a poem for my teenage nephew.

Spoken word from a Black auntie

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Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

I’m sorry I yelled.

I’m not angry at you,

It’s just some things you don’t understand about the world that I know all too well,

I could write the script verbatim,

but I’m sorry for spilling these graphic scenes on the doorstep of your innocence.

When that Black auntie rises in me,

That angst mixed with a dash of fear

I tend to become a boiling pot of anxiety

pouring all my American anger into your cup full of dreams this country has yet to poison

I’m still learning how to talk about race with you

and don’t get me wrong,

I love this Black skin we both inhabit

but I’ll be honest,

me and the other women in your life

have a habit of becoming angry when we talk about race.

remember when you called crying after your mother said you can’t walk to the store with your friend

a stuttering Black boy asking for an answer for what seems trivial

but when you called, your grandmother recalled a scene feared in every Black household,

A vivid image of your favorite basketball hoodie over your twists

a wide shot of your 6 ft form walking down a familiar road,

both blessing and curse

And her fingers tightened around the phone as she starts yelling, “They see you are a target.”

and I learned in this moment that sometimes in order to love a Black child into the future,

I have to traumatize you with the past

Fill your mind with PTSD through the faces of Black boys

who no longer discuss NBA 2K or Super Bowl Sundays

To remind you that your life is a flame that can be extinguished by the smallest voice screaming fire,

the tiniest threat of fear,

all from the Black skin you exist within.

There are consequences to a bag of Skittles and an Arizona iced tea

and though I wish we could allow you to be a child,

Black children always grow up too soon

like fast forwarding a film to the credits,

only to find out your favorite character has died.

And we love you too much to not be forceful,

in our anger, we just want to see you tomorrow,

to see you sack another quarterback

to throw rice at your wedding

instead of losing you to cops and robbers on a Saturday afternoon.

I yell because I see characteristics of lost Black boys hidden behind your eyes,

We yell because this is our first time raising a Black man

and that’s the scariest movie someone could ever write.

do you remember driving past that Black Lives Matter rally

after George Floyd was murdered?

you weren’t looking at me,

but I was looking at you,

and your hand slipped through the window and formed into a fist.

I didn’t tell you this,

but I cried later on that day for the man that society won’t see,

and I remember being angry about the threat that they think you will be.

- words for mekhi jamel

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What does Laraya like this week?

What I’m watching 📺: If you’re interested in the amazing world of spoken word poetry, you must’ve heard the name Black Chakra before. If you haven’t, allow me to introduce you to an unreal wordsmith that lives among us. This is one of my favorite poems by him ⤵️

I also experienced this poem below by Steven Willis live a couple months ago at a poetry competition in which he took second place. The video version doesn’t do the poem version justice, but it still needs to be shared.

ICYMI, here’s some past posts:

redefinition.

the embarrassment of vulnerability.

is love truly blind when it comes to Black women?

See you next week 🧡