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Children's Poem

Ursula Rucker
Language: English


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Una spoken song ("una preghiera, una supplica, un lamento, un canto funebre") dedicata ai bambini, neri e bianchi, negli USA, oggi... Schiavizzati, violentati, uccisi, ignorati, spaventati...


Margaret Walker, cui si fa riferimento nella canzone, è stata una grande poetessa e scrittrice afro-americana. Originaria dell'Alabama, si laureò in letteratura nel 1935 (ma dovette frequentare l'università in Illinois) e fu poi docente di letteratura alla Jackson State University del Mississippi dal 1949 al 1979 (cavolo, che donna!). La sua poesia più famosa resta "For My People", scritta ad appena 22 anni, nel 1937 e già celebrativa del "black proud":

"Per il mio popolo che canta dovunque i suoi canti di schiavitù, ripetutamente: le sue nenie funebri e le sue malinconie e le sue canzonette e i suoi inni d’esultanza, che leva ogni notte le sue preghiere a un dio sconosciuto, piegando umilmente le ginocchia dinanzi a una potenza occulta.....Per il mio popolo accalcato nella 47ma Strada a Chicago e a Lenox Avenue a New York e in Rampart Street a New Orleans, perduto diseredato spogliato e gli "allegri" che riempiono le bettole e le taverne e le tasche altrui e abbisognano di pane e scarpe e latte e terra e denaro e di qualche cosa, qualcosa che appartenga solo a noi.... Sorga una terra nuova. Nasca un mondo diverso. Sia scritta nel cielo una pace di sangue. Arrivi una seconda generazione piena di coraggio, maturi un popolo amante della libertà, pulsi nelle nostre anime e nel sangue una bellezza piena di sanità e una forza conclusiva. Si scrivano canti di guerra, tacciano le nenie funebri. Sorga ora una razza d’uomini!"
Hey, my name is not Protocol
And I ain't nobody's stigma or statistic
Hey, hey lady, you know who you are.
You think you helpin' me by insertin' me into the system.
You think you know me.
Just another little black boy needs savin'
Well, my mama loves me, I'll have you know
You don't love me
You don't even know me
You don't know my black life
My parents black love
Black struggle
My black history
My black community
My mama said slavery is alive and well
I didn't believe her, but she was right
Cause you ain't nothin' but the plantation mistress,
wearing America's corset pulled way too tight,
two sizes too small
Master's slave, same as us,
just privileged and frigid
Lookin' down on me from your cold bedroom window,
watchin' master walk to my mama's door
Resentful YOU
Hateful YOU
Hating me under the guises of helping me
Do-gooder YOU
YOU BITCH, YOU
I call you out of your name
I call you out of your name

No, this is not just another poem about children
Or
Just another poem
It is a prayer
A plea
A lament
A dirge, if you will
A dirge in the spirit of Margaret Walkers' "For My People"
But, this is for my children
This is for our children

Some ones take Monday afternoon walks with mamas steppin' only in shadowless spaces on pavements
Happy
Loved
Some ones step into shadowed spaces to hide
From mamas who are fiending
Mama's boyfriends who are creamin' in their pants for little girls kisses
Little boys' hands to hold
Endangered, so unloved
Some ones sleep soundly in mini-van car seats
Sunlight streaming on little baby faces…warm
Visions of mommy milk floating in their little baby brains

And then some ones have to put up with us
Cussin' and tusslin' about some dumb stuff
Burdening their little ears and eyes with our mistakes, our sins
Weighting their little hearts heavy with worry
Snuffing out their light, their innocence, way too soon
Suffer the children
Suffer our hopes
and our future

Two missing girls found slain in Zion
Buried in the backyard of a trailer park in Florida
Limp in a basement of an abandoned building in North Philly
Little legs and arms and big child dreams
Stuffed into a drain pipe on the roof of a tenement, somewhere in this crazy place
Miseducated in a classroom with no room for art…or the truth
What we gonna do?
Keep idly watchin' the news as some ones
So many sons and daughters get driveby'd
Video-ho'd
Pedifiled
Mainstreamed
Short-changed
Murdered
Molested
Misunderstood, misunderstood
Face all up on the news
Kid meal of the minute for media mass consumption
And we cry
And hmm…hmm…hmmm
And "did you hear about…"
And lick our fingers
And we don't leave nothing for the worms
Not gristle or bone or nothing
And them we digest em
Shit em out
And forget em
Until the next hottest tragedy du jour
What we gonna go?
Hug em, love em when they feel numb
Protect but not shelter them
Encourage
Uplift
Hear them
Give them options
Please, give them options
Celebrate them
Be tough when necessary
What we gonna do?
You better get out there and go pull your sweet little 12-year old up off her knees
Tell her she don't have to suck no boy's dick to keep him
Fuck that
What we gonna do indeed
Whatever we gotta
Whatever we gotta
To be continued...

Contributed by Alessandro - 2009/8/26 - 09:38



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