A BLACK MILITANT POEM SPEAKS

A BLACK MILITANT POEM SPEAKS by J. A. Emanuel
I was born militant:
screamed
when the world first touched me,
slapped me into life.

Measles, mumps, and scarlet fever
stalked me to school,
envied my blackboard stardom,
dragged me homeward from my inkwell
to test my fighting back.
I had battle scars at nine.

Retilo Remos taught me to curse
like Mexicans
pushed into worm—thin boxcars
(their homes that smoked and scowled back--
cocoons across the railroad tracks),
while words my father's Blackness bated
chewed my homework pencil,
hardened my grip.

Gang-war trampled my seasons,
aging me in its schoolrooms, armies, offices, bedrooms:
the same Black lessons smearing each desk, each day, each year,
the same merciless faces reddening the mud,
the same outmaneuvered hands crumpling the memorandums,
the same passionless asses printing lies on clean linen.

At last, this voiceful hour
bursts me out of a lifelong cave,
sticks me upright and formal
among delicate eavesdroppers,
my brittle memories the strength,
the need,
to lift this club
in my hands.