Get In The Game
Why are the black poets so aggressive
And always talking about race?
Under the façade of a safe space,
Mistaken for aggression;
The burning desire to speak,
when life tries to keep you muzzled.
I wonder if the need to colonize and contain
Is engrained in their DNA,
Because I’ve seen them control dogs
At the end of a leash.
I’ve had flashbacks to when
The end of those chains would have been me,
And very little has changed.
Every time we try to be great,
We are broken down to nothing but our race.
Where is home
When you feel no acceptance in the only place
You’ve ever known.
You proudly wear an Italian flag
That others wish they could strip from your chest,
And while it says Balotelli
On your jersey,
They’ve called you King Kong,
Dehumanized you with no red cards,
Throwing bananas at you,
As you stepped on to the field.
You are treated like a blackhead
On the face of the beautiful game.
It’s funny how alone one can feel
On a pitch full of men.
“If I could get rich enough,
maybe I could outrun my skin,”
but no Mario,
at some point we have to stop running,
when the issue isn’t us;
stop shifting to fit in to boxes,
when we were born enough.
The scales of equality,
Seem to have a permanent slant,
Allowing you to get more jail time
For killing dogs,
Than for killing a Black man.
So we step to the Mike,
Vick/tims of our skin tones;
Step on to courts and fields,
Eager to play,
Knowing that for us,
It will always be more than just a game.
Because White athletes are praised
For their discipline,
And playing with their brains,
While Black athletes
Are physically gifted,
Freaks of nature,
With natural athleticism.
Ironically, similar attributes
To when we were being auctioned as slaves.
I guess it’s no mistake
That they call it colour commentary,
As Serena’s body is ripped apart,
More than her skills;
Her dominance not tied to decades
Of discipline and devotion,
But to looking masculine and being aggressive,
A double fault for the masses,
Who believe that there is one mould,
For what a woman should look and sound like,
So in 2015,
We still ask,
Is the US Open,
To a Compton kid,
Crip walking across courts,
With no care for your insecurities;
Casting shadows with her wing span,
And while some would love to see her crash and burn,
She remains that phoenix,
Rising from the Arthur Ashes,
Affirming that there will always be hate,
But never let that stop you
From trying to be great.
No matter your talent or job,
You can be that Tiger,
That you were never supposed to play on,
So for the Jamaican immigrant,
Suspended from school for being too loud;
For the poet,
Accused of being too aggressive
When they step in front of a crowd,
Release that aggression,
Like a Serena Williams serve,
Whether at an open mic or a grand slam,
Without giving a damn
About anything that anyone has to say,
Because these odds are stacked against us,
But we still show up to play.
Dwayne Morgan, 2015Tags: Mario Balotelli, Mike Vick, Racism, Serena Williams, sports, Tiger Woods