My Mother Was a Freedom Fighter

by Aja Monet

  and woman, is a sort of magic you cannot hashtag.

  the mere weight of it, too vast to be held. we hold

  ourselves, an inheritance felt between the hips

  woman of soft darkness. portal of light, watch them

  envy the revolution of our movement. we break

  open to give life flow. why the terror of our tears,

  torment of our taste. my rage is righteous. my love

  is righteous. my name is righteous. hear what i am

  not here to say, we, too, have died. we know we are

  dying, too. i am not here to say, look at me, how i

  died so brutal a death, i deserve a name to fit all

  the horror in. i am here to tell you, how if they

  mention me in their protests and their rallies,

  they would have to face their role in it, too, my

  beauty, too. i died many times before the blow

  to the body. i have bled many months before

  bullet to the flesh. we know the body is not the

  end. call it what you will but for all the hands,

  cuffed wrists of us, shackled ankles of us, the

  bend over to make room for you of us, how dare

  we speak anything less than i love you. we who

  love just as loudly in the thunderous rain as when

  the sun shines golden on our skin and the world

  kissed us unapologetically. we be so beautiful

  when we be. how you gon be free without me?

  your freedom tied up with mine at the nappy

  edge of our soul singing with all our sisters. watch

  them stretch their arms in my voice, how they

  fly open-chested toward your ear, listen for

  Rekia Boyd

  Tanisha Anderson

  Yvette Smith

  Aiyana Jones

  Kayla Moore

  Shelly Frey

  Miriam Carey

  Kendra James

  Alberta Spruill

  Tarika Wilson

  Shereese Francis

  Shantel Davis

  Malissa Williams

  Darnisha Harris

  Michelle Cusseaux

  Pearlie Golden

  Kathryn Johnston

  Eleanor Bumpurs

  Natasha McKenna

  Sheneque Proctor

  Sandra Bland

  we are each saying,

  we do not vanish in the bated breath of

  our brothers. show me, show me a man

  willing to fight beside me, my hand in his,

  the color of courage. there is no mountaintop

  worth seeing without us. meet me

  in the trenches, where we lay

  our bodies down

  in the valley

  of a voice

  say itsayhername

  cook county

  it used to be two hots and a cot

  now it’s one hot meal a day

  each day is different around here

  i was visiting the women’s jail

  it was a Friday and everyone is

  always in a better mood,

  a woman fans herself with

  a copy of her sonogram. stenciled

  on the wall, it reads, “it’s never too late

  to be what you might have been.” this

  moment to share, rock bottom soul.

  a sister hesitates to the front of the room

  singing, his eye is on the sparrow.

  they call her Black but her name is

  Bermy. a voice that never leaves you,

  ancient as a newborn kicking sound

  in the air, all the cells shake loose.

  her song rinsed and cleansed

  somehow we left a bit more defiant,

  ready for whatever was ahead.

  though our wounds were hidden,

  our healing was there, bright and brilliant

  for all of us to love in.

  i’m just doing my job

  is not an answer or solution or remedy

  is not what you say

  is not how you respond

  is not professional or kind or noble

  is not a prayer or lending a hand

  is not a sermon

  is not a law

  is not an offering

  is not altruistic or people-spirited

  is not protecting

  is not comforting

  is not listening or seeing or doing

  is not enuff

  just doing my job

  is not a being

  dark matter

  dont let anything

  or any one

  snatch you

  out of happiness

  which

  in all honesty(as opposed to selling something)

  is gratitude

  how many times

  a day

  do you say

  thank you

  instead of

  assault

  at a head

  how ready

  the heart for

  values that can not

  be measured

  by the dollar

  or advertisement

  which is my master

  and yours too

  in all honesty(had that been something of value)

  there are no gods

  in America

  unless of course

  your god

  is green and greedy

  complicit and complacent

  compliant and easily compromised

  it would ease

  so many in their conscience

  if i say

  money is not

  the enemy

  yet

  who are we kidding

  don’t we already know

  enemies aren’t real

  except perceived

  threats

  so you mean to

  tell me

  you worship

  your heart

  or your Jesus

  or your Allah

  or your Jehovah

  are you sure

  there isn’t something else

  guiding you each day

  out the door

  toward a perceived purpose

  and what would you be doing

  had money no business

  NYC tells me

  one hour of the average

  human being’s life is worth

  $7.25

  what is $7.25 to a dollar

  if a dollar is only a piece of paper

  which is only a representation

  of value we don’t actually have

  anything to show for

  except what we purchased

  which is only the value

  we give it

  except what we give is measured

  by what we take and call valuable

  where is all the gold

  these banks claim to represent

  i wish i could tell you

  about some kind of

  inner gold

  you possess

  but i’m still

  digging for mine

  as if i could own

  what’s inside me

  as if it’s not part of

  something greater than

  matter, or sight, or this english

  which limits the agreements

  we can make together about

  our existence here

  together

  in 2012

  scientists claimed they found

  the god particle

  this question

  this troubling missing factor

  of our weight

  our hold

  our value

  they claim and yet

  we have no evidence

  except the collision of values

  most of what we know

  and how we see ourselves

  is determined by five western countries

  five of w
hich determine

  value by how well they kill

  others.

  and we out here screaming

  black lives

  matter

  as in exist or take up space

  atoms

  molecules

  as in mass

  ain’t there some funny irony there

  i am starting to believe

  that this is all we value

  is each other’s death

  more than life

  and if life so valuable

  how come

  how so

  it’s not lost on me

  that death is part of life

  some die so others live

  but who is doing all the dying

  exactly

  at the expense of all this living

  are

  you

  really

  being?

  black joy

  joy is the will

  is the dimple that has endured

  a dance so deep in a dark cheek

  a wound without a scar

  without a trace

  is the humor of hurt

  is the hell of being healed

  joy daps death

  lives in the grin

  singing from the blood

  bathes in a smirk

  testifies tenderness in a tear

  is a smile silhouetted against the face

  witnessing the want

  is the flower in the grenade

  a rose in the concrete

  a pirouette beside a barricade

  is the butterfly in the battlefield

  is disarming

  is the swing set in the middle of a gunfight

  is dodging a bullet

  is hopscotch and double dutch

  a fierce gaze, the side eye, the shade

  is the sass, snap, and the head nod

  is the turn up, the swag

  joy is righteous and ratchet

  joy twerks and taps, jooks and jives

  harlem shakes, electric slides, dutty wines

  salsas on two and rumbas

  joy is rhythm and repetition

  hums in harmony

  is the blues

  is a song in a cotton field

  or central bookings

  or on a crowded subway

  joy is a song anywhere

  joy bes in the trap

  is a dilla beat in the middle east

  is fly

  is finger-licking good

  is pasteles with black beans

  or a patty and coco bread

  is fried chicken

  with bbq sauce

  or buffalo sauce

  or hot sauce

  or any sauce

  is a recipe passed on

  a language that survives

  savory and sweet

  toe curling

  knocking boots

  is the fight and the fury

  is making love to make up

  is the glow

  is an entire day in a lover’s arms,

  a carton of ice cream and a bed of books

  illuminated in the aftermath

  is wrinkled lips, a pouted kiss, the shivering hips

  the theater of thunder

  joy is a story traveling thru laughter

  a rocking chair on the front lawn

  a wind chime in a window

  is a barbeque in the backyard

  subwoofers in a hoopty

  melanin gathered in a room

  is the entourage

  is getting your friends in the club

  joy is all about vibes

  is a roof over your head

  clothes on your back

  is free 99

  is havin the rent when its due

  or havin no rent at all

  is no debt or no credit check

  joy is shooting dice in a stairway

  is getting a hand in spades

  or a double six capicu in dominoes

  is hoops in a crate

  is opening a fire hydrant in the heat

  joy is a six-block willy through traffic with no handlebars in the rain

  is the catwalk

  is the voguing

  is the coming out

  joy is a crackhead with a dime bag and a dream

  is a fresh pair of white kicks with the check

  bottle caps glued beneath dress shoes

  is three dollars in the tank

  is catchin rain water in a tin cup

  is a firefly in your palm

  is buying sunflowers for yourself on a cloudy day

  is a moon in the sky as if in a school play

  is your father in the audience

  joy is skipping school or recess

  is a screen without static aluminum foil antenna

  is when the belt buckle snaps or the switch breaks or your mom gets too tired

  is waving down the ice cream truck

  is a fresh line up and a clean doobie

  is the perfect coil to a curl or a loosened nap and an afro pick

  joy is the gift of gab

  is rappin yo ass off

  is roasting or wrestling a sibling to tap out

  is yo mama jokes until it’s yo mama

  is the first foot out the jail, the homecoming, graduation

  is the step show at the probate

  joy is hugging the self, what conquers the heart and captures the blame

  is the madness of our meaning, the maturity of our memory

  the irony of our forgetting

  is a helicopter four days after the hurricane on roof with no water or food

  is a mother picking her daughter up from foster care

  is smoking a joint and a cop car switching lanes

  is food stamps on the first of month

  is no snitching, is loyalty, perseverance, protest, resilience, and resistance

  is the food after the funeral or the parade

  the blessing and the curse

  joy is the call and response

  the prayer and the pulpit

  is evidence of things unseen

  is the hallelujah, the amen, and the holy ghost

  is speaking in tongues

  is when the santo say u don’t need a cleaning

  is genetic heirloom

  is the portable promised land

  is the diaspora

  is making it overseas or making it over the mason-dixon line

  is family, brotherhood and sisterhood

  is feeling another’s dimple in your face

  is together, unified on the frontlines

  our joy will astonish the world cuz joy

  true joy

  is justice.

  it is what it was

  when your president bails

  out the banks

  not the students,

  it don’t make no difference

  if he’s black or blue

  all you care about is

  how much

  money you got

  before

  you overdraft your account

  for reading books and writing essays

  and all you got to show for it is garnished checks,

  cups of noodles, fancy friends,

  and terms your family don’t understand

  they just wanna know why you got two degrees

  and no health care and no decent income

  i tell them, i got all the ways of talking about the problem

  but no way to make solutions

  so dear mr. crazy foreign policies, false flags,

  war

  and propaganda, mr. GMOs, chemtrails, drones,

  and deportations, dear mr. false hopes and bamboozled

  dreams, mr. osama bin laden and gaddafi killer,

  mr. no power to close gitmo while chastising black folk

  to defend your white cousins,

  we know trayvon could’ve been your son

  sad thin
g is, he was

  he was you, too.

  survival of the richest

  windows caked in dust

  empty towns riven into sharp

  screams and cold smog

  unemployed

  no one can afford the roof

  over they head

  trudging through meadows of marsh

  lamenting drudgery

  making due with this country

  there is no middle class anymore

  never was

  only high or low

  very low

  so low

  you look down and fallin ain’t nothin but a step

  in the wrong direction

  so close to the ground ain’t so bad

  ain’t so alone

  it’s the whim of people

  make you feel a way about life

  we live by the law

  of strangers who commit

  silent deeds

  they define us

  day by day

  starkville city jail

  for johnny cash

  before it was called starkville, it was boardtown.

  before it was boardtown, it was dancing rabbit creek.

  chocktaw nation, where land was more than who owned it.

  before the trail of tears or treaties and jails and courthouses,

  there were dandelions and daisies,

  magnolia trees, beetles

  bees, buzzing of music

  creatures of nature

  maybe it was native bloodchanting

  johnny heard that day

  maybe it was flowers weeping

  beneath his drunken stumble

  maybe he slipped and fell into a bed

  of bluegrass, he woke handcuffedrusset in mud

  the ground swept from under his feet.

  where is home? maybe he saw

  this country for what it was

  that day, a series of silly laws

  trying to negotiate the earth and whenhe tried

  to sing, his voice could only murmur

  drenched in spirits surrounded by steel

  bars. prison is a state of mind. maybefor a moment he was

  the great-grandson of chief mosholatubbee.

  a brave heart. a rebel,listening

  to the language of land

  or it’s quite possible he was nothing

  more than stupid-drunk and the reservation was his soul

  no matter where he went

  he felt displaced

  found home in a bottle of whiskey

  thirty-six dollars broker than before, holding

  the body of a guitar like the trunk of a tree

  longing to return to the soil,

  the way he plucked those strings

  like flowers, wind between branches