—Jesuit-Nativity, Fall 2016
we begin class with prayer
and a conversation about Philando
Castile and Alton Sterling and I
think, perhaps this time I can play God
and provide them an answer.
we have come back to August and Minneapolis
reeks of blood and spook like Ferguson,
Baton Rouge is this summer’s Chicago
and at this Jesuit middle school,
we have not celebrated
the feast of St. Claver or Xavier,
but the Black body mutilated is a refrain
that loops like a glorification
at the end of all our seasons. this morning,
7th grade is a room full of brown eyes
glowering in my direction,
each uniformed body
a column of names to be remembered,
each beautiful Black boy still
first-week-of-school fresh
with low fade
with dreadlock
with sponge twist
with hi-top
with box cut
with French braid
with fro-hawk
with even fade—
with anything tapered and growing
naturally, anything the others haven’t figured out
yet. and when the tallest 7th grader,
a 12-year-old who, in the dark,
might be mistaken for 20,
asks during group discussion,
if police only kill
Black people, I say no
one will declare this a genocide.
no one will declare
this a genocide. no one
will declare this a genocide
*
will declare this a genocide.
this a genocide.
no one will declare
this.
Black people. no.
police kill
during discussion
mistake
a 12-year-old,
anything they haven’t figured out
anything growing
faded
hawked
braided
cut
topped
twisted
locked
firstweekofschoolfresh,
each beautiful Black boy still,
a column of names to be remembered.
each uniformed body
glowering in my direction,
eyes
at the end. this morning,
loops
the Black body mutilated, a refrain,
the feast
not celebrated.
and
Baton Rouge is Chicago
blood-spook like Ferguson
and Minneapolis
provide them an answer.
play God.
Castile Alton Sterling and I,
we begin class.
