Black Boy Poems Read online

  the light switch is on the other side of the room

  she feels an emptiness in her womb

  as she passes a cold stump

  she calls out for Johnny

  there's no answer

  he's not responding

  she turns the light on

  and sees her son's body hunched over

  with his life gone

  and that night

  my mom

  felt the same pain so many miles away

  a little more than a year later

  I join the family

  And I'm the first after Johnny

  and somehow because of this madness

  I know our bodies are

  oddly connected

  but John Oliver Sr. still just as reckless,

  still drinking

  still turning from a man into a demon

  still scheming on women

  but one evening

  it all began to catch up

  payback for all them times

  and all them lives

  he done messed up

  and for real

  it's hard to feel any remorse or sadness

  I still don't know all the details

  but a woman who grew tired of his madness

  took him off this planet for good

  should I feel this way

  truthfully y'all

  I don't even know

  all I know is that

  this is a true tale

  some of that ghetto non-fiction

  of what happened to my family

  and all because of addiction

  addiction, y'all

  this is my family tree

  ________________________________________________________________________

  Reflections of a Black Boy

  The rearing of a black family, let alone a healthy black family in America is a revolutionary act.

  Our babies are born into a world intoxicated with the hatred for their kind.

  Since the times of indentured servitude, slavery, Jim Crow, civil rights to the new era of Jim Crow, the black family has been under attack. And at every phase America has found a way to profit from the pain of black families.

  Walk the streets of black America and you'll see multiple versions of John and Jane Olivers. They are our mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. Born with the hopes and dreams of new life but had their birthright snuffed out by the social, political and chemical weapons constantly targeting the black life.

  We self-medicate with alcohol and drugs in an attempt to inoculate ourselves against the pain caused by the world we live in. The side effects are often death and generational harm.

  What breaks inside a human being making them capable of destroying themselves and their family? What testimony is that for the society that creates this phenomenon?

  ________________________________________________________________________

  I never knew John Oliver. I never met him. My mother was raised with him as her "biological" father, even though he was not. He was the father of my aunt and two uncles, so his presence dominates the early history of my family, but I never experienced him firsthand. Still, his figure loomed large in my family. Since I never met him, I always felt like I never really had a grandfather on that side of the family. All I knew of him were these stories that were passed on to me. So much of those stories involved John Oliver in the role of what I described in the poem, "domestic terrorist." I don't want to be unfair to John Oliver; I tried to sketch the complexity of his personality. He was a good man but flawed like all of us humans are. We are not a perfect breed. All of us have imperfections, and character defects, and they can be exaggerated by time, place, and circumstance. I have heard great stories of John Oliver, but they get mixed in between what was more readily transmitted to me of the pain and sorrow of those who experienced him. That is what I know of him well. I know the impact that he had on my family. His addiction was dangerous for his family and himself; upon reaching critical mass he left a ground zero of collateral damage and unintended casualties. I was born in the days after the blast. I inherited the post-apocalyptic world of hollowed out frames needing to be rebuilt, burns and scorch marks upon the Earth. I played in the rubble of my family, vowing to never let this level of destruction visit us again. In some respects, John Oliver was like the ocean to my family. He was calm and still at times. He provided sustenance and on great days was the best place to be, but when the moon was high and full he amassed a wave that rose and fell, crashing upon the shores of my family. I was to receive all the stories secondhand via messages in a bottle scribbled by the survivors.

  I have become the post-apocalyptic grandson without a grandfather. The years of stories and study of the aftermath makes me curious about the man responsible for the events that forever transformed my family. I know the impact of the mistakes that were made and I've been raised to never repeat them. I safeguard that training daily, it has allowed me to become a man who hasn't succumbed to what wrought havoc a generation before. I feel I'm ready to confront John Oliver and ask him why. As I search for him in my mind he appears to me in a field in Mississippi toiling the land. From afar as I approach I can tell he's a broken and withered man. I do not claim some self-righteous "better than thou" posture when seeing him in this light, but I can't help but notice the evidence of his various battles on his body. The weight of what has befallen him and his family coalesces around his shoulders, collapsing down on his frame. He's slightly hunched over as if looking for something on the floor. When he looks at me he knows me, but he doesn't really know me. He's aware that I'm there for him and that I know what happened. My words sound alien to him because they are wrapped in hindsight and a spirit of conquest over the demons that destroyed the men that came before me. He pauses his work, slightly turns his body to see me and in this place we hold conversation.

  Without any words exchanged what becomes clear to both of us is that John Oliver created a situation in his family that forced all of us to evolve. I was born shortly after the untimely death of my Uncle Johnny. I wrote in the poem that my Uncle Johnny was "destined to be a causality of this chemical warfare," and if that was Uncle Johnny's destiny, then my destiny was to practice strict abstinence with drugs and alcohol. I've never touched anything in my entire life and don't plan on using any drugs or alcohol for as long as I live. I'm such a natural extremist that I completely avoid caffeine and, most days, bad sugars. I don't like any addictive behaviors that I become aware of, and at times for a challenge I'll choose a habit I know I've developed and begin breaking it to not be too dependent upon anything.

  If John Oliver were a sculpture, he would be erected with pieces missing, leaving you to wonder what happened, how it happened, and why. I don't know the type of man he was morally and ethically. I've heard stories of how he treated people well when he wasn't under his addiction. What has been translated to me the loudest is what he did under his addiction to the people he loved. As I've matured and found numerous faults within myself, I've begun to see him through my own lens. I've now been blessed to experience more than three decades of life, which is enough time to live and author my own list of mistakes as a man, son, friend, husband, boyfriend, and partner. Lessons I didn't learn well enough the first time, life has found ways to teach over and over again. What I've gained from my numerous mistakes and failures is that because you don't know the full extent of a person's struggle, it's best not to judge. It's one thing to be angered with an action of a person; it's another thing to condemn an entire life. The usage of the term "domestic terrorist" is rooted in criticizing actions and not the man.

  I never knew John Oliver; I'm not attempting to judge him as a human being. I have no authority to do so. I didn't know what made him tick. I don't know what drove him to drink and abuse. Any cursory reading of psychology would tell you that those who were abused most often become abusers. If that's the case, then a certain degree of fault is
not on his shoulders. I don't have any evidence to show me that about him, so it's all speculation, but what I do know is that John Oliver was born into a world that placed little to no value on the black life, especially that of a black man in Mississippi.

  There are many places that you don't want to be black in, at the top of that list you'd find Mississippi. Especially Mississippi in the early 20th century. In an attempt to approach an understanding of what may have impacted John Oliver we have to ask a few questions. How does one cope and what does one do to survive when the world they live in is constantly attempting to limit their potential? What do you do when your world's best options for you are incarceration or early death? I don't know what it must've been like for him to live during that time in America. We do not all survive the mental, spiritual, and physical beating that America puts us through. Our bodies might be above ground, but that doesn't mean we haven't been broken and are now walking spiritually and/or mentally dead. It's possible that John Oliver was fractured by America by way of Mississippi, his breaking like a slow-motion domino effect that reverberated louder and louder through his family until the last domino fell. It is possible that bearing the brunt of abuse from a society for so long caused him to internalize and manifest the same abusive behavior from the outside world upon those he loved most.

  This is part of the tragedy of Black America. American society was never meant for black people and families to survive. Mankind is a fragile species, and everybody has a breaking point. Being confronted with constant obstacles, terror, and pressure will eventually force the strongest of the strong to their brink. Once reaching that edge, it is possible that some are equipped with a more healthy coping mechanism while others resort to self-destructive habits, which not only impact us but our loved ones as well. John Oliver's issues were played out in a theater that gave his family a front-row view. All are impacted in their own ways and are forced to find their own path if they want to survive.

  I'm stepping away from John Oliver as a man briefly in order to look at him as a symbolic figure in the American context. According to America we are all "black serfs, slave, lumpenproletariat, and peasants" and our genetic marker relegates us to a class and caste that we cannot cast off. We are the ones to whom "transracial" does not apply; we are simply designated by this society as the unwanted other. Only people in seats of privilege can concoct such a ridiculous notion as "transracial," their privilege allowing them the power, opportunity, and agency to claim they can belong to another experience by opting in. John Oliver was not born in a seat of power. He was not born with privilege. Had he the opportunity to opt out to make things better for him and his family, I'm sure he would've taken that route. His blackness stained him and prevented him from anything other than what his society thrust upon his black shoulders.

  The poem and this section is about John Oliver, who was sentenced to a life of cold black peasantry by America. He tried to run away from this status by attempting to leave the South. Born and raised in Mississippi, he sought the armed services as a way out. That was a common path for many black men during that time and still is. Black men and women have been fighting in, against, and for America since our day one in 1619. He had hoped his service would lead to a new path for him and his new bride and a child who was not his blood whom he decided to raise as his own. Making the decision to raise a child who is not your own is truly admirable, and it was because of this that my mother had a father figure. I am appreciative of that. I do not know much about his experience in the service, but his abuse and alcoholism paralleled that timeline. The beatings and alcohol abuse only intensified as he got older. His wife was his primary target, but all of his children witnessed his actions and were traumatized in the aftermath of his violent episodes. I want to state emphatically that it is never cool for a husband to hit a wife or wife to hit a husband or, depending on the makeup of your relationship, a partner to hit a partner. It doesn't matter if it is a heterosexual or homosexual relationship. Domestic violence is always wrong.

  As the poem mentions, all of John Oliver's offspring began to experiment with cigarettes and alcohol. My aunt and uncle both have had their struggles with sobriety, but for the most part they've been largely in control of what they inherited from their father. My Uncle Johnny is the brutal exception to that rule.

  If John Oliver can represent a symbolic figure, then my Uncle Johnny is equally symbolic. He is the all-too-familiar reality for so many black families in America. He too, like his father, was born into a world that devalued the black life. In addition to that, Johnny witnessed the man he was named after losing himself and abusing his family. What does that do to a child? Seeing that type of abuse befall your mother has to affect you somehow. I love my grandma with every particle of love I have, and I'd do everything in my power to protect her from anyone who meant her harm. I've been told stories of how brutal the beatings were. Johnny, like his siblings, heard the beatings through the walls and at times witnessed them first hand. As a child, you have to find somewhere to put that experience. It's not something you just sit and watch and let it run off your back. Johnny, like his father, began to find escape in drinking and drugs.

  Johnny battled to get clean but eventually fell casualty to the same formula that claimed so many before and after him. In the piece, I mention how he became forever immortalized as the "ghetto still portrait titled overdose in Mom's kitchen." His life and death is an indictment that falls on deaf ears that the American system is not fair. His ghost hovers huddled in the same spot where his life expired in my grandma's kitchen. I remember him every time I walk over to where he breathed his last breath alone on the floor in his mother's home. The same home that housed all the abuse he saw was now the place where he would die. There is no other way to describe it other than a tragedy. It is something that could've been avoided but the ones who are principally affected by American injustice are the ones the system does not care enough about to reverse course to accommodate their suffering and struggles.

  John Oliver attempted to leave one oppressive structure (the South) by finding refuge in another equally oppressive structure (the white man's military), fighting for corporate interests which the American public is told means “freedoms and rights.” Those corporate benefits, “freedoms, and rights” were not extended to people his color in his own country. He then relocated to another oppressive structure (the city) filled with limited opportunities and segregated housing. These are the facts that I believe he saw no release from despite his best efforts, and they broke him. One of the consequences of the black experience in America is its intergenerational trauma/brokenness. It gets passed down like a cursed family heirloom. Broken families produce broken children who will eventually create more broken families. John Oliver may have inherited brokenness from those before him; I don't know; I don't know what he was given. I know he tried to overcome it, and his failure spilled over onto the futures of his children. Everyone tried to adapt, but not all were able to regain their footing, and we lost one in the process. My family wears the badge of mourning across our chests daily. Every family gathering, Johnny is a one-dimensional smiling picture on a wall instead of a living and breathing, laughing and joking son, brother, and uncle. We will never be the same as a result of our trauma and losses, but we must carry on. America hasn't stopped attempting to crush us, so we have to wake up, for the next morrow soon comes.

  This is all I'm able to share with John Oliver as we talk. His response is an unyielding silence. No words pass his lips, but the tears in his eyes speak a language clear enough for both of us to understand. Once I realize there is nothing more to be said between us, I turn silently, and he slowly begins to resume his work. I walk away back to my world, back to my family, and we get back to carrying on.

  Postscript

  I feel the power that resides in this poem is born out of the cold reality that addiction and its consequences are present in every group of human beings regardless of demographic designation. This is not ju
st a black thing. It's a human thing, and if you look deeply enough you can possibly substitute your family members for mine and then it becomes your story. Many of us have watched bouts of addiction play out in our families. Some of us are dealing with addiction issues amongst our families, friends, and loved ones right now. The consequences of addiction are raw, naked, and unforgiving.

  I love hip-hop music/culture. I've benefitted a great deal from hip-hop. However, both mainstream and underground hip-hop have grown to glorify behaviors that can lead to addictions mentioned in the poem. In songs and videos, artists make alcohol and drugs sound and look appealing, but the real consequences of becoming addicted and the impact of that addiction on self and family are not glamorous. What my family experienced is what it looks like after the cameras are shut off and the actors and actresses go home. There was no director yelling, "cut"; there was no director of photography shooting multiple takes from various angles to get the look and feel just right. It was uncut human drama written by alcoholism that led to spousal abuse and drug addiction, culminating in death.

  I'm not a censor; I have no desire to tell anyone to stop rapping about what their truth is, but I won't hold my tongue and not be critical when real critique is needed. We can't smoke, drink, snort, sip, pop, drop, and shoot up all the time and expect no consequences. Those consequences are not confined to the individual. They will also have an impact on the close relations of that person. The piece that really gets me about this entire thing is when you analyze it from a macro perspective, alcohol and most drugs, aside from marijuana, were strategically placed in our communities for the purposes of control and suppression. It is much easier to control a chemically dependent population and allow the negative effects of those chemicals to plague their families and communities. Today, mainstream and underground hip-hop culture sings songs celebrating the drugs and alcohol sent to destroy our communities. Facts. Purchasing those drugs and alcohol puts more money in the hands of families and companies who own Coors, Hennessey, Anheuser-Busch, and many others who have no vested interest in the liberation of black folks.