hurt people

we all know that
hurt people
hurt people and a
hurt person's worth is
perverted from
serving people
to bringing em down

i've never been
so in love
with a place or a name that
an affront to that space has
justified causing pain
never had to save face
never had so much to gain

but then again
i've never been required by law
to live
in the colored district

if my father
had grown up in seattle
he would've

if he and his first wife had
getting a place together would have
been illegal
as recent as fucking 1968 -
the year they got married.

and so
because domination is paternalistic
so is internalized
racist
territorialism.

location, location, location.

gentrification doesn't work both ways though
white people in the colored district
don't hang your heads
this is a free country
free market
better prices, better neighborhoods
the last few generations of white families want
neighborhoods with diversity
with culture

but 23rd and union is not
lower capitol hill!
but as we motherfuckers with
our vegan queer co-op houses
open up shop all up and down 23rd
going further and further south
guess where the black people are going?

i guess i can't understand roots
because i've never had chains
when you're attached to your
forty acres

you get attached to them

i can't understand violence as an answer
because i haven't been asking the right questions

what does home
mean to me
and how much
is it worth?

and when it
hurts
so deep
you can't see your feet and
your fear is a foil to your
humanists' streak -
what makes the difference
between the fierce and the meek?
between those who would soothe
their hurt by loving
and those who amplify the impact
of their suffering
by spreading it to others?

someone once told me
namaste - your hurt is my hurt
aloha - your hurt is my hurt
ubuntu - your hurt is my hurt

you don't have to hurt me
because i felt it when you did.

so what's up with you kid?

two kids.
it's stupid;
enter the central district
one kid leaves,
bruised, battered and bleeding
asphalt and leaves
in his hair
to complement the cracked ribs

and this is what hurt kids do
and i ain't felt it
but let me tell you, kid
i hurt too

taking stock of my blackness

taking stock of my blackness

my father taught me to put 'african american'
on my college applications
i'd have a better chance of getting in, he said
with a knowing glance and a grin, he said this thing
my upper-middle class white suburban upbringing
didn't say a word
it didn't need to

and i'm pretty sure that's all he ever taught me
about being black
maybe it's the only thing it's ever got me,
being black
a chance to notch my class a bit higher
to call myself a writer
to get a bit whiter

i didn't self-identify as a person of color
until a couple years ago

and it's not his fault;
we had books and he
he tried sometimes but
the other shit on his mind
like being a doctor,
running a business,
dealing with quite a few
quite dysfunctional
progeny
and ex-wives
runs lives

and anyway
racism was over
he made it
why keep harping on something
that isn't really relevant anymore
don't want to get a victim complex
and i was light skinned enough
i was never gonna be oppressed
unless i let that shit get to me

right?

when i look at my students now i wonder
what being black really means

and it wasn't until college that i decided
to take stock of my blackness

and i think it comes down to my hair

i learned late that hair is big
in the black community
the weaves, the perms, the fades, the fros
the constant struggle - and
good hair or not
i had to struggle too

these days old black women
with kind eyes tell me
they love my curls
old white women too

and the girls always wanted to run their
hands through it

but it wasn't until the colombian lady
that cut my hair for twelve dollars when
i was away the first year of college, away from
the free trims my dad would give me
told me to leave the conditioner in
that the struggle
against the fuzzy nappy mess on top of my head
was over
that that hair
could be tamed
and the struggle ended

you see i never knew any black women
so i never knew
what to do
with my hair
all my peers had it straight
and when mine was cut short enough
it was straight too
sort of

my pops
bless his heart
never learned about hair texture
was still stuck in that
60s mindset
when i wanted to experiment with
growing it long
he asked me whether i was trying to rebel
i felt echoes
long dormant
heard a voice i'd never heard
a grandfather or mother
i'd never known
an altogether legitimate worry
knowing how uppityness
is perceived

it wasn't until i was told
to try to
leave the conditioner in
that i lost that struggle against my hair
i mean won
that i took stock of my blackness

because what is to be black if not
to struggle

that struggle
that keeps my students from wanting to be scholars
steve urkel or carlton or twofer
the black nerd's only TV
representation
no fucking wonder

the struggle against the SAT
against the teachers that tell them to be quiet
that tell them to speak
the right way
the white way
to sit down
to stay down,
hands behind your back
you shut the fuck up
when i'm talking to you boy
the recognition
that what's on top is a white man
that to be on top is to become a white man

a struggle i never had

and when i no longer have to
struggle over hair
or really over anything
i didn't have anything
black
left