I wrote my neighbor a poem, about her yard sign.
Its obvious from a ride past her house that she considered herself a liberal or maybe even progressive and probably a feminist. So it would seem that her yard signs would align with and maybe even support my humanity, but, this one sign…it did not. So I wrote her a poem about it.
Okay let me back up.
I did write my neighbor a poem. And the poem is about the yard sign, but two things: 1) I am using term neighbor…liberally and 2) I know nothing about this person.
Let me explain.
I live in one of the most segregated cities in the country. It was listed among the worst in the nation for Black people and that was before the pandemic and economic collapse. So my “neighbor” lives on the next street and about a mile and a half away. Her house is on a route I take multiple times a week when I am headed to Costco or my preferred liquor store (real adult goals right there) or a restaurant for takeout. Despite the relative closeness of our houses we live in polar opposite places. I live at the epicenter of crime, poverty, and “ghetto”. She lives in the most affluent neighborhood in the city. Where the income and tax dollars support great quality education, well-maintained roads, and a stark difference between our neighborhoods (read: segregation).
So we’re not really neighbors, I would never pop over to borrow a cup of turbinado sugar. She wouldn’t watch my house while we’re away. But, you know, we’re “neighbors” and I wanted to be neighborly, so I wrote her a poem.
Okay, second thing is I keep calling my neighbor a her. I assume its a female. I actually know nothing about the occupants of this home in this affluent neighborhood. But society has conditioned me to believe that the person who feels so compelled to adorn their manicured lawn with a variety of progressive political signs and a young child play house is probably female. Society sets the expectation that the labor of caring for the family and attempting to further the community is suited for a person with a vagina. So I assume that my neighbor has a vagina (and identifies as a she). Could be totally wrong but, she is the person who I envision will open the poem. Read it, make a contemptuous face, put it down and eventually save it neatly in a drawer to read again. It is her whose peace I envision will be tormented by my words. Who will wonder why I sent it. Who will feel unsafe in both her home and her convictions. Who will question why she received such a letter when she was just trying to say… It is her who I hope will eventually email me at the address I penned on the accompanying post-it note. It is her who I hope will be open to a real conversation about how the intentions of well meaning white folks does not translate in the improvements of the actual live of black folks.
So I wrote my “neighbor” a poem about *her* yard sign. There. I fixed it.
The sign reads “Make racists afraid again”. It is but one of many way of signaling her stance on political issues that are represented in her yard. But it is the one that sucker punches my reality multiple times a week. After MONTHS of seeing this sign and deadening my response over time, I decided to finally write a thing that addressed blindspot of this idea. On the day that America exhaled a sigh of relief and inaugurated a “real” President who was ready to heal the nation, promote change, and restore humanity, I wrote this poem. Maybe it was my outlet for the misalignment between my reality and this country. Whatever the case, I wrote this:
Make Racists Afraid Again
I prefer not to see the racists, the actions, the people beside me
please make racists afraid again
I prefer not to change my view of my neighbors, my friends, my kin
send their actions back into the dark where I am not affected
please make racists afraid again.
Let me resume my life unaffected by their ways
pick up my laundry, drop off my kids, rake my leaves and sautée my chicken.
These thoughts I’ve had lately are making me question these people around me;
Make me question myself.
Is it possible
that
I, too, am
oh of course not
I donate to the negro college fund
so they can succeed
because education is the way
out of poverty.
So please
ease my psyche
disempower the Cheeto
make racists afraid again.
Send them back into the bowels of society
2 miles west of me,
by the train tracks
send them back to the courtrooms
and physician offices
send them back into the classrooms
with the underprivileged children who
can try really hard
with sturdy bootstraps
and make it into that negro university
that I am helping to pay for
so that they can succeed.
Make racists afraid again
the tone of society now is too hostile
too violent
and it’s all his fault
for speaking to them
empowering them
the proud boys
should be less proud
they should be afraid
that people like me might…
find out…
that we may…
judge them.
When I push my recycling to the curb
and we lock eyes
I will certainly NOT tell him
have a good night
pft
serves him right
for bearing those symbols of hate
on this nice street
we will not tolerate him here
we will certainly not
shovel his walk;
Because he should be afraid.
I was hesitant to send this poem. I mean it took me months to even sit at my desk and allow my thoughts to flow into words. As bad as I wanted my “neighbor” to experience my thoughts, I was frankly: afraid.
*anxiety enters stage right*
What if she felt threatened by my words. Not in her beliefs but in her true safety. What is she did some creative googling and found out who I was or where. What if instead of a healthy open dialogue she pursued me in a another way. What if she “didn’t appreciate” the letter arriving at her house. What if it’s not even a she. What if other parties get involved.
But what if I never say anything. What if my beliefs and my humanity are not offered as a way to expand her thinking. Hm. Why is my existence a bargaining chip for the improvement of the black experience in this nation?
The best I could do was to remain as anonymous as possible. No return address on the poem. Affixed with a post-it offering the opportunity to chat via email without judgment. So, I wrote my neighbor a poem and I sent it away with good energy and hoped that my message was challenging but not threatening. Fingers crossed, I hope she writes back.
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