Some dumb white woman, she hears you
with these poems for black hearts
photos of Malcolm’s hands raised to bless you
all black and strong in his image of
You
His words like darts that tore through my small, white world
my misunderstanding as a youth
not knowing how much, how deep, how wide
his heart that rose you above filthy cities
that his stride, his beat, his address
it was taken from you
the hope he gave, carrying it with every speech, raised arms, his own eyes
unifying you, beginning to overcome oppression
me young, not knowing why his death was significant
why your anger remained
I’ve aged, beginning to understand why, why, why
he is dead and vanished from us, all of us
but his words remain
Your words, Amiri, remain
not yet over, this struggle
some people asking, why do Black Lives Matter
holding platefuls of misunderstanding and ignorance
eating the diet they’ve been fed for entire lives
not engaging, not reading, or imbibing
but I hear you, and won’t stop
to what ends of the earth will it take for a collective sigh
of relief to exhale across it
for white men to stop calling you faggots
instead call you prince
listen, listen, listen
not to me, to You.
This poem is in response to Amiri Baraka’s “A Poem for Black Hearts.” His poem mourns the loss of Malcolm X, and struck me in its raw emotion at the loss of a Civil Rights figurehead. Clearly dedicated to the activist himself, Baraka writes, “for this he was killed, for saying and feeling and being/change, all collected hot in his heart.”
I first grasped the inhumanity of slavery during American History lessons in fourth grade. I was in Washington Elementary School in rural Valley City, ND. My great-grandparents had immigrated from Scandinavian countries in the early 1900’s, settling straightaway in the Midwest, where they would establish a lineage of farmers, from which both my parents came. And while I understood the gravity of what slavery had been, and even despised being white for the better part of that unit, I always held a sense of relief in knowing that my family hadn’t personally participated in the travesty. In a way, I felt a certain freedom from the ramifications slavery had on the ensuing oppression of African Americans in this country. Then again, I was only ten at the time.
A fellow writer recently said, this is the world we’ve inherited. What will we now do with it? As I’ve grown older, I’ve accepted the responsibility to contribute to the empowerment of marginalized groups. And while it’s tempting to offer my own voice and opinion, I’ve come to realize that listening is more important, that my voice should not always dominate, and how much I can learn from hearing another. I’m working on tempering it, and listening first before I contribute to the conversation.
This is why I wanted to respond to Amiri Baraka’s poem. Ironic, in a way, considering the sentiment I just posed. My hope, though, is to point readers back to his words, to let his voice resound on this issue. I mimicked his style in this poem, and even used some of his lines. It was difficult not to abide by standard grammatical rules, but my hope is that the sentiment of the lines can be grasped without them.
“And while it’s tempting to offer my own voice and opinion, I’ve come to realize that listening is more important, that my voice should not always dominate, and how much I can learn from hearing another. I’m working on tempering it, and listening first before I contribute to the conversation.”
I think this is a super important point that more than a few people need to take to heart. Expressing yourself, with your own voice, should never be a problem (it is, for better or for worse, Constitutionally guaranteed and a bedrock of our democratic society), but it turns out that other people have a voice too and we can learn something from them sometimes!
Perhaps we had had similar experiences writing our two poems. I did not want to write for Baraka, but I felt a powerful response to his words as well.
Your first line; is it a defensive response or acceding? Is the “dumb white woman” being used ironically or resignedly? I think you expressed an idea that you felt relief that your family wasn’t complicit in slavery; are our families, if they can say the same thing, still complicit if they didn’t outwardly protest? Part of what Malcolm X accomplished, I think, is waking up millions of white people who probably said “Well I disagree with it but it doesn’t affect me.” I think that kind of thinking permeates a lot of thinking today as well.
The first line of the poem is not meant to sound as aggressive as it does on my rereading of it. It was meant resignedly, but if I’d the opportunity for revision, that would be a part of the poem I’d revisit. I took the “dumb white” line specifically from Baraka’s poem, as it resounded with me when I read and then reread his poem. “Dumb” here should be taken for its literal definition : temporarily unwilling or unable to speak; lacking the human power of speech.
I enjoyed your poetic response to Bakara’s work. I know this is something you’re passionate about, and I look forward to your thoughts in class.