Some Response Poems

Reflections By the Book

I refuse to die.

Stretching my hands across these worlds, these words,

I’ve discovered a new language.

I’m sharpening my axes. Crossing my ts.

My tools are made of molten words and

this bridge I’m building belongs to me.

This bridge I’m building belongs to me.

My tools are made of molten words and

I’m sharpening my axes. Crossing my ts.

I’ve discovered a new language,

stretching my hands across these worlds, these words.

I refuse to die.

One Way Ticket to the Text

Mija, you can carry home in your back pocket.

Braid sage in your hair, bury yourself in gold.

I’ll always be with you.

But your flight’s in an hour and the other plane has already

taken off.

Safety is stagnation. I didn’t raise you to die without a fight.  

Go. Fly. And when you reach that new land you can

break it down

or

build it up

stone by stone.

I know you’ll do what’s right.

I know you’ll come back home.

Ode to Friendly Stacks Guy

or

Why Racialization Sucks

                A pretzel and I have a lot in common. We are both brown. We are both made up of mostly carbs. My favorite part of my birthday cake is being able to eat my name, so it’s only natural that my sandwich bread of choice is pretzel.

                I’m a simple girl with simple needs. Every day I go to Stacks, order a turkey sandwich on a pretzel bun with a little mayonnaise if I’m feeling adventurous. Not a back breaking order, but still I’ve never found myself beloved by the Stacks’ employees.

                Until you came into my life a few days ago, nice old white Stacks guy with a dragon tattoo. You're friendly, smile I me when I smile at you, never glare at me when I ask for Sun Chips, laugh at my order and say I’m easy to please. Finally, I thought to myself, a sandwich maker who gets me. You even compliment my dresses.

                Today, you took my order.

                “Where are you from?” you asked, so light hearted.  If you had a bigger belly, you would make a good Santa.

                “Oh, I’m from here,” I said, meaning West Michigan. I’m from Grand Rapids, but it’s so close to Kalamazoo it felt unnecessary to distinguish the two.

                “Oh, really!” he said with a grin, “What state?”

                “Michigan,” I answered, confused. I said I was from here. What did he think here meant?

                It wasn’t until I was loading my cup with pop that I realized.

                I’ve always known it’s wrong to judge someone by the color of their skin. That’s a no brainer. And it is definitely not something this class has taught me. But it wasn’t until Thursday that I realized how stupid it was. What made you decide, nice old Stacks man, that I didn’t belong in the category of American? What part of my body did you racialize?

                My light brown skin? My almond eyes? My dark hair?

                All traits of my ancestors who have lived here. Who predate your America.

                How arbitrary. How stupid. How did something so idiotic nestle so deep inside you? How did it leave me staring at my pretzel bun – extra turkey slice and all –

                fighting back tears,

                whispering,

                I’m from here, I’m from here, I’m from here.