American Standard
Sean Bell
Oscar Grant
Yusef Hawkins
Arthur McDuffie
Timothy Stansbury
Kimani Gray
Aaron Campbell
Wendell Allen
Amadou Diallo
Patrick Dorismond
Johnny Gammage
Jonathan Ferrell
Eric Garner
Ezell Ford
John Crawford III
Michael Brown
…just to name a few.
All unarmed.
From 2006 to 2012, a cop killed a black person at least twice a week in this nation.
People talk about striving to live the American Dream all the time. But dreams are for the hopeful. And those who don’t have their right to live threatened daily by those who are sworn to protect the public.
Killing black people is the now the American Standard. Desensitized to black death. Dismissive of black life.
John Crawford III was playing with a toy gun in Walmart a few days ago when he got gunned down by Ohio cops. I didn’t hear about one cop overreacting and unloading his clip into a crowd of those gun enthusiasts who were carrying firearms into all of those businesses a few months ago. Not a one.
A couple of the names above were lying face down on the ground when cops shot them. In the back.
This has gone way past ridiculous.
Folks want to rebel.
Folks want to retaliate.
Folks need to reassess.
Folks want revenge.
This is the standard here in America. Land of the free to shoot any ol’ brother. Home of the brave cops that fire on unarmed minorities.
This is the American Standard. Ask Trayvon. Ask the Central Park Five. Ask Emmett. Ask Medgar. Ask the Scottsboro Boys. Ask Louis Allen. Ask Isaac Woodard. Ask Ossian Sweet. Ask the Freedom Riders. Ask the victims of the 1920 lynchings in Duluth, MN. You should see the postcard.
Reminds me of the Red Summer of 1919,
just spread throughout the entire year now.
The summers have been red ever since. Really don’t care if you ain’t convinced.
There’s a plethora of evidence.
Earth, Wind, and Fire says, “That’s the way of the world.”
Singing songs to raise the spirit, as we raise spirits to our fallen’s memories.
All of this is standard. This is what we do.
But standards are made to be broken.
And, soon, a day’s a-coming. Like the Negro spirituals of old,
“I don’t feel no ways tired,
I’ve come too far from where I started from.
Nobody told me that the road would be easy,
I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.”
But that’s undated and antiquated.
An obsolete consensus not fit for today.
Folks are gettin’ tired.
Folks are gettin’ tired.
My people have been tired.
We’re all fucking tired.
I’m getting tired of talking.
This is gonna stop.
Shit’s about to pop.
Powder keg meets Molotov.
Unity at last.
Stop Requested
Westbound on the #5 bus.
9:04 AM, Friday.
Resting my weary haunches from standing, waiting on this same vessel of human cattle to work, corporate chattel to jerk.
A woman, 50 or so, sits to my left.
A man in his 20s flanks my right side.
She performs the sign of the cross–Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Father, Son, Holy Spirit–repeatedly.
I wonder what she did last night.
The man thinks he’s slick and tries to hide his 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve. Dude’s got some steel nerve.
I wonder what he did last night.
The gentleman gives me a look similar to the ones the Skid Row fellas give you if you creep too close to their territory or property.
I hit him back with a face that only a motherfucker could love. A head nod. He acknowledges. His shoulders gradually slope in relaxation. He’s cool now. He knows. His secret is safe with me.
She’s been at this prayer for a whole 10 minutes now. Whatever she’s hoping for, I hope she gets it. She’s put in a lot of work.
The aisle’s clear for once. No one’s standing in the pathway, blocking others’ progression or digression. But it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s in a seat. There’s no movement here. Everyone’s happy where they are.
The wheels on the bus go round and round, while the rest of us look down at the ground or stare at our phones or just peer off into the mild blue yonder.
No one talks. We’re all just content. With whatever this is.
The driver doesn’t even stop. No frequent stops.
There’s no movement here.
There’s plenty of movement fear.
No one here realizes.
Movements have started on vehicles like this one.
Those were the days. When things were worth fighting for.
When causes were worth writing for.
When ideas were birthed, inciting war.
Too comfortable these days, no one’s inspiring more.
Everyone’s satisfied. Everyone’s satiated.
Full as ticks. Full of it. Full of shit.
That goes for me, too.
I realize that I’ve been in this seat for some time now.
Got comfortable in this thing.
It was brand new when I first sat down.
But now I can feel the springs.
We spring forward just to fall back on the past, dear.
Take a nice rest on your laurels from last year.
I want to give you change like a cashier. There’s no movement here.
So I brush the dust off my jeans. Sweep the cobwebs from my shirt.
Tighten up my bootstraps. Get ready to hit the dirt.
Stand my ass up and tug on the cord.
Screeeeeeeech! The driver flings open the door.
I step off…into the infinite.
At first, it’s scary, but so is everything worth anything.
The bus lurches forward, on the road all alone.
Ladies and gentlemen, next stop: destination unknown.
There’s no movement there.
I can’t be a part of that anymore.
Any part of that can’t be more.
Of what I’m looking for.
I’ll make my own path. You should, too.
Join me
Or
Move.
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 