The Mystery of Our History
Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it...
I wish black history lacked mystery…
That we could trace our family through centuries.
If only our family trees had starker leaves…
Story arcs received,
knowing what my people meant for me.
That it was clear to me
where my family used to be.
And what they used to see.
And what they’d do for me.
I wish these things could be true for me.
But truthfully,
it doesn’t take two to see,
our leaves scattered
after our trees battered.
They uprooted,
then construed it,
so our existence is sadder.
Their insistence on laughter
when we tell them our history matters.
They made it a dog eat dog world
as soon as they wrested the power.
Cowards invested to put our bones on the platters.
Now our history’s tattered.
Tapestry dingy and splattered,
by the blood on the hands
of American actors.
Yeah.
I’m staring right at ya.
Complicit Karens,
emotionally distant Darrens,
will send your present person somewhere they can’t repair it.
If only,
it was only the past they were tearing…
We’re paying the price in the present,
you can see how we’re faring.
Telling the truth of our communities’ roots,
in this day and age
would be daring.
But they skip past the past.
Abusing,
misusing humans for cash.
Then wonder why America is failing the class,
and has been failing
ever since we had our history slashed