Black Boy Poems

by Tyson Amir

  One of the most memorable events I recall from my childhood took place when I was about ten years old. Nelson Mandela had just been released from prison and started a world tour calling on leaders of nations to aid in the South African fight against apartheid. I was excited because my household had been practicing a boycott of all companies that supported the apartheid regime. My parents would call out brand names as we walked through stores and explain how they supported the apartheid that was hurting our South African brothers and sisters. We would not spend money on those products to help them hurt our people. I learned the power of boycott early on. To this day, I boycott some companies who sent money to apartheid South Africa.

  Mandela was free, and it seemed like the entire world was rejoicing in his release. He was to speak in Oakland at the Coliseum on his tour, and my parents made sure we were there to witness history. I don't remember much of his message, but I know we sat close to the front of the stage, and I stood up on my seat and raised the black power fist that was the symbol of Mandela's organization, the African National Congress (ANC). Mandela acknowledged my fist with a point and a nod. One of the greatest freedom fighters of the twentieth century shared some of his revolutionary energy with me. The light from this son of South Africa, the pride of the Xhosa and Thembu, the future president of the Republic of South Africa, shined forth black and proud. He shared some of that revolutionary shine with me, and I absorbed it all like melanin skin absorbs sunlight.

  Another memory that shaped my revolutionary childhood took place on an August evening in 1989. My sister, Kira, and I were doing homework when a story appeared on the five o'clock news. I wasn't watching the television, so the name drifted from the voice on the screen and filtered through my ears. I had heard the name many times before and a face appeared in my head. The voice from the television was telling me that the name and face that was in my head had been shot and killed earlier that day in West Oakland. The man was Huey P. Newton.

  Without much conversation or prompting, my father gathered us up in his brand new but always about to break down Chrysler with license plate reading Finn2Go, and we made a forty-minute drive up to west Oakland. Throngs of folks were already on the scene: Some were helping to create a vigil to honor the passing of our fallen soldier, brother, and comrade; others were crying in disbelief. That memory is still vivid for me to this day, and the hurt and pain in the people present on the scene was heavy. I recall seeing what I thought were traces of his blood still visible on the street. At that early age I could not understand the depth of the message of Dr. Huey P. Newton and the Black Panther Party but I knew they fought and many died or were incarcerated for the sake of my people. I would later come to understand some of the philosophy of Huey, he had coined the term "Revolutionary Suicide," which could be described as living and dying for the people in a way that advances the struggle for liberation. We will all die, but not all of us will truly live lives that honor our people and our commitment to the struggle. Although Huey's death was tragic, his legacy would live on, and that day was the first time I learned to mourn for a fallen comrade.

  My teenage years added more depth to the lessons I was to receive as a black boy in America. My parents still did all they could to keep me in the comfort and safety of the black community. I attended Black Nationalists’ rites of passage programs where I learned black politics, black economics, and other skills for surviving America as a black boy who would hopefully one day grow to become a black man. We attended just about every event that had something to do with blackness on the West Coast, including black plays, concerts, festivals, and National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) gatherings; we were regulars at the black cultural center; and eventually Kwanzaa slowly replaced the remnants of Christmas celebrations in our home. We were raised at the epicenter of blackness and consciousness, guaranteeing that there was no possible way that my sister and I would ever not know that we were black.

  High School Years

  My entire freshmen year in high school I spent listening to a collection of speeches by Malcolm X. Folks would see me on the 71 bus riding down White Road with my headphones bumping some Malcolm from 1962. I studied his accent and cadence; I was enthralled by the way he would articulate the plight and condition of the so-called "Negro" people in America. I would sit in the hallways before class and write speeches to America about how she was currently treating her black sons and daughters. Maybe my classmates had similar thoughts and were creating a similar collection of essays and speeches; it is possible, but I knew in my thirteen-year-old body that I was very black and proud, and that America had to be told about the wrongs she was committing against my brothers and sisters. I knew that I had been drafted into a struggle that predated my existence and that I would eventually play a role in this fight. Unquestionably and unapologetically black, and constantly exuding blackness, I would play my role when my contribution was demanded of me.

  It was pretty much assumed that I would attend an Historically Black College or University (HBC or HBCU). Like many black students, one of the highlights of my high school career was being sent on black college tours to showcase the excellence of the Historically Black College experience. Carl Ray was a community organizer, activist, author, and comedian who would host college tours for Bay Area students. He graduated from Tuskegee University and showed a little bias for Tuskegee because our longest stay on the trip was at his alma mater. I didn't mind at all; I soaked up all the blackness I could find at every stop we made on the tour.

  Before going on the trip, I already wanted to attend an HBC(U); it was fulfillment of the plan that was laid out for me. Once completing the trip, there was no doubt in my mind that I would not go anywhere other than an HBC(U). I was so certain that I would attend an HBC(U) that when approaching graduation from high school, I only applied to one school, Morehouse College. I wanted to attend the historic and hallowed halls of Morehouse; no other college or university mattered. It was Morehouse or bust.

  The happiest and saddest moments in my young life occurred on the same day. Morehouse said it wanted me. After reading those words, I was picturing myself walking the grounds of the campus with all the other brothers I'd meet. I thought about the beautiful sisters I would see at Spelman College, too. I rushed home and shared the letter with my parents and learned that the package Morehouse was offering me wasn't going to be enough to allow me to attend. Just like that, I had to say goodbye to the dream I had been holding onto for what seemed like my entire life. I can't describe the pain of that moment. Morehouse seemed so close; I was holding in my hand my letter of acceptance, but finances denied me my chance at realizing that dream. Growing up as a kid here in America, it is hard not to be inspired by predominantly white colleges and universities with exciting athletic programs. I cheered on certain college teams, but the excitement went no further than that; I had no desire to attend any of those schools. I wanted to assume my position next to the educated black men and women who were the proud byproducts of so many historical black institutions. In a matter of seconds, that dream was snatched away from me. I didn't quite understand why; I thought I had done something wrong. Somewhere in the process, I must've missed a step. It was supposed to work out for me to attend Morehouse. I was destined to be a Morehouse man, but apparently my destiny was to lead me down another path.

  This was the first time I actually felt like I failed at something in life. Consequently, it was also the first time I began to search for wisdom and blessings in the moment. I don't know what path I would've ended up on had I gone to Morehouse. I would like to think that I would've been successful at whatever I chose to do. That I would've found a way to take part in the struggle and help advance the cause of my people as well. However, none of that was to be. I tucked my dream of Morehouse away and started taking steps down the road that would eventually bring me here.

  After dealing with the heartbreak of losing Morehouse, I decided I would stay local. My path would be to atten
d San Jose City College and then transfer to San Jose State University. The spirit of revolution was still on my side because SJSU is arguably the birthplace of one of the most lasting symbols of the Black Liberation Movement. In the summer of 1968, two SJSU students named Tommie Smith and John Carlos made an emphatic gesture on the medal stand in Mexico City. Dr. Harry Edwards is known as the founder of the Olympic Project for Human Rights that initially called for all black athletes to boycott the ’68 Olympics and then eventually facilitated discussion and debate around how to use the Olympic platform for voicing a political message. Smith and Carlos both took the medal stand shoeless in black socks to symbolize black poverty and raised their fists clothed in black gloves for human rights and in solidarity with the Black Power struggle.

  Smith would later go on to say about his 200-meter victory and protest on the medal stand: "If I win, I am American, not a black American. But if I did something bad, then they would say I am a Negro. We are black, and we are proud of being black. Black America will understand what we did tonight."

  SJSU was one of the breeding grounds for the spirit that helped contribute to that movement, and I planned to immerse myself in every remaining revolutionary particle on the campus.

  It was my time at SJSU that allowed me to focus more on my music and experiment with poetry. Saying good-bye to Morehouse and eventually to playing basketball afforded me the time to concentrate my energies on my art. I actually wrote my first poem on the encouragement of one of my instructors. That poem is where Black Boy Poems begins. When I picked up my pen that day to write, I knew a few things; I knew I was already a proud member of a storied people in America. I knew the strength and power of my people. I also knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was a Black Boy, replete with all the potential, challenges, greatness, fears, anxieties, and promises. I was black in America, a land that has practiced an unbridled hate for my kind for centuries. I knew I was one of the fighters selected to carry forth the banner of struggle for my people. All of this was present in my heart, mind, body, and soul on that day I put proverbial pen to paper to write. I am a black boy, I will forever be a black boy, I am blessed and thankful to be a black boy. My name is Tyson Amir, a black boy in America, and these are my poems for my people.

  Overview of the Text

  In Black Boy Poems I use my raps and poetry in conjunction with various social, historical, political, cultural, and academic analyses to speak on the state of black life in America and make an emphatic statement on the need for revolutionary action to safeguard the present and future of black people the world over. This is not simply a collection of poetry. This is a work that truly endeavors to harness the original revolutionary power of the hip hop art form and use it to spread healing and inspire the spirit of 66, that revolutionary fervor that led to the Black Panther Party for Self Defense.

  The presence and importance of hip hop in this text cannot be overstated. There is no cultural medium more powerful than hip hop in the world today. This generation which finds itself under attack for being black in the Western world consumes information and media differently than the civil rights and black liberation generations. If a revolutionary message is to be crafted, it has to be done in a language the people can understand. We were raised off complex rhyme schemes and punchlines that blew our minds. It is quite possible that we learn as much, and possibly more through social media and song, than "traditional" learning experiences. Point blank, there can be no revolution without hip hop playing an essential role. This is the first revolutionary manifesto produced by hip hop.

  My approach in this work is formulaic. I begin each chapter with an original composition, either a poem or lyrics from a song. I've selected fifteen different pieces that span 17 years of writing to feature as windows into the black experience. Each composition is followed by brief reflections or quotes that provide a segue between the poetry and main text in the chapters. The main text in each chapter will expand on the content and subject matter of the poems/lyrics and segue selection. Upon completion of the main body of the text I added an additional chapter in response to the killing of a student of mine, Mario Woods. I finish off the book with a conclusion of sorts to synthesize the major points made in the book and focus them once again to reiterate the main point of the text, the need for revolutionary action to secure the freedom and liberation of black people.

  What primarily informs my writing is my existence in America as a black man. I simultaneously embody multiple experiences that contribute to my life and my art, but my first lens as a writer is that of a black man. I know that the concept of race or human beings representing different races is scientific fiction. Race is the brainchild of ideologically blinded pseudo-scientists who sought to justify their flawed worldview through a gross misappropriation of the scientific method. I know that the terms "white" and "black" are false constructs that have no true meaning in any real scientific understanding of the world. This is what makes the sting of racism that much more painful to bear because the premise for all that will be discussed in this text is rooted in a social fallacy supported by greedy individuals clinging to outdated prejudiced "science."

  Differences attributed to simple minute shifts in the allele of a person's genetic makeup are not what should grant one access to a privileged existence and force others into a third-class existence. None of us is able to choose what we will be at birth. Some of us have the means and privilege to change our characteristics, but from birth we are biologically what we come out of the womb with. Western society has valued certain qualities over others, and as a result doles out differential treatment to members of specific social groups, be they gender-, race-, or ability-specific. I know for a fact that "race" is scientifically and biologically false. This is a fact the scientific community attests to, but I also know all too well that this once-scientific fact, which is now largely viewed as a social fabrication, is responsible for millions of deaths, injuries, traumas, and my people's continued social torments in America and the larger Western world.

  Purpose of This Book

  The stories that follow are authentic depictions of the black experience from my vantage point. I'm writing in the early part of the 21st century but the reality for blacks in this country in many ways is the same as if I were writing in the early 20th or 19th century. The racism that existed during the days of chattel slavery is still here. The devaluation of black life that was written into the constitution is still with us. The disenfranchisement of blacks is evident almost everywhere you look in the western world. All of this means that our fight goes on. I've been asked numerous times whom I write for. First, I write for myself. It is a clichéd response, but for me it is a very true response. It is imperative I give voice to these stories that have manifested in me. Part of the imperative is for self-healing. My cousin Prentice Powell, who is actually the best poet in our family, said this in one of his pieces:

  “Being a black man in America

  is to be a black man in America.

  And unless you are a black man in America,

  You will never understand what it's like

  to be a black man in America.

  But please, don't pity us,

  Envy us.

  We are whole pieces of broken.

  Some too shattered to care,

  and some just trying to put the pieces back together.”

  This writing is one of the ways that I'm trying to take these "whole pieces of broken" and put them back together. That is why, first and foremost, the “whom” I write for is me. There is plenty of pain in the black experience, and that pain has to be exorcised in a healthy way. If nothing else, I am an optimist. I have to synthesize what I see, feel, and experience, and filter it through a matrix that allows me to still remain positive and believe that change is possible. Like many artists before me, my art and my writing are an important part of that process. The synthesis becomes cathartic for me as the processing allows me to go from coping with pain to making it a tool for
learning and healing that can be shared with others. This is where the artistic process becomes transformative; it's borderline alchemic. The artist is able to take the raw elements of feelings and emotions and convert them into a powerful healing force and share it with the world. This is the alchemy in the artistry. The evolved artist/alchemist knows that story, when transmitted from heart to heart, carries the potential to change the world. It is the responsibility of the initiated to wield that power wisely.

  Second, I write for my people. These are stories for and about black people. Being as clear and as unapologetic as possible, I do not write for White America. This compilation of work is for healing, empowerment, strategy, critical analysis, awareness, and paradigm shifting in the minds of black people worldwide, especially my brothers and sisters here in America. To accomplish this, the message of the text will be written in the language/vernacular of my people. This text could've easily been written in a more Western/academic form, but I am not interested in praise from the world of academia. I'm interested in the freedom of my people. Channeling the spirit of “The Dragon,” George Jackson, this piece of work is not literature; it's a weapon for the liberation of my people. My people are my family; in our intimate closeness, we speak with relaxed tongues; this allows the message to penetrate heart, body, mind, and soul. It's not to make some “institution of higher learning” look good, or earn respect in the eyes of an “educated” elite. This is about freedom and liberation, everything else is of no importance.

  The language of the youth and the people is hip-hop. That is why rap and spoken word feature so prominently in this work. It's a siren sound that goes out, summoning the ears of the people. Once ears are open, they must be fed with a potent message tailored specifically for them.