Land, mine. (AKA End Note.) - by hakim bellamy

Once upon a time
in a roomful of people way smarter than me,
different colors than me,

we were talking about race.
And note I said we were talking,
not screaming, about race.

Because that’s what people
way smarter than me do.

Way smarter than this.

But in the history of this place,
race is necessarily (if not unforgettably)
a conversation about property
and land.

And this land isn’t my land,
this land isn’t your land.
This land? Ain’t Black and white.

In the history of this place
it’s red and brown.

Then someone way smarter than
the people way smarter than me said,
“We will never have a sincere conversation about race
in New Mexico, unless we entertain the fact
that many will be forced to give up land.”

And that is when the smart people,
way smarter than me stopped talking
about race.

Because people, are property
and no one wants to give back the land.
Only allow us to work it

So we WERK IT.

Like a hotline, until the jobs’ number says
we ain’t working. Out of service.

Silence. Is what racism
really sounds like.

Even in a roomful of people way smarter than me.
And note, I said not talking.
Which gets confused with listening,
as though listening is the antidote to structural racism,
when actually action is the proper vaccination,
and listening is just the beginning,
but not “not talking.”

Not talking?

Is an epidemic like Tuskegee.
An infection most dangerous to the host.

And note, I said host
not help.

Because the sins of our forefathers
do not make us bastards,
and the prayers of our dads
won’t bring them back.

A whole generation of them lost to prison,
war and menthol cigarettes,
leaves us a generation behind
with nothing but low birth weight
and high blood pressure to show for it.

An inheritance of heart disease, heart attack
and heart break,

is what racism feels like.

Like the elephant in the room
is sitting on your heart, occupying so much space
in your chest that it’s difficult to breathe
or talk.

And sometimes, it smells like Louisiana
after Katrina and looks like
too little too late.

And it tastes like “hungry” for breakfast
before a long day of Pre-K.

Because racism is early childhood education,
only better funded, and unfortunately
Martin Shkreli owns The Cure.

Treat 40 acres and a mule as some sort of experimental treatment,
When it is simply human beings treating other human beings
like human beings just like they’d want to be treated,
like equals.

Because giving property
to people who were once property
is like giving them themselves back
and it’s worth a try.

From time to time, a roomful of people
way braver than me, different colors than me
gather in rooms like these to legislate racism in to pieces
that are easier to digest.

Because people braver than them,
The spittin’ image of me. Not allowed in rooms quite like these,
were in rooms quite unlike these
with no doors, walls or ceilings
just lunch counters and busy intersections SCREAMING

about race. Not talking.
Screaming and occasionally bleeding
about race.

Because that’s what people
way braver than me do.

Way braver than this.

But in the history of this place,
race is non-negotiably (if not unforgivably)
a conversation about property
land
and silence.

And just like racism
silence is only broken
by things like this.

End note…