[VIOLIN PLAYING]
We are standing on Ninth Street and Fourth Avenue.
I am looking at hair the color of a golden fool, and eyes--
eyes as blue as a perfect day.
And they asked me, hey, Teré, why do you always
wear those long sleeves and ties on the hottest summer nights?
The underpass is crying of speeding cars,
and a violinist fighting asleep.
And one homeless man that's begging,
I deserve to see tomorrow too.
And I believe him.
So I give him change, knowing that it's
not the kind of change that him or I are begging for.
See, we fight the same fight.
Because when I'm standing next to my lover,
and they ask me what part of Africa do I call home,
I want to remind them of African-Americans
in our continent.
I want to remind them that it's still
rust at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
Flesh-less slaves with decayed weights
still hugging their ankles.
Lifeless bodies still trying to find ways to dance
to the currents of the sea.
And they tell me, Teré, you are afraid of your own country.
And it's true.
I am afraid of the ocean, because I'm
afraid of the things that it has seen.
Because as I'm reading this poem,
my boy is still trying to make bail
because he was caught speeding down Speedway Boulevard.
As I'm reading this poem, a child
was killed while carrying Skittles and iced tea.
As I'm reading this poem, Marissa Alexander
is still trying to turn over a two decade sentence
for shooting a warning sign at her aggressor.
And when that fear was based at the chest of a child,
and the trigger was pulled, the man was set free.
See as I'm reading this poem, Jordan Davis is dead tonight.
A biracial boy is serving a lesser sentence
after admitting he was the one that killed the man, because he
was bored.
As I'm reading this poem, a thirty-year-old
was shot in the face at a basketball court.
And then there's my brother.
There's my brother, who after playing the marimba for Barack
Obama, could change his three piece
suit for a backwards hat and chain at the end of the night.
And all I got to offer, all of his fear is, just a few poems.
See, my grandfather told me that the house-Negro
turned into a well-dressed black man
in a suit that could play the hell out of a banjo,
so look good.
Keep your eyes straight, and learn how to play.
This pen has become my strength.
We are standing on Ninth Street and Fourth Avenue.
I am looking at hair the color of a golden fool,
and eyes as blue as a perfect day.
And they asked me, hey, Teré, why do you always
wear those long sleeves and ties on the hottest summer nights?
I'm just dressed to impress the bullet in the shaking hand.