What Pace???

Commentator Charles Blow asked a very potent question last week on a panel led by Anderson Cooper following the Trayvon Martin decision. "What do I tell my son? What pace is safe for him, as a black man, to walk?
Mr. Blow's question weighed heavy on my heart, this poem came from that weighty uncertainty.

What Pace?   

                            

What is the pace that a Black Man should walk

in order not to seem a threat?

Strolling on a tightrope across the racial Niagara Falls  

Carefully displaying the measure of his soul…

Black fathers pass their history along,

Survival skills must be taught…

Be careful my sons,

Be careful to pace just right.

Don’t run too fast…

You might lose your life.

Don’t walk too slow…

You might frighten others.

Don’t skip…                                                                                

Skipping is too playful.

Something might be wrong with that.

You’ll be suspect!

“Why?”  The sons reply

Because you are born Black,

For reasons we do not understand,

Your beautiful, Black, God given skin frightens the White man.

Don’t let them know how smart you are,

You’ll be called ‘uppity’,

And you might not get a job.

If you are slow to do something you will be ‘lazy’.

If you react too fast, you’ll be called ‘crazy’.

Over educated…  Under educated…

Any excuse will be just right

When it is uttered by the Right White.

So my son, to save your life,

…. Pace Yourself…

Copyright 2013 by Elaine T. Jones

  www.elainetjones.com   

My sadness for the Martin family this week made me want to cry, and as I witnessed Trayvon's mother's strength I remembered this poem I wrote many years ago.

When Can I Cry?  ©  Elaine Jones 2005  (version 1)

When I was one year,
I fell and skinned my knee.
My mother hugged me. She said “Don't cry.”

When I was ten years,

I got beat up at school.

The teacher gently said “Don't cry.”

When I was twenty years,

I lost my true love.
Friends gathered round. They said, “Don't cry.”
When I was thirty years,
my mother, then my father died.
My pastor told me - they are in a better place “Don't cry”

When I was forty, my alcoholic husband [wife] left.

Everyone said - you'll have a better life “Don't cry.”

When I was fifty years, my young daughter took an overdose,
The social worker said, you did your best “Don't cry”

When I was sixty my dearest son was killed in war,

The president sent me a letter,
 it said I had a son who was very brave “Don't cry”

When I was seventy years, I was broke…

no money - couldn't buy oil for heat.

Wall Street journal said…

Things will get better, “Don't cry.”

When I was eighty years, I lost my home. I had nowhere to go,

I'm all alone… Can't cry
And now at ninety I lie here…
Waiting…

Waiting to be buried…

I just want to know...  When?
When can I cry???