Thoughts on the gems and japes discovered during daily internet rummaging.
Today's haul includes: A poem, an oral history, and a podcast.
https://poets.org/poem/what-would-gwendolyn-brooks-do
What Would Gwendolyn Brooks Do
Parneshia Jones
Dawn oversees percolating coffee
and the new wreckage of the world.
I stand before my routine reflection,
button up my sanity,
brush weary strands of hair with pomade
and seal cracked lips of distrust
with cocoa butter and matte rouge.
I ready myself once again
for morning and mortify.
Stacking poetry and bills in a knapsack;
I bundle up hope (it’s brutal out there).
For a moment, I stand with ghosts
and the framed ancestors surrounding me.
I call out, hoping she can hear me
over the day-breaking sirens—
hoping she’s not far away,
or right down the street,
praying over another dead black boy.
How will we make it through this, Ms. Brooks?
Hold On.
When she held a body,
she saw much worse than this.
I know she was earshot and fingertip close to oppression.
She saw how hateful hate could be.
She raised babies, taught Stone Rangers,
grew a natural and wrote around critics.
She won a Pulitzer in the dark.
She justified our kitchenette dreams,
and held on.
She held on to all of us.
Hold On, she whispers.
Another day, when I have to tip-toe
around the police and passive-aggressive emails
from people who sit only a few feet away from me.
Another day of fractured humans
who decide how I will live and die,
and I have to act like I like it
so I can keep a job;
be a team player, pay taxes on it;
I have to act like I’m happy to be
slammed, severed, and swindled.
Otherwise, I’m just part of the problem—
a rebel rouser and rude.
They want me to like it, or at least pretend,
so the pretty veils that blanket who we really are—
this complicated history, can stay pretty and veiled
like some desert belly dancer
who must be seen but not heard.
Hold On.
We are a world of lesions.
Human has become hindrance.
We must be stamped and have papers,
and still, it’s not enough.
Ignorance has become powerful.
The dice that rolls our futures is platinum
but hollow inside.
Did you see that, Ms. Brooks?
Do you see what we’ve become?
They are skinning our histories,
deporting our roots,
detonating our very right to tell the truth.
We are one step closer to annihilation.
Hold On, she says, two million light years away.
She’s right.
Hold On everybody.
Hold On because the poets are still alive—and writing.
Hold On to the last of the disappearing bees
and that Great Barrier Reef.
Hold On to the one sitting next to you,
not masked behind some keyboard.
The one right next to you.
The ones who live and love right next to you.
Hold On to them.
And when we bury another grandmother,
or another black boy;
when we stand in front of a pipeline,
pour another glass of dirty drinking water
and put it on the dining room table,
next to the kreplach, bratwurst, tamales, collards, and dumplings
that our foremothers and fathers—immigrants,
brought with them so we all knew that we came from somewhere;
somewhere that mattered.
When we kneel on the rubbled mosques,
sit in massacred prayer circles,
Holding On is what gets us through.
We must remember who we are.
We are worth fighting for.
We’ve seen beauty.
We’ve birthed babies who’ve only known a black President.
We’ve tasted empathy and paid it forward.
We’ve Go-Funded from wrong to right.
We’ve marched and made love.
We haven’t forgotten—even if they have—Karma is keeping watch.
Hold On.
Hold On everybody.
Even if all you have left
is that middle finger around your God-given right
to be free, to be heard, to be loved,
and remembered…Hold On,
and keep
Holding.
I stumbled across this incredible poem today. It was written in 2017 and feels like it could have been written this afternoon. If you don't know who Gwendolyn Brooks is do yourself a favor and stop reading my nonsense and go devour as many of her poems as you can. Parneshia Jones aching words bubble up from the described monotony of everyday oppression and reach out towards the guiding light of Brooks guiding light of soul. It is a generational ache, the fact that a poet in 2017 is feeling, nearly exactly, the same societal weight 60 years after the fact is obvious on the surface but heart wrenching to experience. I love this poem, it is an incantation borne of hope and pain. I imagine I will revisit it often in the years to come.
Ta-Nahasei Coates and Ezra Klein
https://overcast.fm/+QLhXcClFM
I'm a fan of Ezra Klein but totally get how he rubs some people the wrong way. There is a good breakdown of how the protests in the streets and the more moderate politicians can and should co-exist. Joe Biden might not be saying defund the police on his campaign stops but it us up to all of us to keep the pressure on. Politicians will only do what is popular and we must force their hand.
Wondershowzen: An Oral History
"I was a creative writing major, which is the ultimate scam, and John was a film major, which is the penultimate scam."
I loved Wondershowzen in highschool. I remember one weekend where they were marathoning it and and me and a few friends decided to settle in and watch hours of it beaming righteous absurdity in to our eyeballs. It made us phsyically ill, a truth overload that our adolescent minds couldn't fully process. This oral history makes me feel nolstagic for memories I don't even really have. But the spirit of the show is clear. It was a lot of friends who were angry about the state of the world making something with an abundance of love and anarachy. In a way that's the dream. To be given the chance to make something on fringes, the sheer joy of feeling like you are getting away with something.