Poverty Pond, what a lonely drink of water.
Does your name tell a story?
Or, has the richness of a thrashed season…stole the glory.
Gaps in the gleam and the glare…illusions of seeming to care.
What would you know of fanfare?
Black as a demon from a stolen heart.
Ugliness sinking from your lost cause.
Where have the ripples revealed all the flaws?
I saw the kiss by Michael Sam..
It made me mad–he kissed a man!
That’s something I don’t want to see
It’s wrong, unnatural, and it’s not just me.
Many now say, “Homosexuality is OK.”
But God says there’s a better way.
He made men for women, and women for men.
So why are “gays” so prideful then?
Please, no public same-sex kisses, Michael Sam.
We don’t want to see this man-on-man! […]
I do not mean to pick a fight
When I say most Blacks don’t think homosexuality’s a “civil right.”
Far from a “right,” Michael. In fact, it’s wrong.
Must I put this in a song?
Michael shot back: “Not wrong at all, it’s who I am!
“I’m gay. My name is Michael Sam.”
“God made me black and blessed me with gayness.”
Blessed you?! Then why are so many diseases linked to “sex” in the anus?
No, God made you black–not ‘gay,’” said I.
“You’ve chosen to believe a lie!”
You can’t change your skin color, that’s a fact.
But homosexuality? That’s only an act.
Unabashedly and most likely, without malice; When my mother had been asked…
“Aren’t you proud of your gay daughter?”
She held a simple response…
“Actually, at first, I felt embarrassed and ashamed! It’s not that I didn’t love her. It just took me awhile to get over the idea…it wasn’t right!”
The polite and always pleasant woman had known me for many years. She ran a register. I had been a constant customer. And, somehow, our worlds began to collide. On the street, in the market, online, etc.
She had just lost her husband to cancer. And, I had been an open ear. I had been through the strife of holding my lover’s hand…during the blinding and confining whirl of emotional chaos.
She, and I, and my partner, had seen the bowels of poverty, pain and suffering. We fell to the ground, each of us….And, managed with earnestness and will to get back up!
So in retrospect, what began as an anonymous relationship…Flourished into a kinship of womanhood.
Yet, unfortunately, I had anticipated my mother’s answer. And, also projected the ‘let down’ appearance on my friend’s face.
This memory always, always, and hopefully forever, brings me to peering into the history of woman’s struggle to survive.
‘Whatever the theories may be of woman’s dependence on man, in the supreme moments of her life he can not bear her burdens. Alone she goes to the gates of death to give life to every man that is born into the world. No one can share her fears, no one can mitigate her pangs; and if her sorrow is greater than she can bear, alone she passes beyond the gates into the vast unknown.’
…the little courtesies of life on the surface of society…
utter insignificance in view of the deeper tragedies in which she must play her part alone, where no human aid is possible.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton
What is hate? Is it something that washes over us. Such as, a child’s play in a cool spring on a wet, sodden, summer’s day?
Is it disguised? An acronym? Perhaps, a left handed compliment?
She’s pretty cute for a big girl!?
Could it be that hate is how we are raised? Ingrained into the fabric of our young hearts! Red stitching to blue denim. Skinned knee that scars. A scar we are reminded of by those who love us?
‘How did you get that? Will it fade?’
Hate…has bothered me, more so, the last month or so.
I had been raised in hate.
I had seen hate come through as; insult, slap, push, punishment, words…
I abhor hate.
It has taken years to release the feel of a leather belt on my bare legs. The words of my mother…
‘You wait ’til your father gets home!’
The wire hairbrush that lost it’s purpose. The bristles against my Nubian skin. The wonder why.
I do not wave Rainbow Flags, like I used to. My days of marching…few. My need to display the anguish is more or less confined to a keyboard.
Not African American.
Just gay and a woman.
No matter. I am a product of hate. Consciously or not…I became the minority.
Coming out in the 1980’s; allowed me to witness such blind vengeance. Gay men oppressed for their illness. Lesbians thrown into a crowd of overtly bold…straight men. Watching the world circulate. Witnessing our lack of communication. Bowing down, on occasion, to the uncontrolled bias. Bias that will, mark my words, turn to hate.
On the shorter end of the stick, I still wonder this very simple notion.
‘How hard is it to love and let love?’
That is all!
‘When the world begins to slow. Is the hate and disrespect really worth it in the long run?’