the Federal Bureau of Investigation fired more than a dozen agents who kneeled amid Black Lives Matter protests in Washington, D.C. in the summer of 2020. Many of the agents had already been demoted or put on administrative leave. 

    One source told CBS News that the termination letter to the agents cited their alleged “lack of judgement” in their actions. The agents had been photographed kneeling after encountering protestors during the demonstrations that followed George Floyd’s death in May 2020. The kneeling had angered some in the FBI, but was also understood as a possible de-escalation tactic, the Associated Press reported. 

    The number of FBI employees terminated was not immediately clear, but two people told the Associated Press it was roughly 20.

    The FBI Agents Association, which represents a majority of FBI agents, said that it “strongly condemns” the firings and urged Congress to investigate. The association accused FBI Director Kash Patel of violating the law and ignoring the agents’ “constitutional and legal rights instead of following the requisite process.” 

    “Leaders uphold the law – they don’t repeatedly break it,” the association said. “They respect due process, rather than hide from it.  Patel’s dangerous new pattern of actions are weakening the Bureau because they eliminate valuable expertise and damage trust between leadership and the workforce, and make it harder to recruit and retain skilled agents—ultimately putting our nation at greater risk.”

    An FBI spokesperson did not comment on the firings. 

    The firings come amid a broader personnel purge at the bureau as Patel works to reshape the nation’s premier federal law enforcement agency.

    Five agents and top-level executives were known to have been summarily fired last month in a wave of ousters that current and former officials say has contributed to declining morale.

    One of those, Steve Jensen, helped oversee investigations into the Jan. 6, 2021, riot at the U.S. Capitol. Another, Brian Driscoll, served as acting FBI director in the early days of the Trump administration and resisted Justice Department demands to supply the names of agents who investigated Jan. 6.

    A third, Chris Meyer, was incorrectly rumored on social media to have participated in the investigation into President Donald Trump’s retention of classified documents at his Mar-a-Lago estate in Palm Beach, Fla. A fourth, Walter Giardina, participated in high-profile investigations like the one into Trump adviser Peter Navarro.

    A lawsuit filed by Jensen, Driscoll and another fired FBI supervisor, Spencer Evans, alleged that Patel communicated that he understood that it was “likely illegal” to fire agents based on cases they worked but was powerless to stop it because the White House and the Justice Department were determined to remove all agents who investigated Trump.

    Patel denied at a congressional hearing last week taking orders from the White House on whom to fire and said anyone who has been fired failed to meet the FBI’s standards.

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    contributed to this report.

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  • Ayo Edebiri Talks “Uncomfortable” Venice Interview: “A Very Human Moment”

    Following an awkward interview moment at this month’s 82nd Venice International Film Festival that has gone viral on social media, Ayo Edebiri has apparently avoided the online discourse it sparked.

    The Golden Globe winner recently opened up about the “uncomfortable conversation” she had with an Italian journalist about the Me Too and Black Lives Matter movements in Hollywood, noting that she “didn’t really pay too much attention” to the fan response.

    “I think I’m less online than I used to be,” she said at a New York Film Festival press conference on Friday, according to People. “So I didn’t really, to be completely honest — and I love to lie, I make money lying. But yeah, I didn’t really pay too much attention.”

    Edebiri added, “But, I mean, I think it was just a very human moment. And I think in a strange way, uncomfortable conversation, it’s kind of one of the many things our film is about. So shout out to tie-ins!”

    In Luca Guadagnino‘s After the Hunt, premiering Oct. 10 in theaters, college professor Alma Olsson (Julia Roberts) finds herself at a complicated crossroads when her prized pupil Maggie Price (Edebiri) accuses her colleague Henrik Gibson (Andrew Garfield) of sexual assault, threatening to expose a dark secret from her own past.

    AFTER THE HUNT, from left: Ayo Edebiri, Julia Roberts, 2025. ph: Yannis Drakoulidis /© Amazon MGM Studios / Courtesy Everett Collection

    Despite being awkwardly excluded from a question by Italian journalist Federica Polidoro about what was “lost during the politically correct era” in Hollywood now that the Me Too and Black Lives Matter movements supposedly “are done,” Edebiri clarified that the “work isn’t finished at all.”

    “Yeah, I know that that’s not for me, and I don’t know if it’s purposeful it’s not for me, but I just am curious,” said Edebiri after the ArtsLife TV reporter clarified her question was only for co-stars Roberts and Garfield during an interview promoting After the Hunt.

    One fan on X praised Edebiri for handling the moment “with poise and grace,” as another called out Polidoro for “being unprofessional.”

    Polidoro has since responded to the backlash, doubling down and defending herself against alleged online attacks. “I will not tolerate or accept defamatory or violent language, and I reserve the right to seek legal protection against those who, in recent days, have chosen to hide behind the digital mob to insult and attack me instead of seeking a civil and constructive discussion,” she wrote.

    Glenn Garner

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  • Ayo Edebiri Says Me Too Movement and Black Lives Matter Aren’t ‘Done’

    Photo: Daniele Venturelli/WireImage

    Did you know they have anti-wokeness crusaders internationally? Ayo Edebiri, Andrew Garfield, and Julia Roberts shut down leading questions from a journalist on the Italian press tour for After the Hunt. A video posted by Italian site ArtsLife TV shows a reporter asking Garfield and Roberts what “to expect in Hollywood after the MeToo movement and the Black Lives Matter are done.” Roberts, dumbfounded, asked a clarifying question. “Can you repeat that?” she asked. “And with your sunglasses on, I can’t tell which of us you’re talking to.” The reporter repeated that the question was for Garfield and Roberts — not Edebiri — and was what will Hollywood be like now that Me Too and Black Lives matter “are done” and “if we lost something with the politically correct era.”

    Edebiri then interjected. “I know that that’s not for me, and I don’t know if it’s purposeful if it’s not for me,” she said. “I don’t think it’s done, I don’t think it’s done at all. Hashtags might not be used as much but I do think that there’s work being done by activists, by people every day that’s beautiful, important work. That’s not finished, that’s really, really active for a reason because this world’s really charged. And that work isn’t finished at all.” Garfield backed her up, saying both “movements are still absolutely alive.”

    Edebiri added that media attention may skew people’s perception of what is or is not happening on the ground. “Maybe if there’s not mainstream coverage in the way that there might have been, daily headlines in the way that it might have been eight or so years ago, but I don’t think it means that the work is done. That’s what I would say.” That’s what she’d say if she was asked. But she wasn’t asked.

    Bethy Squires

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  • People Ain’t Isht: Daunte Wright’s Parents Furious Over Killer Cop Kim Potter Cash-Grab Speaking Tour About Fatal Shooting

    People Ain’t Isht: Daunte Wright’s Parents Furious Over Killer Cop Kim Potter Cash-Grab Speaking Tour About Fatal Shooting

    Source: The Washington Post / Getty

     

    Daunte Wright was killed on April 11, 2021, about ten miles from the spot where Derek Chauvin murdered George Floyd in front of a crowd of outraged onlookers. Wright also met his death at the hands of police officer, Kim Potter, who drew her service pistol instead of her taser and fatally shot the 20-year-old during a traffic stop. Potter was ultimately sentenced to a paltry two years for her crime and was released after 16 months.

    Jury Deliberates In Kim Potter Trial

    Source: Stephen Maturen / Getty

    According to APNews, now that Potter is back on the streets, she is looking to cash out on her criminal conviction by launching a speaking tour to wax poetic about her “mistake” by telling other police officers about her experience. It should go without saying that Daunte’s parents, specifically his mother Katie Wright, are none-too-pleased about it.

    “I think that Kim Potter had her second chance. She got to go home with her children. That was her second chance,” Wright said. “I think that when we’re looking at police officers, when they’re making quote-unquote mistakes, they still get to live in our community. They still get to continue their lives. That’s their second chance. We don’t have a second chance to be able to bring our loved ones back.”

    Funeral Held For Daunte Wright In Minneapolis

    Source: Brandon Bell / Getty

    What makes this cockamamie scheme even more infuriating is that the person helping Potter execute this idea is the prosecutor who was supposed to help put her behind bars in the first place. Imran Ali resigned from the case citing “vitriol” and “partisan politics” that rubbed his tender yellow belly wrong.

    “This is the definition of why I decided to walk away. You have somebody that recognizes the need for reform, recognizes the need for redemption, recognizes the need to engage. And still,” Ali said. “If you’re in law enforcement in this country, there is no redemption.”

    With all due disrespect, f*** Imran Ali and f*** Kim Potter’s “redemption”. If she wants to “redeem” herself, there are a myriad of ways to do so without making money off of a dead Black man. Ali insists that these speaking engagements are about “reform” and teaching officers not to make the same mistakes that Potter did. However, the language in the contracts that Ali drafted for Potter’s “services” reads as follows:

    “The officer, and the prosecutor who quit in protest, will deliver a dynamic presentation on the truth of what occurred, the increased violence and non-compliance directed towards law enforcement, the importance of training, and steps we can take in the future,” 

    Where exactly is the language of “reform”? This sounds more like “Kim Potter killed someone who deserved it and was treated very unfairly by society and if you kill someone who deserves it, then you will be treated unfairly also”

    TOPSHOT-US-POLICE-HOMICIDE-RACISM-TRIAL

    Source: KEREM YUCEL / Getty

    Potter’s September event was canceled in the wake of public criticism. However, she is still being asked by other police departments to come speak.

    NWA was always, always, always right.

    Jason "Jah" Lee

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  • Historic low HIV infection rates in New York

    Historic low HIV infection rates in New York

    CAPITAL REGION, N.Y. (NEWS10) — June 27 is National HIV testing day, and the New York State Department of Health says New York is at an all-time low of new infection rates. NEWS10 speaking with a local group on their efforts here in the capital region to help eradicate the disease.

    New York has hit historic lows in HIV new infection rates since the pandemic’s height in the 1990s. However local HIV specialists say now is not the time to relax.

    “The battle is not over. There are places and populations that are increasing in rates of infection, and we need to get those individuals identified and we need to help them get into the care that they need. Because there are things that we can do now that’ll make life normal and long lived,” said Kim Atkins, Executive Director Alliance for Positive Health.

    New York’s new infection rates have plummeted 42% since 2011 from nearly 4000 new infections a year down to just over 2000 a year in 2022. 18% of new infections tested positive for AIDS and 69% of new infection rate diagnoses are people under the age of 40. 

    The Alliance for Positive Health has been providing free testing for nearly 40 years. “Testing needs to continue, and we need to identify people because people are still getting infected,” said Atkins.

    And now, the Alliance for Positive Health teams can get to more people in further away places with their new mobility fleet.  “This is the newer one we have a larger one that we could test two people at once. Recover 15 counties so we go all the way up to Plattsburgh and all the way down to Hudson and anywhere in between,” said Testing Supervisor Alliance for Positive Health, Niurka Diaz Gonzalez.

    Chris Francis has been with the Alliance team for over 10 years and is part of the Care Coordination. He tells NEWS10 Reporter James De La Fuente about the importance of testing.

    “I suggest people get tested every couple, of every two to three months. Especially if they’re sexually active.” Francis says testing is personal. “I care about my physical and mental health. It can take a toll on your mental health if you don’t get tested not knowing what you have or if you’re clean.”

    As black and brown communities are adversely affected Chandler Hickenbottom, co-founder of Saratoga BLM says her organization is taking focus on testing, as well.

    “As of right now we don’t have anything posted. But I think that is something that after having this conversation, I think it would be really great and important for us to start getting more involved in. So, joining the campaign to show the importance of not just getting tested in general, not just even for HIV, but for all sexually transmitted infections and STD’s. That is definitely very important,” said Hickenbottom.

    A spokesperson with NYDOH says, “HIV in New York State has fallen to historic lows. At its peak in the mid-1990s, New York diagnosed nearly 15,000 new cases per year; that number was down to 2,318 in 2022.”

    In addition to testing with Alliance for Positive Health, the New York State Department of Health Aids Institute has announced the launch of their free HIV self-test giveaway.

    James De La Fuente

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  • Juneteenth Movie Watchlist

    Juneteenth Movie Watchlist

    Ever since Juneteenth became a national holiday, corporations have been trying to do to it what they’ve done with Pride: strip it of its roots and turn it into a commercialized holiday to sell more stuff.


    There’s a scene in
    American Fiction in which Jefferey Wright’s character is appalled at the suggestion that his book is promoted for a Juneteenth holiday release. Yet, the white corporate executives are so pleased with themselves for the idea: how inclusive, they thing, how perfectly celebratory.

    And while now that Juneteenth marks a national day off, it will be marked with gatherings and celebrations, it should be a day of remembering. Celebrated on June 19th (hence the portmanteau), Juneteenth marks the day in 1865 (almost 160 years ago) when enslaved African Americans in Galveston, Texas, were finally informed of their freedom. More than two years after President Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation had legally freed them, these were the last enslaved people to be legally free citizens. Therefore, the holiday marks the actual end of slavery in the United States — unless you count prison labor and other forms of legal enslavement (I do).

    Many people are still confused as to how the Emancipation Proclamation had failed to be delivered to all enslaved people. But it wasn’t like there were Apple News alerts. News took time to speak. Major General Gordon Granger’s announcement of General Order No. 3 in Galveston delivered the long-overdue message that all enslaved individuals were free, symbolizing a critical turning point in American history.

    It’s a holiday that doesn’t just celebrate the freedom of formerly enslaved people but also recognizes the system’s failure to actually deliver on its promises.

    Though the holiday was celebrated informally, Juneteenth is also entangled with memories of summer 2020 during the Global Black Lives Matter protests. After George Floyd was murdered by police in May 2020, protests erupted all summer and marked a shift in the conversation about race in America and beyond. This momentum culminated on June 17, 2021, when President Joe Biden signed the Juneteenth National Independence Day Act into law, making Juneteenth a federal holiday.

    For the first time, we were talking about racial as a structural institution rather than a series of small actions. We were finally addressing the deep-seated roots of racism in our systems and in ourselves. But of course, this all got gentrified fast. People started putting “anti-racist” in their Instagram bios and thought that was enough. And don’t even get me started on the Black squares on Instagram.

    It was Biden’s alleged intention for recognizing Juneteenth as a national holiday to not only honor the historical significance of the day but also underscore a commitment to acknowledging and addressing the legacy of slavery and the ongoing pursuit of equality and justice in the United States.

    However, just four years later, what have all those promises for change accomplished? Many companies promising to do good have since fired their DEI staff. Many copies of bell hooks and anti-racist books bought during the first wave of support are sitting dusty on bookshelves somewhere. And now we have Juneteenth. But is it enough?

    But activism can only be diluted if our commitment to it wanes. Every year, I challenge us all to strengthen our commitment to the values we purported to support in 2020. Read those books. Ask yourself if you’re living up to your #antiracist Instagram bio. And consume media by Black people that actually aims to educate its audiences — not just placate them with mediocre claims of representation.

    From documentaries to narrative features, here are some films to inspire your activism and anti-racism this month:

    I Am Not Your Negro

    James Baldwin is one of the most insightful voices from the Civil Rights era. His writing, as well as his interviews, challenged American society and politics through both fiction and non-fiction. But many often forget that he spent the last years of his life in Paris in fear that the US government would literally murder him as they had his contemporaries. Directed by Raoul Peck, the film is based on Baldwin’s unfinished manuscript, “Remember This House,” which was intended to be a personal account of the lives and assassinations of three of his close friends: Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King Jr. By juxtaposing Baldwin’s commentary with images from the Civil Rights era and contemporary times, “I Am Not Your Negro” becomes both a commentary and call to action urging us to acknowledge the truth of the system and also do what we can to change it.

    The 13th

    We can’t talk about Juneteenth without talking about the 13th Amendment, which prohibited slavery in the United States “except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted.” With the problem of mass incarceration disproportionately affecting Black Americans, it has become a form of legalized slavery. No amount of Juneteenth merchandise will disguise the fact that the freedom we celebrate is conditional. Ava DuVernay’s seminal 2016 documentary takes this loophole as its starting point – tracing the many ways it’s been hideously exploited from the Civil War onwards to maintain a racial hierarchy with commentary from Angela Davis, Senator Cory Booker, Michelle Alexander, and more.

    Origin

    A narrative can be as educational as a documentary when done correctly. Ava DuVernay’s most recent drama
    Origin (2023) chronicles the journey of reporter Isabel Wilkerson’s acclaimed book, “Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents.” It follows Wilerson’s investigation to how caste systems shape social hierarchies in the United States to parallels with caste systems in India and Nazi Germany. Through a blend of personal narrative and historical analysis, the film interweaves Wilkerson’s interviews, archival footage, and acting inspired by true events to highlight insidious caste-based discrimination that plagues societies around the world.

    Rustin

    Celebrate the intersectionality of both Juneteenth and Pride month with
    Rustin (2023), a biographical drama that brings to life the story of Bayard Rustin, a key architect of the Civil Rights Movement. He helped organize the March on Washington and was one of MLK’s key advisors for a time. But why haven’t you heard of him? Because he was gay — and he was ousted from MLK’s inner circle due to homophobia. Directed by George C. Wolfe, the film stars Colman Domingo as Rustin, capturing his dynamic and often challenging role as an openly gay Black man fighting for social justice in a time of profound prejudice. It’s a reminder of our interlinked struggles and how all justice depends on each other. It’s also a call to action to be more inclusive and intentional in our activism.

    Judas and the Black Messiah

    One of the most powerful voices of the Civil Rights movement and chairman of the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party in the late 1960s, Fred Hampton was assassinated by by members of the Chicago Police Department as part of a COINTELPRO operation. COINTELPRO, Counterintelligence Program, was an FBI program investigating “radicals” — which mostly amounted to Civil Rights Leaders. In this dramatic retelling of Fred Hampton’s story and murder, director Shaka King focuses on the involvement of LaKeith Stanfield as William O’Neal, the FBI informant who infiltrated the Black Panthers and ultimately betrayed Hampton, played by Daniel Kaluuya. Watch for Kaluuya’s compelling portrayal of Hampton that makes you understand the impact of this rousing leader, and inspires all of us to engage in our communities rather than pick the ebay way out like O’Neal.

    Genius: MLK/Malcolm X

    The acclaimed Genius series turns its eye upon these two Civil Rights leaders in this biopic series. It underscores their differences and their similarities, while exploring what made them so effective. It focuses on their formative years, how they became the leaders they were, and who they were in their personal lives — often imperfect but still determined to create change. By focusing on their humanity, it stops them from being over-mythicized and reminds us that we too can create change if we are committed to it.

    The Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution

    As the first major documentary on the Black Panthers,
    The Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution is directed by Stanley Nelson examines the Party’s rise of in the 1960s and its impact on the Civil rights and American culture. It clears up some myths about the Panthers while emphasizing what they actually stood for. Emphasizing both forgotten heroes and familiar faces.

    The Black Power Mixtape

    The Black Panther Party is chronically misunderstood. This compilation of tapes come from videos shot for Swedish television between 1967 and 1975, capturing the tail end of the Civil Rights Movement; the shift away from Martin Luther King Jr’s nonviolent policies to a more militant approach; and the brutal oppression faced by the leaders of the Black Power movement. Weaved between commentary from Erykah Badu, Angela Davis, and Stokely Carmichael’s mother, these tapes tell the Black Panthers’s story from their Point of View.

    Slave Play. Not a Movie. A Play.

    One of the most controversial and talked-about Broadway plays,
    Slave Play ignited public interest and ire in equal measure. It was the most Tony-award nominated non-musical play in history in 2019. Though it was too controversial to actually win any Tonys. It was also Julia Fox and Kanye West’s first date. Do with that what you will. Written by Jeremy O. Harris, it investigates the way that racism and the lineages of slavery are still pervasive in our society — and our intimate relationships. But this is not a film version of the play. It’s a genre-bending exploration of the production of the play, as well as a conversation about its themes.

    Black Barbie

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Itsg2V5PSkI

    Coming to Netflix on Juneteenth, the follow up to last year’s
    Barbie phenomenon: a documentary on the origin of the Black Barbie. “If you’ve gone your whole life and you’ve never seen anything made in your own image,” says producer Shonda Rhimes in the trailer, “there is damage done.” The documentary follows how the Black Barbie came to be. Written and directed by Lagueria Davis, Black Barbie takes audiences through first-person perspectives of three Black women who worked at Mattel during the iconic doll’s incubation: Kitty Black Perkins, Stacey McBride-Irby, and Davis’ Aunt Beulah Mae Mitchell. “I’m excited for people to know their names, a part of their story, and this part of history,” says Davis.

    Langa Chinyoka

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  • 22 Revolutionary Poems by Black Poets

    22 Revolutionary Poems by Black Poets

    The Black literary tradition is rich and exhaustive, and 20 poems could never hope to scratch its surface. But each one of these poems also contains a world within itself—a refracted look at one’s wounds or visions of new ones or, often, both bound up together in the ways only American poetry can achieve.


    These are laments, songs of revolution (both internal and societal), and recipes for change. Some feel like prophecies for the current moment and others feel like visions of even bigger seismic shifts. They speak best for themselves but they call all of us to join them. From Amiri Baraka to Octavia E. Butler, black poetry is truly something amazing to behold. In honor of Black Lives Matter, here are 20 revolutionary poems by black poets.

    1. Poem About My Rights by June Jordan

    Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear

    my head about this poem about why I can’t
    go out without changing my clothes my shoes
    my body posture my gender identity my age
    my status as a woman alone in the evening/
    alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
    the point being that I can’t do what I want
    to do with my own body because I am the wrong
    sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
    suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
    or far into the woods and I wanted to go
    there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
    about children or thinking about the world/all of it
    disclosed by the stars and the silence:
    I could not go and I could not think and I could not
    stay there
    alone
    as I need to be
    alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
    body and
    who in the hell set things up
    like this
    and in France they say if the guy penetrates
    but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
    and if after stabbing him if after screams if
    after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
    a hammer to his head if even after that if he
    and his buddies fuck me after that
    then I consented and there was
    no rape because finally you understand finally
    they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
    wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
    to be who I am
    which is exactly like South Africa
    penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
    Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
    Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
    proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
    and if
    after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
    and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
    self-immolation of the villages and if after that
    we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
    claim my consent:
    Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
    the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
    in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
    and according to the Times this week
    back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
    and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
    killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
    and before that it was my father on the campus
    of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
    to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
    was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
    gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
    before that
    it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
    I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
    boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
    that I should have had straighter hair and that
    I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
    just be one/a boy and before that
    it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
    my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
    to let the books loose to let them loose in other
    words
    I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
    and the problems of South Africa and the problems
    of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
    America in general and the problems of the teachers
    and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
    workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
    familiar with the problems because the problems
    turn out to be
    me
    I am the history of rape
    I am the history of the rejection of who I am
    I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
    myself
    I am the history of battery assault and limitless
    armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
    and my body and my soul and
    whether it’s about walking out at night
    or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
    whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
    the sanctity of my national boundaries
    or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
    of each and every desire
    that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
    and indisputably single and singular heart
    I have been raped
    be-
    cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
    the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
    wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
    the wrong sartorial I
    I have been the meaning of rape
    I have been the problem everyone seeks to
    eliminate by forced
    penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
    but let this be unmistakable this poem
    is not consent I do not consent
    to my mother to my father to the teachers to
    the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
    to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
    idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
    cars
    I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
    My name is my own my own my own
    and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
    but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
    my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
    may very well cost you your life

    2. A Journey by Nikki Giovanni

    It’s a journey . . . that I propose . . . I am not the guide . . . nor technical assistant . . . I will be your fellow passenger . . .

    Though the rail has been ridden . . . winter clouds cover . . . autumn’s exuberant quilt . . . we must provide our own guide-posts . . .

    I have heard . . . from previous visitors . . . the road washes out sometimes . . . and passengers are compelled . . . to continue groping . . . or turn back . . . I am not afraid . . .

    I am not afraid . . . of rough spots . . . or lonely times . . . I don’t fear . . . the success of this endeavor . . . I am Ra . . . in a space . . . not to be discovered . . . but invented . . .

    I promise you nothing . . . I accept your promise . . . of the same we are simply riding . . . a wave . . . that may carry . . . or crash . . .

    It’s a journey . . . and I want . . . to go . . .


    3. Taking My Father and Brother to the Frick by Derrick Austin

    Derrick Austin

    mwcpc.org

    Disembark the Turners seem to say,
    those starburst barges glowing in the dusk,
    but I can’t read old Rembrandt,
    his guarded eyes are jewels, like black men.
    Even the loaned, marble busts
    of kings and soldiers fail to arrest you.
    It’s nearly closing time. The elderly linger,
    rapt. Who has looked at either of you lately
    with such tenderness?
    Entering the narrow hall,
    I ignore my favorite portraits, their ruffles
    and bodices, carnations and powder puffs,
    afraid to share my joy with you,
    yet your bearing in this space—the procession
    of your shoulders, the crowns of your heads—
    makes them sing anew.
    You are both good men.
    Walk into the Fragonard Room. You both seem bored still.
    It’s fine. Perhaps we can progress like these panels,
    slowly and without words, here—the city
    where I first knew men in the dark—
    in this gold and feminine room.

    4. Bullet Points by Jericho Brown

    Jericho Brown

    The Rumpus

    I will not shoot myself

    In the head, and I will not shoot myself
    In the back, and I will not hang myself
    With a trashbag, and if I do,
    I promise you, I will not do it
    In a police car while handcuffed
    Or in the jail cell of a town
    I only know the name of
    Because I have to drive through it
    To get home. Yes, I may be at risk,
    But I promise you, I trust the maggots
    Who live beneath the floorboards
    Of my house to do what they must
    To any carcass more than I trust
    An officer of the law of the land
    To shut my eyes like a man
    Of God might, or to cover me with a sheet
    So clean my mother could have used it
    To tuck me in. When I kill me, I will
    Do it the same way most Americans do,
    I promise you: cigarette smoke
    Or a piece of meat on which I choke
    Or so broke I freeze
    In one of these winters we keep
    Calling worst. I promise if you hear
    Of me dead anywhere near
    A cop, then that cop killed me. He took
    Me from us and left my body, which is,
    No matter what we’ve been taught,
    Greater than the settlement
    A city can pay a mother to stop crying,
    And more beautiful than the new bullet
    Fished from the folds of my brain.

    5. Sci-Fi by Tracy K. Smith

    There will be no edges, but curves.
    Clean lines pointing only forward.

    History, with its hard spine & dog-eared
    Corners, will be replaced with nuance,

    Just like the dinosaurs gave way
    To mounds and mounds of ice.

    Women will still be women, but
    The distinction will be empty. Sex,

    Having outlived every threat, will gratify
    Only the mind, which is where it will exist.

    For kicks, we’ll dance for ourselves
    Before mirrors studded with golden bulbs.

    The oldest among us will recognize that glow—
    But the word sun will have been re-assigned

    To the Standard Uranium-Neutralizing device
    Found in households and nursing homes.

    And yes, we’ll live to be much older, thanks
    To popular consensus. Weightless, unhinged,

    Eons from even our own moon, we’ll drift
    In the haze of space, which will be, once

    And for all, scrutable and safe.


    6. Dawn Revisited by Rita Dove

    Rita Dove

    Literary Arts

    Imagine you wake up

    with a second chance: The blue jay
    hawks his pretty wares
    and the oak still stands, spreading
    glorious shade. If you don’t look back,

    the future never happens.
    How good to rise in sunlight,
    in the prodigal smell of biscuits –
    eggs and sausage on the grill.
    The whole sky is yours

    to write on, blown open
    to a blank page. Come on,
    shake a leg! You’ll never know
    who’s down there, frying those eggs,
    if you don’t get up and see.

    7. Between the World and Me by Langston Hughes

    And one morning while in the woods I stumbled suddenly upon the thing,

    Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly oaks and elms

    And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting themselves between the world and me….

    There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly upon a cushion of ashes.

    There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt finger accusingly at the sky.

    There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and a scorched coil of greasy hemp;

    A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat, and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.

    And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches, butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a drained gin-flask, and a whore’s lipstick;

    Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the lingering smell of gasoline.

    And through the morning air the sun poured yellow surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull….

    And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity for the life that was gone.

    The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by icy walls of fear—

    The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:

    The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves into my bones.

    The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into my flesh.

    The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red upon her lips,

    And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that my life be burned….

    And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.

    My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as they bound me to the sapling.

    And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from me in limp patches.

    And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.

    Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a baptism of gasoline.

    And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs

    Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot sides of death.

    Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in

    yellow surprise at the sun….

    8. A Litany for Survival by Audre Lorde

    For those of us who live at the shoreline
    standing upon the constant edges of decision
    crucial and alone
    for those of us who cannot indulge
    the passing dreams of choice
    who love in doorways coming and going
    in the hours between dawns
    looking inward and outward
    at once before and after
    seeking a now that can breed
    futures
    like bread in our children’s mouths
    so their dreams will not reflect
    the death of ours;

    For those of us
    who were imprinted with fear
    like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
    learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
    for by this weapon
    this illusion of some safety to be found
    the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
    For all of us
    this instant and this triumph
    We were never meant to survive.

    And when the sun rises we are afraid
    it might not remain
    when the sun sets we are afraid
    it might not rise in the morning
    when our stomachs are full we are afraid
    of indigestion
    when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
    we may never eat again
    when we are loved we are afraid
    love will vanish
    when we are alone we are afraid
    love will never return
    and when we speak we are afraid
    our words will not be heard
    nor welcomed
    but when we are silent
    we are still afraid

    So it is better to speak
    remembering

    we were never meant to survive.

    10. RIOT by Gwendolyn Brooks

    A Poem in Three Parts

    A riot is the language of the unheard.
    —Martin Luther King, Jr.

    John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe, all whitebluerose below his golden hair, wrapped richly in right linen and right wool, almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff; almost forgot Grandtully (which is The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim’s, the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri.
    Because the “Negroes” were coming down the street.
    Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty (not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka) and they were coming toward him in rough ranks. In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud. And not detainable. And not discreet.
    Gross. Gross. “Que tu es grossier!” John Cabot itched instantly beneath the nourished white that told his story of glory to the World. “Don’t let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!” he
    whispered to any handy angel in the sky.

    But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili, malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old averted doubt jerked forward decently, cried, “Cabot! John! You are a desperate man, and the desperate die expensively today.”
    John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire and broken glass and blood, and he cried “Lord! Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do.”

    THE THIRD SERMON ON THE WARPLAND

    Phoenix
    “In Egyptian mythology, a bird
    which lived for five hundred
    years and then consumed itself
    in fire, rising renewed from the ashes.”
    —webster

    The earth is a beautiful place.
    Watermirrors and things to be reflected.
    Goldenrod across the little lagoon.

    The Black Philosopher says
    “Our chains are in the keep of the Keeper
    in a labeled cabinet
    on the second shelf by the cookies,
    sonatas, the arabesques. . . .
    There’s a rattle, sometimes.
    You do not hear it who mind only
    cookies and crunch them.
    You do not hear the remarkable music—’A
    Death Song For You Before You Die.’
    If you could hear it
    you would make music too.
    The blackblues.”

    West Madison Street.
    In “Jessie’s Kitchen”
    nobody’s eating Jessie’s Perfect Food.
    Crazy flowers
    cry up across the sky, spreading
    and hissing This is
    it.

    The young men run.

    They will not steal Bing Crosby but will steal
    Melvin Van Peebles who made Lillie
    a thing of Zampoughi a thing of red wiggles and trebles
    (and I know there are twenty wire stalks sticking out of her
    head
    as her underfed haunches jerk jazz.)

    A clean riot is not one in which little rioters
    long-stomped, long-straddled, BEANLESS
    but knowing no Why
    go steal in hell
    a radio, sit to hear James Brown
    and Mingus, Young-Holt, Coleman, John on V.O.N.
    and sun themselves in Sin.

    However, what
    is going on
    is going on.

    Fire.
    That is their way of lighting candles in the darkness.
    A White Philosopher said
    ‘It is better to light one candle than curse the darkness.’
    These candles curse—
    inverting the deeps of the darkness.

    GUARD HERE, GUNS LOADED.

    The young men run.
    The children in ritual chatter
    scatter upon
    their Own and old geography.

    The Law comes sirening across the town.

    A woman is dead.
    Motherwoman.
    She lies among the boxes
    (that held the haughty hats, the Polish sausages)
    in newish, thorough, firm virginity
    as rich as fudge is if you’ve had five pieces.
    Not again shall she
    partake of steak
    on Christmas mornings, nor of nighttime
    chicken and wine at Val Gray Ward’s
    nor say
    of Mr. Beetley, Exit Jones, Junk Smith
    nor neat New-baby Williams (man-to-many)
    “He treat me right.”

    That was a gut gal.

    “We’ll do an us!” yells Yancey, a twittering twelve.
    “Instead of your deathintheafternoon,
    kill ’em, bull!
    kill ’em, bull!”

    The Black Philosopher blares
    “I tell you, exhaustive black integrity
    would assure a blackless Amrica. . . .”

    Nine die, Sun-Times will tell
    and will tell too
    in small black-bordered oblongs “Rumor? check it
    at 744-4111.”

    A Poem to Peanut.
    “Coooooool!” purrs Peanut. Peanut is
    Richard—a Ranger and a gentleman.
    A Signature. A Herald. And a Span.
    This Peanut will not let his men explode.
    And Rico will not.
    Neither will Sengali.
    Nor Bop nor Jeff, Geronimo nor Lover.
    These merely peer and purr,
    and pass the Passion over.
    The Disciples stir
    and thousandfold confer
    with ranging Rangermen;
    mutual in their “Yeah!—
    this AIN’T all upinheah!”

    “But WHY do These People offend themselves?” say they
    who say also “It’s time.
    It’s time to help
    These People.”

    Lies are told and legends made.
    Phoenix rises unafraid.

    The Black Philosopher will remember:
    “There they came to life and exulted,
    the hurt mute.
    Then is was over.

    The dust, as they say, settled.”

    AN ASPECT OF LOVE, ALIVE IN THE ICE AND FIRE

    LaBohem Brown

    In a package of minutes there is this We.
    How beautiful.
    Merry foreigners in our morning,
    we laugh, we touch each other,
    are responsible props and posts.

    A physical light is in the room.

    Because the world is at the window
    we cannot wonder very long.

    You rise. Although
    genial, you are in yourself again.
    I observe
    your direct and respectable stride.
    You are direct and self-accepting as a lion
    in Afrikan velvet. You are level, lean,
    remote.

    There is a moment in Camaraderie
    when interruption is not to be understood.
    I cannot bear an interruption.
    This is the shining joy;
    the time of not-to-end.

    On the street we smile.
    We go
    in different directions
    down the imperturbable street.


    11. To Bless the Memory of Tamir Rice by Tsitsi Ella Jaji

    Tsitsi Ella Jaji

    David Nilsen Writer.com

    Plant twelve date palms in a ring around the tarmac. Make them

    tall, slight towers, leaning into the wind as princes do. Fear that
    the sweetness of dates will churn your stomach. Plant them anyways.

    Plant the pudge of his fuzzless face in the arrested time of a school portrait.
    Plant his exotic name—found in a book that spelled dreams
    of eminence and hope for an uncertain coupling—in your ear.

    Know that whether it leaches into the soil or not, this ground
    was watered with his blood. This tarmac turned a rioting red. Strike that.
    There was a screech of brakes, and sirens howling like a cliché, then

    a volley of pops that might have been a game if only
    what came next was not such utter silence.
    The tarmac was red. There was no riot.

    Build a circle of palms and something to keep them safe.
    Build a greenhouse around the twelve palms.
    Yes, a green house. This land is not our land.

    Dig up the tarmac, the dark heavy loam of this side of town.
    Be sure to wear gloves as you dig through the brownfield’s
    mystification. Once the Cuyahoga River was a wall of fire.

    God knows how rain melts metal.
    Dig into that earth and build
    a foundation. Quarry it.

    Let the little boys and little girls of Shaker Heights and Orange
    bring a Game Boy or cellphone, or other toy made our of coltan that,
    chances are, a little boy or little girl dug up by hand in the DRC.

    Let the children lay their shiny toys in the foundation.
    Seal up ground with molten lead. Die-cast its melted weight.
    Yes, make a typecaster’s mold, and leave it a dull grey, like flint.

    Stamp out a broadside, only set it in the foundation’s floor.
    Let us read the letter that says this officer was unfit.
    Let us go over it step by step, every time we walk toward the green

    house of imaging what this boy’s boyhood should have been,
    the fulfilling of his name, his promise.
    Plant an oasis here. How is not my problem.

    *

    Let someone who remember how cook de rice.
    Let she cook de rice with palm oil ’til is yellow an sticky.
    Of course dem have palm oil in Cleveland. Dis no Third World we livin in.

    Let she cook she rice an peas. Let she say
    how she know to do it from a film she seen. In de film, dem people from
    de sea island gone to Sierra Leone and dema find dey people,

    dey people dat sing de same song with de same words. Come to
    find out dem words is not jes playplay words, dem words for weeping. So dema
    sit down together, an weep together, dey South Carolina an Sierra Leone family.

    Dey weep over de war, an de water, an de fresh and de forgotten,
    an dey cook dat rice ’til is yellow and sticky. Dey nyam it with dey hand,
    outta banana leaf and de old, old man, him say,

    you never forget the language you cry in.

    Let all dem little girls from Shaker Heights skip the gymnastics meet.
    Let dem come and eat rice and eat rice ’til they don’t want to eat rice no more
    an let dem still have rice to eat. Let them lose their innocence.

    Let horizons settle low.
    Let dates and raisin and apples and nuts seem a strange mockery
    of the new, the sweet, the hoped for. Let us share the matter.

    Let us sit here under these date palms,
    and haggle over whose fault it is. Let the rage that says tear this shit down
    tear this shit down.

    Let us start with the glass walls of the greenhouse, as a demonstration.
    Let the rage that says I cannot speak not speak.
    Let it suck speech into its terrible maw and leave us shuddering in silence.

    Let the rage that says, black lives matter matter.
    Let that other rage that says all lives matter be torn down. Let the matter with how
    we don’t all matter in the same way churn up a monumental penitence.

    Let the date palm offer us shade.
    Let us ask why we are still here.
    Let us lower eyes as we face his mother, his father, his sister.


    12. The President Visits the Storm by Shane McCrae

    Shane McCrae

    taproompoetry.blogspot.com

    “What a crowd! What a turnout!” —DONALD TRUMP, TO VICTIMS OF HURRICANE HARVEY

    America you’re what a turnout great

    Crowd a great crowd big smiles America

    The hurricane is everywhere but here an

    Important man is talking here Ameri-

    ca the important president is talking

    And if the heavens open up the heavens

    Open above the president the heavens

    Open to assume him bodily into heaven

    As they have opened to assume great men

    Who will come back and bring the end with them

    America he trumpets the end of your

    Suffering both swan and horseman trumpeting

    From the back of the beast the fire and rose are one

    On the president’s bright head the flames implanted

    To make a gilded crown America

    The hurricane is everywhere but here

    America a great man is a poison

    That kills the sky the weather in the sky

    For who America can look above him

    You’re what a great a crowd big smiles the ratings

    The body of a storm is a man’s body

    It has an eye and everything in the eye

    Is dead a calm man is a man who has

    Let weakness overcome his urge for death

    America the president is talking

    You’re what a great a turnout you could be

    Anywhere but your anywhere is here

    And every inch of the stadium except those

    Feet occupied by the stage after his speech will

    Be used to shelter those displaced by the storm

    Except those feet occupied by the they’re

    Armed folks police assigned to guard the stage

    Which must remain in place for the duration

    Of the hurricane except those feet of dead

    Unmarked space called The Safety Zone between

    Those officers and you you must not vi-

    olate The Safety Zone you must not leave

    The Safety Zone the president suggests

    You find the edge it’s at a common sense

    Distance it is farther than you can throw

    A rock no farther than a bullet flies


    14. say it with your whole black mouth by Danez Smith

    Danez Smith

    Bluestockingsmag.com

    say it with your whole black mouth: i am innocent

    & if you are not innocent, say this: i am worthy of forgiveness, of breath after breath

    i tell you this: i let blue eyes dress me in guilt
    walked around stores convinced the very skin of my palm was stolen

    & what good has that brought me? days filled flinching
    thinking the sirens were reaching for me

    & when the sirens were for me
    did i not make peace with god?

    so many white people are alive because
    we know how to control ourselves.

    how many times have we died on a whim
    wielded like gallows in their sun-shy hands?

    here, standing in my own body, i say: the next time
    they murder us for the crime of their imaginations

    i don’t know what i’ll do.

    i did not come to preach of peace
    for that is not the hunted’s duty.

    i came here to say what i can’t say
    without my name being added to a list

    what my mother fears i will say

    what she wishes to say herself

    i came here to say

    i can’t bring myself to write it down

    sometimes i dream of pulling a red apology
    from a pig’s collared neck & wake up crackin up

    if i dream of setting fire to cul-de-sacs
    i wake chained to the bed

    i don’t like thinking about doing to white folks
    what white folks done to us

    when i do
    can’t say

    i don’t dance

    o my people

    how long will we

    reach for god

    instead of something sharper?

    my lovely doe

    with a taste for meat

    take

    the hunter

    by his hand


    15. Give Your Daughters Difficult Names by Assétou Xango

    Assu00e9tou Xango

    youtube.com

    “Give your daughters difficult names.
    Names that command the full use of the tongue.
    My name makes you want to tell me the truth.
    My name does not allow me to trust anyone
    who cannot pronounce it right.”
    —Warsan Shire

    Many of my contemporaries,
    role models,
    But especially,
    Ancestors

    Have a name that brings the tongue to worship.
    Names that feel like ritual in your mouth.

    I don’t want a name said without pause,
    muttered without intention.

    I am through with names that leave me unmoved.
    Names that leave the speaker’s mouth unscathed.

    I want a name like fire,
    like rebellion,
    like my hand gripping massa’s whip—

    I want a name from before the ships
    A name Donald Trump might choke on.

    I want a name that catches you in the throat
    if you say it wrong
    and if you’re afraid to say it wrong,
    then I guess you should be.

    I want a name only the brave can say
    a name that only fits right in the mouth of those who love me right,
    because only the brave
    can love me right

    Assétou Xango is the name you take when you are tired
    of burying your jewels under thick layers of
    soot
    and self-doubt.

    Assétou the light
    Xango the pickaxe
    so that people must mine your soul
    just to get your attention.

    If you have to ask why I changed my name,
    it is already too far beyond your comprehension.
    Call me callous,
    but with a name like Xango
    I cannot afford to tread lightly.
    You go hard
    or you go home
    and I am centuries
    and ships away
    from any semblance
    of a homeland.

    I am a thief’s poor bookkeeping skills way from any source of ancestry.
    I am blindly collecting the shattered pieces of a continent
    much larger than my comprehension.

    I hate explaining my name to people:
    their eyes peering over my journal
    looking for a history they can rewrite

    Ask me what my name means…
    What the fuck does your name mean Linda?

    Not every word needs an English equivalent in order to have significance.

    I am done folding myself up to fit your stereotype.
    Your black friend.
    Your headline.
    Your African Queen Meme.
    Your hurt feelings.
    Your desire to learn the rhetoric of solidarity
    without the practice.

    I do not have time to carry your allyship.

    I am trying to build a continent,
    A country,
    A home.

    My name is the only thing I have that is unassimilated
    and I’m not even sure I can call it mine.

    The body is a safeless place if you do not know its name.

    Assétou is what it sounds like when you are trying to bend a syllable
    into a home.
    With shaky shudders
    And wind whistling through your empty,

    I feel empty.

    There is no safety in a name.
    No home in a body.

    A name is honestly just a name
    A name is honestly just a ritual

    And it still sounds like reverence.


    16. Speculations about “I” by Toi Derricotte

    Toi Derricotte

    pitt.edu

    A certain doubleness, by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another.

    — Henry David Thoreau

    i
    I didn’t choose the word —
    it came pouring out of my throat
    like the water inside a drowned man.
    I didn’t even push on my stomach.
    I just lay there, dead (like he told me)

    & “I” came out.
    (I’m sorry, Father.
    “I” wasn’t my fault.)

    ii
    (How did “I” feel?)

    Felt almost alive
    when I’d get in, like the Trojan horse.

    I’d sit on the bench
    (I didn’t look out of the eyeholes
    so I wouldn’t see the carnage).

    iii
    (Is “I” speaking another language?)

    I said, “I” is dangerous.
    But at the time I couldn’t tell
    which one of us was speaking.

    iv
    (Why “I”?)

    “I” was the closest I could get to the
    one I loved (who I believe was
    smothered in her playpen).

    Perhaps she gave birth
    to “I” before she died.

    v
    I deny “I,”
    & the closer
    I get, the more
    “I” keeps receding.

    vi
    I found “I”
    in the bulrushes
    raised by a dirtiness
    beyond imagination.

    I loved “I” like a stinky bed.

    While I hid in a sentence
    with a bunch of other words.

    vii
    (What is “I”?)

    A transmission through space?
    A dismemberment of the spirit?

    More like opening the chest &
    throwing the heart out with the gizzards.

    viii
    (Translation)

    Years later “I” came back
    wanting to be known.

    Like the unspeakable
    name of God, I tried

    my 2 letters, leaving
    the “O” for breath,

    like in the Bible,
    missing.

    ix
    I am not the “I”
    in my poems. “I”
    is the net I try to pull me in with.

    x
    I try to talk
    with “I,” but “I” doesn’t trust
    me. “I” says I am
    slippery by nature.

    xi
    I made “I” do
    what I wasn’t supposed to do,
    what I didn’t want to do —
    defend me,
    stand as an example,
    stand in for what I was hiding.

    I treated “I” as if
    “I” wasn’t human.

    xii
    They say that what I write
    belongs to me, that it is my true
    experience. They think it validates
    my endurance.
    But why pretend?
    “I” is a kind of terminal survival.

    xiii
    I didn’t promise
    “I” anything & in that way
    “I” is the one I was most
    true to.

    17. America Will Be by Joshua Bennett

    Joshua Bennett

    Dartmouth

    After Langston Hughes

    I am now at the age where my father calls me brother
    when we say goodbye. Take care of yourself, brother,
    he whispers a half beat before we hang up the phone,
    and it is as if some great bridge has unfolded over the air
    between us. He is 68 years old. He was born in the throat
    of Jim Crow Alabama, one of ten children, their bodies side
    by side in the kitchen each morning like a pair of hands
    exalting. Over breakfast, I ask him to tell me the hardest thing
    about going to school back then, expecting some history
    I have already memorized. Boycotts & attack dogs, fire
    hoses, Bull Connor in his personal tank, candy paint
    shining white as a slaver’s ghost. He says: Having to read
    the Canterbury Tales
    . He says: eating lunch alone. Now, I hear
    the word America & think first of my father’s loneliness,
    the hands holding the pens that stabbed him as he walked
    through the hallway, unclenched palms settling
    onto a wooden desk, taking notes, trying to pretend
    the shame didn’t feel like an inheritance. You say democracy
    & I see the men holding documents that sent him off
    to war a year later, Motown blaring from a country
    boy’s bunker as napalm scarred the sky into jigsaw
    patterns, his eyes open wide as the blooming blue
    heart of the light bulb in a Crown Heights basement
    where he & my mother will dance for the first time, their bodies
    swaying like rockets in the impossible dark & yes I know
    that this is more than likely not what you mean
    when you sing liberty but it is the only kind
    I know or can readily claim, the times where those hunted
    by history are underground & somehow daring to love
    what they cannot hold or fully fathom when the stranger
    is not a threat but the promise of a different ending
    I woke up this morning and there were men on television
    lauding a wall big enough to box out an entire world,
    families torn with the stroke of a pen, citizenship
    little more than some garment that can be stolen or reduced
    to cinder at a tyrant’s whim my father knows this grew up
    knowing this witnessed firsthand the firebombs
    the Klan multiple messiahs love soaked & shot through
    somehow still believes in this grand blood-stained
    experiment still votes still prays that his children might
    make a life unlike any he has ever seen. He looks
    at me like the promise of another cosmos and I never
    know what to tell him. All of the books in my head
    have made me cynical and distant, but there’s a choir
    in him that calls me forward my disbelief built as it is
    from the bricks of his belief not in any America
    you might see on network news or hear heralded
    before a football game but in the quiet
    power of Sam Cooke singing that he was born
    by a river that remains unnamed that he runs
    alongside to this day, some vast and future country,
    some nation within a nation, black as candor,
    loud as the sound of my father’s
    unfettered laughter over cheese eggs & coffee
    his eyes shut tight as armories his fists
    unclenched as if he were invincible

    18. A Brief History of Hostility by Jamaal May

    Jamaal May

    Jamaal May

    In the beginning

    there was the war.

    The war said let there be war
    and there was war.

    The war said let there be peace
    and there was war.

    The people said music and rain
    evaporating against fire in the brush
    was a kind of music
    and so was the beast.

    The beast that roared
    or bleated when brought down
    was silent when skinned
    but loud after the skin
    was pulled taut over wood
    and the people said music
    and the thump thump
    thump said drum.
    Someone said
    war drum. The drum said war
    is coming to meet you in the field.
    The field said war
    tastes like copper,
    said give us some more, said look
    at the wild flowers our war plants
    in a grove and grows
    just for us.

    Outside sheets are pulling
    this way and that.

    Fields are smoke,
    smoke is air.

    We wait for fingers to be bent
    knuckle to knuckle,

    the porch overrun
    with rope and shotgun

    but the hounds don’t show.
    We beat the drum and sing

    like there’s nothing outside
    but rust-colored clay and fields

    of wild flowers growing
    farther than we can walk.

    Torches may come like fox paws
    to steal away what we plant,

    but with our bodies bound
    by the skin, my arc to his curve,

    we are stalks that will bend
    and bend and bend…

    fire for heat
    fire for light
    fire for casting figures on a dungeon wall

    fire for teaching shadows to writhe
    fire for keeping beasts at bay
    fire to give them back to the earth

    fire for the siege
    fire to singe
    fire to roast
    fire to fuse rubber soles to collapsed crossbeams
    fire for Gehenna

    fire for Dante
    fire for Fallujah
    fire for readied aim

    fire in the forge that folds steel like a flag
    fire to curl worms like cigarette ash
    fire to give them back to the earth

    fire for ancient reasons: to call down rain
    fire to catch it and turn it into steam
    fire for churches
    fire for a stockpile of books
    fire for a bible-black cloak tied to a stake

    fire for smoke signals
    fire to shape gun muzzle and magazine
    fire to leap from the gut of a furnace
    fire for Hephaestus
    fire for pyres’ sake
    fire licking the toes of a quiet brown man
    fire for his home
    fire for her flag
    fire for this sand, to coax it into glass

    fire to cure mirrors
    fire to cure leeches
    Fire to compose a nocturne of cinders

    fire for the trash cans illuminating streets
    fire for fuel
    fire for fields
    fire for the field hand’s fourth death

    fire to make a cross visible for several yards
    fire from the dragon’s mouth
    fire for smoking out tangos
    fire to stoke like rage and fill the sky with human remains
    fire to give them back to the earth
    fire to make twine fall from bound wrists
    fire to mark them all and bubble black
    any flesh it touches as it frees

    They took the light from our eyes. Possessive.
    Took the moisture from our throats. My arms,
    my lips, my sternum, sucked dry, and
    lovers of autumn say, Look, here is beauty.
    Tallness only made me an obvious target made of
    off-kilter limbs. I’d fall either way. I should get a
    to-the-death tattoo or metal ribbon of some sort.
    War took our prayers like nothing else can,
    left us dumber than remote drones. Make
    me a loyal soldier and I’ll make you a
    lamenting so thick, metallic, so tank-tread-hard.

    Now make tomorrow a gate shaped like a man.
    I can’t promise, when it’s time, I won’t hesitate,
    cannot say I won’t forget to return in fall and
    guess the names of the leaves before they change.

    The war said bring us your dead
    and we died. The people said music
    and bending flower, so we sang ballads

    in the aisles of churches and fruit markets.
    The requiem was everywhere: a comet’s tail
    disappearing into the atmosphere,

    the wide mouths of the bereft men that have sung…
    On currents of air, seeds were carried
    as the processional carried us

    through the streets of a forgetting city,
    between the cold iron of gates.
    The field said soil is rich wherever we fall.

    Aren’t graveyards and battlefields
    our most efficient gardens?
    Journeys begin there too if the flowers are taken

    into account, and shouldn’t we always
    take the flowers into account? Bring them to us.
    We’ll come back to you. Peace will come to you

    as a rosewood-colored road paver
    in your grandmother’s town, as a trench
    scraped into canvas, as a violin bow, a shovel,

    an easel, a brushstroke that covers
    burial mounds in grass. And love, you say,
    is a constant blade, a trowel that plants

    and uproots, and tomorrow
    will be a tornado, you say. Then war,
    a sick wind, will come to part the air,

    straighten your suit,
    and place fresh flowers
    on all our muddy graves.

    19. For My People by Margaret Walker

    For my people everywhere singing their slave songs

    repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues
    and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an
    unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an
    unseen power;

    For my people lending their strength to the years, to the
    gone years and the now years and the maybe years,
    washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending
    hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
    dragging along never gaining never reaping never
    knowing and never understanding;

    For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
    backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor
    and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking
    and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss
    Choomby and company;

    For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn
    to know the reasons why and the answers to and the
    people who and the places where and the days when, in
    memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we
    were black and poor and small and different and nobody
    cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;

    For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to
    be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and
    play and drink their wine and religion and success, to
    marry their playmates and bear children and then die
    of consumption and anemia and lynching;

    For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox
    Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New
    Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy
    people filling the cabarets and taverns and other
    people’s pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and
    land and money and something—something all our own;

    For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time
    being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when
    burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled
    and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures
    who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

    For my people blundering and groping and floundering in
    the dark of churches and schools and clubs and
    societies, associations and councils and committees and
    conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and
    devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,
    preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by
    false prophet and holy believer;

    For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
    from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,
    trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,
    all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless
    generations;

    Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
    bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
    generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
    loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of
    healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing
    in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs
    be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now
    rise and take control.


    20. Earthseed by Octavia E. Butler

    Octavia Butler

    Blavity

    Here we are –

    Here we are –

    Energy,

    Mass,

    Life,

    Shaping life,

    Mind,

    Shaping Mind

    God,

    Shaping God.

    Consider—

    We are born

    Not with purpose,

    But with potential.

    All that you touch

    You Change.

    All that you Change

    Changes you.

    The only lasting truth

    Is Change.

    God

    Is Change.


    21. Brothers-American Drama by James Weldon Johnson

    James Weldon Johnson

    blackthen.com

    (THE MOB SPEAKS🙂

    See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air
    Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he
    Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!
    No light is there; none, save the glint that shines
    In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs
    Of some wild animal caught in the hunter’s trap.

    How came this beast in human shape and form?
    Speak man!—We call you man because you wear
    His shape—How are you thus? Are you not from
    That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race
    Which we have known three centuries? Not from
    That more than faithful race which through three wars
    Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes
    Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!

    (THE VICTIM SPEAKS🙂

    I am, and am not.

    (THE MOB SPEAKS AGAIN🙂

    Then who, why are you?

    (THE VICTIM SPEAKS AGAIN🙂

    I am a thing not new, I am as old
    As human nature. I am that which lurks,
    Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed;
    The ancient trait which fights incessantly
    Against restraint, balks at the upward climb;
    The weight forever seeking to obey
    The law of downward pull—and I am more:
    The bitter fruit am I of planted seed;
    The resultant, the inevitable end
    Of evil forces and the powers of wrong.
    Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,
    The memories of cruel sights and deeds,
    The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate
    Filtered through fifteen generations have
    Sprung up and found in me sporadic life.
    In me the muttered curse of dying men,
    On me the stain of conquered women, and
    Consuming me the fearful fires of lust,
    Lit long ago, by other hands than mine.
    In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers
    Of wretches now long dead—their dire bequests.
    In me the echo of the stifled cry
    Of children for their battered mothers’ breasts.

    I claim no race, no race claims me; I am
    No more than human dregs; degenerate;
    The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;
    I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fed
    Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same
    Today. But I—

    (THE MOB CONCLUDES🙂

    Enough, the brute must die!
    Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist
    The fire much longer than this slender pine.
    Now bring the fuel! Pile it round him! Wait!
    Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose
    The agony and terror in his face.
    And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames
    Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek!
    And there’s another! wilder than the first.
    Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on
    The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so!
    Now let it slowly blaze again. See there!
    He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out,
    Searching around in vain appeal for help!
    Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh
    Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts
    Down through the coils of chain that hold erect
    The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.

    Stop! to each man no more than one man’s share.
    You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain,
    Let us divide its links; this skull, of course,
    In fair division, to the leader comes.

    And now his fiendish crime has been avenged;
    Let us back to our wives and children—say,
    What did he mean by those last muttered words,
    “Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we”?


    22. If I Was President by Alice Walker

    Alice Walker

    The Root / Peter Kramer

    If I was President
    The first thing I would do
    is call Mumia Abu-Jamal.
    No,
    if I was president
    the first thing I would do
    is call Leonard Peltier.
    No,
    if I was president
    the first person I would call
    is that rascal
    John Trudell.
    No,
    the first person I’d call
    is that other rascal
    Dennis Banks.
    I would also call
    Alice Walker.
    I would make a conference call.
    And I would say this:
    Yo, you troublemakers,
    it is time to let all of us
    out of prison.
    Pack up your things:
    Dennis and John,
    collect Alice Walker
    If you can find her:
    In Mendocino, Molokai, Mexico or
    Gaza,
    & head out to the prisons
    where Mumia and Leonard
    are waiting for you.
    They will be traveling
    light.
    Mumia used to own a lot
    of papers
    but they took most of those
    away from him.
    Leonard
    will probably want to drag along
    some of his
    canvases.
    Alice
    who may well be
    shopping
    in New Delhi
    will no doubt want to
    dress up for the occasion
    in a sparkly shalwar kemeez.
    My next call is going to be
    to the Cubans
    all five of them;
    so stop worrying.
    For now, you’re my fish.
    I just had this long letter
    from Alice and she has begged me
    to put an end
    to her suffering.
    What? she said.
    You think these men are the only ones who suffer
    when Old Style America locks them up
    & throws away
    the key?
    I can’t tell you, she goes on,
    the changes
    this viciousness
    has put me through,
    and I have had a child to raise
    & classes to teach
    & food to buy
    and just because
    I’m a poet
    it doesn’t mean
    I don’t have to
    pay the mortgage
    or the rent.
    Yet all these years,
    nearly thirty or something
    of them
    I have been running around
    the country
    and the world
    trying to arouse justice
    for these men.
    Tonsillitis
    hasn’t stopped me.
    Migraine,
    hasn’t stopped me.
    Lyme disease
    hasn’t stopped me.
    And why?
    Because
    knowing the country
    that I’m in,
    as you are destined to learn
    it too,
    I know wrong
    when I see it.
    If that chair you’re sitting in
    could speak
    you would have it moved
    to another room.
    You would burn it.
    So, amigos,
    pack your things.
    Alice and John and Dennis
    are on their way.
    They are bringing prayers from Nilak Butler and Bill Wapepah;
    they are bringing sweet grass and white sage
    from Pine Ridge.
    I am the president
    at least until the Corporations
    purchase the next election,
    and this is what I choose
    to do
    on my first day.

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  • Seattle To Pay $10 Million Settlement To Black Lives Matter Rioters

    Seattle To Pay $10 Million Settlement To Black Lives Matter Rioters

    Opinion

    Screenshot: The Telegraph YouTube Video

    The city of Seattle has agreed to pay $10 million to settle a lawsuit brought by Black Lives Matter protesters who claimed that they were victims of excessive force during the 2020 demonstrations.

    The settlement comes after years of legal battles and negotiations between the city and the protesters.

    A group of 50 BLM protesters filed the lawsuit claiming that the Seattle Police Department was a bit heavy-handed during the demonstrations following the death of George Floyd.

    Floyd died in 2020 during an arrest involving excessive force by former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin, sparking nationwide protests and unjustified race riots.

    Doing the math, the settlement amounts to a $200,000 payment to each protester involved in the suit.

    RELATED: Black Lives Matter Seattle Vows to Boycott White Businesses On Black Friday

    Black Lives Matter Gets A Hefty Payday For Rioting

    A statement from the City Attorney in Seattle seems to indicate that the $10 million payday was simply a means to settle the matter and move forward.

    “This decision was the best financial decision for the City considering risk, cost, and insurance,” he said. “The case has been a significant drain on the time and resources of the City and would have continued to be so through an estimated three-month trial that was scheduled to begin in May.”

    It’s never really a good strategy to give in to extortionists, especially those who burned and looted your city for months on end.

    You don’t reward a child who steals a cookie by giving them $10 to buy more cookies.

    Attorneys for the Black Lives Matter protesters claimed that their clients suffered a whole host of injuries ranging from hearing loss and broken bones to “emotional damage.”

    Will BLM use some of that money to pay for the emotional damage they caused local businesses?

    Journalist Andy Ngo, who documented much of the rioting, explains that such payouts “encourage future rioting.”

    RELATED: Lawless In Seattle: Anarchist ‘Autonomous Zone’ Preventing Police From Responding To Violent Crimes

    Who Pays For The Damage THEY Did?

    According to various reports, the riots in Seattle caused millions of dollars in damages to businesses, public buildings, and infrastructure.

    The Seattle Police Department reported that over 100 officers were injured during the protests, and many businesses were looted, vandalized, and set on fire.

    The Seattle City Attorney’s Office estimated that the total cost of property damage and other expenses related to the riots was around $200 million.

    This figure includes damages to private businesses, public buildings, and the cost of deploying law enforcement and other emergency services during the unrest.

    Those businesses got a lot less than $10 million. In fact, business owners received $3,650,000 for damages caused by the Black Lives Matter protests according to court filings.

    As for something you can’t put a price tag on, there were reports of two deaths that occurred during the Black Lives Matter protests in Seattle.

    One of these incidents involved a 19-year-old man who was shot and killed in the Capitol Hill Organized Protest (CHOP) zone, and another involved a 32-year-old woman who was hit by a car while protesting on a closed section of Interstate 5.

    Multiple other shootings took place in that seven-block area that police were forced to abandon during the “Summer of Love.”

    What do you think about this? Let us know in the comments section.

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  • Donald Trump’s “BLM” endorsement draws loud applause from supporters

    Donald Trump’s “BLM” endorsement draws loud applause from supporters

    Former President Donald Trump drew cheers at a rally on Saturday after touting his endorsement from a “representative of Black Lives Matter” (BLM), despite the activist’s disputed affiliation within the decentralized movement.

    Trump is currently among the packed field of candidates seeking the GOP nomination for president in 2024. In nationwide polling averages, he has consistently led the crop of candidates by significant margins, regularly garnering around 50 percent support from likely Republican voters, leading many to consider his nomination by the party next year inevitable.

    Earlier this week, activist Mark Fisher appeared on Fox & Friends to discuss his endorsement of Trump, with the show touting him as a “BLM leader.” During his appearance, Fisher claimed that Trump has done “more for the Black community than any president I can think of in my lifetime” and decried the Democratic Party as “racist.”

    BLM is a decentralized social movement focused on racism and other issues faced by Black Americans that has been more often associated with progressive politics, rather than the socially conservative policies embraced by Trump. While decentralized, the movement is represented by various prominent organizations at the national and state level, many of which have dismissed Fisher’s involvement with them and called his endorsement a “publicity stunt.”

    Former President Donald Trump is seen at a campaign event. Trump on Saturday touted a recent endorsement from an activist who has claimed affiliation with the BLM movement.
    Kena Betancur/AFP via Getty Images

    Black Lives Matter of Rhode Island, which Fisher has touted his involvement in, told Newsweek in a prior statement that he was “no longer associated” with the group. Fisher is also the founder of an organization in Maryland called “BLM Inc.”

    On Saturday, Trump spoke at a rally in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where he touted Fisher’s endorsement, drawing cheers from the crowd of supporters.

    “Did you see where a very respected representative of Black Lives Matter, new England?” Trump asked. “New England endorsed Trump, he said. He didn’t necessarily say the Republican Party, he said Trump because what we have done in terms of opportunity zones, and jobs and jobs, historically, if you look at the black colleges and universities, 10 year funding.”

    Newsweek reached out to the national arm of Black Lives Matter via email for comment.

    In a joint statement to The Providence Journal, BLM Rhode Island and the BLM Rhode Island Political Action Committee denounced Fisher as an “imposter.”

    “This is a publicity stunt,” the statement read. “The right-wing continues to use and amplify fringe Black voices to create an idea of broad support for their corrupt candidates.”

    It added: “Continuing to call Mark Fisher a Black Lives Matter leader is disingenuous and inappropriate. Both the founder of BLM Rhode Island and BLM Rhode Island PAC have denounced Mark and have made it clear that he is an imposter.”