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Posts Tagged ‘justice’

 

The ninth day commemorating the last moments of George Floyd’s life.

 

I Want to Breathe

by James Laughlin

 

I want to breathe

 

you in I’m not talking about

perfume or even the sweet odour

 

of your skin but of the

air itself I want to share

 

your air inhaling what you

exhale I’d like to be that

 

close two of us breathing

each other as one as that

 

 

 

“I Want to Breathe” is a love poem, one I’ve featured before in a less fraught context. I’m featuring it again to close out this series not just because the title and the first line echo Floyd’s last words (“I can’t breathe”) but because it is a love poem. A poem to remember that George Floyd was not just a man murdered by police but a man who was loved in his lifetime by his family and friends; a man loved after his death by millions the world over; a man whose life and death inspires love between people united in outrage and grief.

 

And so here is a poem of breath shared from one person to another, an expression of a desire to be loving and close. We are born for connection. We live in shared space. We share earth. We share air. Deep within we want to share ourselves.

 

I want to share

 

your air inhaling what you

exhale I’d like to be that

 

close two of us breathing

each other as one as that

 

The law of the conservation of matter tells us that matter can transform but never disappear. Our air—made of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide, and sometimes water vapors—is ancient. The air we breathe now is the same air our ancestors breathed. The same air as our neighbors breathe. The same as our enemies. It’s possible the very air George Floyd exhaled in his last moments was inhaled by those who murdered him.

 

Maybe there is redemption in that for them.

 

*

 

A brief memoriam for our fellow breather on planet Earth:

 

George Perry Floyd (1973-2020), born in Fayetteville, North Carolina, raised in a Houston housing project. Called “Perry” by his family. Played basketball and football in high school, recruited to play basketball for South Florida State College, transferred to Texas A&M to play basketball, dropped out. Had a brief music career as rapper “Big Floyd.” Worked as a car customizer. Mentored young men from the housing project he grew up in. Went to church. Struggled with addiction. Went to jail. Started over in Minneapolis. Drove trucks, worked for the Salvation Army, worked security at a nightclub. Lost his job because of coronavirus shutdowns. Got coronavirus himself. Read the bible. Prayed with his roommates. A six-foot six-inch tall man known for his hugs and his jokes. Over and over described as a “gentle giant.” A kind man, a caring man. A loving man. A man who fell, got up, tried again, fell, got up, fell. Was crushed.

 

A man who had his mother’s name tattooed on his chest. A man who loved his mother and was loved by his mother.

 

A man who is described by his girlfriend this way:  “He stood up for people, he was there for people when they were down, he loved people that were thrown away.” A man his childhood friend Meshah Hawkins describes as a “sweetie pie.” A sweetie pie.

 

Rest in peace, sweetie pie. Rest in peace, gentle giant. Rest in peace, George Perry Floyd.

 

 

*

 

Two friends described this nine-day project as a novena (a novena is nine days of repeated prayers for an urgent petition), and so it’s only fitting to end with a poem that is also a prayer. My sister forwarded me this one. It’s written by a rising sophomore at Gonzaga, a Jesuit high school in Washington, D.C. located less than a mile from the Capitol building. [Gonzaga is also home to one of the first poets I featured on this blog, legendary English teacher Rick Cannon, who retired this spring.] In “Prayer for Change” young poet Richard Scott writes movingly of his hope for permanent change. Thank you, Richard! Keep on writing.

 

 

I left “Prayer for Change” on the opposite side of “I Want to Breathe.” The two poems flank a statue named “The Freedom of the Human Spirit.”

 

 

Prayer for Change

by Richard Scott

 

I pray for healing in Ferguson

I pray for healing in Minneapolis

I pray for healing in New York

I pray for healing in Baltimore

 

I pray that we will continue to run for Ahmaud

I pray that we will blast our music for Jordan

I pray that we will continue to kneel with Kap

I pray that the police stop killing us

 

I pray that 911 is a beacon of safety, not death

I pray the next time my hands are raised it’s in a classroom

I pray that the voices of the unheard are amplified

I pray that the color of my skin won’t get me killed

 

I pray that Martin’s dream doesn’t become a nightmare

I pray that Rosa’s bravery isn’t blinded by cowards

I pray that Maya’s words are never erased

I pray for change

 

 

*

Note:  Last night as I taped the final two poems to the marble orbs in Shain Park, all but the first two poems were still there. Edges curled, some faded, but still hanging on.

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Day three of commemorating the last moments of George Floyd’s life:

 

 

4/30/92 for Rodney King

by Lucille Clifton

 

so

the body

of one black man

is rag and stone

is mud

and blood

the body of one

black man

contains no life

worth loving

so the body

of one black man

is nobody

mama

mama

mamacita

is there no value

in this skin

mama

mama

if we are nothing

why

should we spare

the neighborhood

mama

mama

who will be next and

why should we save

the pictures

 

 

Lucille Clifton’s “4/30/92 for Rodney King” looks like someone kicked it in at the sides, pounded it to thinness like a piece of meat. The dehumanizing of the black body in the poem’s form and imagery (the body/of one black man/ is rag and stone/is mud and blood) is broken up by a most human response to distress—mama/mama/mamacita. Seven times that voice cries out for help.

 

Rodney King, for those too young to remember or who may not even have been born yet, was beaten by police following a car chase in Los Angeles in March 1991. For fifteen minutes the unarmed King was kicked, stomped on, beaten with batons and tasered by four police officers. The beating only came to light because a man happened to film it from a nearby balcony. The tape was sent to a news station after the LAPD showed no interest in it.

 

In April of 1992, when the four offending officers were acquitted of using excessive force, a five-day riot broke out in the city. Fifty people were killed, 2,000 injured, and over one billion was lost in property. Rodney King was both ridiculed and hailed for a statement he made on television asking for calm during the riots: “I just want to say – you know – can we all get along? Can we, can we get along?”

 

For a more complete account of the beating and riots, link here.

 

If you have the stomach for it after all the violence we’ve witnessed over the past few days, watch the video of the beating here. Low-quality and grainy as it is, the film shows Rodney King attempt to rise, get beaten down, roll over in pain, get rolled back by the police for more beating, then lie still as the beating continues. Just a body to those police officers. A man to anyone with eyes.

 

Clifton’s closing questions, unfortunately, have the ring of prophecy.

 

who will be next and

why should we save

the pictures

 

*

 

A brief biography of Clifton from a previous post:

 

Lucille Clifton was born in New York in 1936.  Her father was a steelworker who sexually abused her, and her mother was a laundress and gifted poet with little formal education. At age sixteen Clifton attended Howard University as a drama major.  She finished her studies in New York.

 

 

She had six children with her husband Fred, a professor at the University of Buffalo.  She was the poet laureate of my home state of Maryland where she eventually settled. She won the National Book Award and was the first African-American woman to win the prestigious Ruth Lilly Prize. She had a separate career as a writer of children’s books and the most unusual career for a famous poet I’ve ever heard of:  Jeopardy show champion.  She died in 2010 at age 73.

 

*

Note:  The “Minute Two” poem I put up yesterday is still taped to its marble orb in the park—

 

 

 

 

 

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