We have enough people who are beautiful. We need more who are brave. We have enough people who are popular. We need more who are passionate and purposeful. We have enough people who are wild. We need more who are wise. We have enough people who are famous. We need more who are faithful. We have enough people who require rewards. We need more who require respect. We have enough people who are too afraid to fail. We need more who are courageous enough to fly.
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Nobody talks about society’s addiction to black trauma. How much more profitable it is to talk about pain than poems, depression than joy.
Like we don’t have feelings just bad experiences turned into songs of sorrows and spirituals of reaching heaven cause there can’t be no freedom here on Earth for Black people.
Maybe this world still doesn’t consider us human enough to be happy someone hand society a roadmap for getting to know black people.
Tell them they can find us laughing even when life is lifeing cracking jokes and turning sadness into praise. Tell them we are not just guns and gangs.
Our hope does not hang on by string on some cracked-out corner or trap house Tell them how we dream. Big Mama musta had mustard seeds underneath the mattress cause she moved mountains. Food and faith ain’t never been hard to find. We gone eat.
Talk about our love our sense of community our building our builders our beauty.
We’ve had a wild ride here in this country But it was not all bad.
Together, we forged a world of our own found solace in the cracks made meals from scraps and carved out our own sense of enjoyment and purpose.
Tell them about how the cells of a black woman saved the world and the genius of a Black man lit it up. Talk about how we bless everything we touch.
Tell the whole truth that we are not made up only of pain.
Joy lives here, too.
You can listen to this poem on TikTok and YouTube! I’m @yecheilyah on both.
Black History Facts is back! If you’ve been waiting for a signed copy, this is your chance to get your hands on it. We are back in stock. Go now to: https://www.blkhistorybook.com/.
From my eighth-floor window I could hear hope bounce back and forth on concrete loitered with crack vials.
Dirt-caked Nikes were like hands reaching for revolution in the air.
It didn’t get them out of the projects, but Jordan would have been proud the way these boys balled.
It kept their bodies distracted from the hunger of not eating for three days. Here, many children raised themselves. Forced to grow up without grownups.
It’s a strange thing not to have parents strange the way these kids parented themselves.
Adults in small bodies swallowing their pride for one more game.
They might not eat today, but boy, how they balled.
This was inspired by the real events of growing up in The Robert Taylor Projects as a kid in early 90s Chicago. Head over to my TikTok @yecheilyah to listen to the poem.
You are fourteen, and despite the childish laughter— the one smoother than the fresh coat of love on a baby’s skin— your mothers must warn you that certain skin tones won’t allow you to flash open innocence.
You are not allowed to purchase candy, tell jokes, or ring the wrong doorbell.
Certain histories won’t let you forget the present or permit childhood to take advantage of your fingertips.
Responsibilities follow you home in warm booties, blankets, and prophecies. If you had known that your existence would give birth to a movement, long before your feet hit the ground. Before your mother’s pelvis danced against your father’s, and his kiss brushed upon her skin…
Did they tell you that you were born for this?
Did they tell you about the cries of Israel when they reached into the heavens like hands just as heavy as your parent’s hearts, knocking against the doors of heaven because too many of their prayers ended in question marks?
Did they tell you that you were destined for this?
That you had the freedom movement stamped to your backside like a receipt back to the soil.
Like your fathers had to spit their seed into a melody, an Amazing Grace and Birmingham Sunday, carving its lyrics and your names into the history books of our yet unborn.
And while you rest they march scripture on the bed of your misunderstood self.
Your written content your voice copy blog posts texts, captions the way you capture feeling on the page contextualize thought empower us through emotion breathe life into the human experience remind us what it feels like to live to remember minister to our memory and most sacred truths the way you poet your words, spoken or written is, power.
A historical document your grandchildren will one day cherish resist the urge to withhold words hold them like you once held your babies precious and true their bodies snug in the crook of your arm and the warmth of your chest Wrap your arms around this text: Your intellectual scholarship has merit.
Let it be a legacy for the next generation Gift them this birthright. So we may have a right to a better future. Let no one censor you into silence.
The PBS Blog 