Pre-Pubescent Censorship.
Imagine returning to middle school, on any one regular day, and it just so happens that you’re in Peekskill, New York. You have assembly on this day, and since you’re between ten and fourteen years old, you probably think your big shit. Now, you’ve probably noticed by now what racially identified category you belong to. The basics are White, Black and ‘Spanish’ (at least in NY), and you must fit into one of these—for a margin of error we’ll include a significant population of Muslims, Asians, etc. Now imagine that you have assembly; you and you’re multi-colored friends are sitting in the school auditorium being loud and making fun of less fortunate souls while you wait for faculty to start their announcements. You are told to be quiet and a little girl of seven enters from stage left, holding two pieces of paper in one hand and with it grazing the small of her back. She’s this little doll, with tight curly hair and glowing brown skin. She smiles and soon opens her mouth to speak. Her manner is of someone much more grown-up; she speaks with authority and exacts your attention. She is reading a poem. Her words make you nervous, insecure, and uncomfortable…. This is what she reads:
White nationalism is what put you in bondage
Pirate and vampires like Columbus, Morgan, and Darwin
Drank the blood of the sheep, trampled all over them with
Steel, tricks and deceit.
Nothing has changed take a look in our streets
The miss-education of she and Hegro — leaves you on your knee2grow
[1]Black lands taken from your hands, by vampires with no remorse
They took the gold, the wisdom and all of the storytellers
They took the black women, with the black man weak
Made to watch as they changed the paradigmOf our village
They killed the blind, they killed the lazy, they went
So far as to kill the unborn baby
Yeah White nationalism is what put you in bondage
Pirates and vampires like Columbus, Morgan, and Darwin
They drank the blood of the sheep, trampled all over them with
Steel laden feet, throw in the tricks alcohol and deceit.
Nothing has changed take a look at our streets.
How would you react had you heard the words this little girl had to tell? Those very words above the very ones you’re reading came from the head of a seven-year-old girl. I don’t want to waste my time discussing what you would’ve felt or what the kids who did experience it thought. This girl is 7 years old! What I will discuss is the reaction of those who are not kids; the reaction of the people watching-out for the supposed welfare of the young boys and girls that will one day become the young men and women of America; the reaction of the people who are supposed to be fucking adults and address art, civics, interaction, and the god dam real issues in society.
The reaction to this little girl’s fantastic intelligence, was to badger her and excuse her to the other kids because her approach was simply too “aggressive” for a bunch of middle school students—a 7-year-old’s approach. The school district has basically banned her from Peekskill because they feel her poetry was inappropriate, unnecessary and even racist… Of course it is racist!
When I heard about this story last month, it first angered me that they were trying to silence this little girl’s voice so adamantly, but soon my anger was transformed to hopelessness when I realized this girl was but seven-years-old and already she knew and saw so much more than most people will ever allow themselves to consider. It sucks to understand the world as it is and pretend that it is fine, especially when you’re seven. And this is what these people are asking of this little creature that is faultless at being bright. Anyway, I digress to address the voracity of this poem, only to prove what kind of idiots are out there teaching our kids and running the country. Nothing in these verses is exaggerated, and it should both upset us and inspire us that this little girl can see these things for what they are.
When I heard the story, I had not yet read the poem. What made me want to read the poem, apart from the ridiculous fuss made by NY school district officials, was a comment I came across on the web while reading about the incident. One individual proposed the question of reversing the roles and asking if the Black community would’ve reacted any differently if a white child got on stage and read a poem about white unity, or something of that sort. To address this specific question, that is, how the Black public would react, I must assume that Black people would be upset and make a ridiculous fuss about it; they’d drag Rev. Jackson and other failed black politicians such as the idiot Al Sharpton into it, and who knows, if it gets out of hand we may even end up seeing a riot. That’s not the point. This question is so invalid and unsound, yet it is the one that usually pops into the minds of dissenting populace who get defensive of racially conscious individuals. As one of those people myself, it has always been very difficult to transpose my notions about race relations to other individuals of whatever color, because people tend to get so protective of themselves or act as if I’m the one being defensive when all I am trying to do is make a point that is rather poignant in my eyes.
Sorry for my trailing, but to get back on why this rebuttal sucks, if a white little girl wrote a poem titled “White Poem of Racial Allegiance,” I personally wouldn’t be very bothered by it, and if it were as good as this one, I’d be equally impressed. However, to compare that scenario to this one is unfair simply because that white little girl is white. I hate that I have to elaborate on that, but as I know that I do, I will say that a white little girl doesn’t know what it is like to be a black one. For example, Autumn has Black parents and by all virtual means is Black in the classical sense of the word.
[2] Furthermore, given the level of intelligence and the amount of reading she has done, topped with whatever her parents have taught her, I am certain that Autumn understands or has enough grasp on history to discern that at one point or another, “Black” has signified death in this country.
Autumn understands what her position, so to speak, in American society is and what people expect, thus why she wrote the poem. Ergo, whether you know or acknowledge that these things happen or that they did not is inconsequential. A white little girl, at least it is unlikely, will not be able to relate and deal with topics such as slavery, oppression and rejection, in the same way a black one would. Not to say that all black people and white people deal with history in the same fashion, but rather to point out that it is something difficult to deal with and can only be experienced independently, yet this very occurrence coerces a bond—the “black experience” if you will—that remains extremely tight between those of said creed. I do not want to discuss why that is, the topic is too consuming to be a sidebar.
Students and parents, who witnessed the event, were supposedly shocked (yes we’re back on topic, lol) and this led to the quick and keen reaction of school faculty, whom sent out a recorded apology to every phone number in their listing. Of course to this reaction, Autumn’s father reacted by referring to the district officials as “racist crackers.” Very mature Mr. Ashante. Clearly a lot of Autumn’s opinions must be coming from daddy whom is obviously a racist. However, I’d like to say that the poem’s content is valid and the little girl has a right to speak her mind, especially in a school setting. It is healthy, especially because this little girl is subject to her father’s self-hate, that she interacts with other youngsters who may very much disagree with her. It is healthy for the kids at the school to get their minds a little stretched and really analyze the effects of racism and ponder on how NOT so long ago we were drinking out of separate fountains. It is important that we educate our younger generations so that they may make different shitty mistakes, not the same ones.
But beyond all that I can say to validate little Autumn’s frustration, the fact remains that a lot of black people like her already exist. She’s going to grow up and become another obnoxious Black person that I can’t bother to pay attention to because they are so militant about being black. It is hard enough being black; I don’t want to have anything to do with being a self-righteous Black man who is angry at society because I feel cheated—that simply is too much work and I’m not a victim. I do respect their voracity and persistence, but these people are not fighting racism they’re molding and transforming it into new phenomena. What we’re moving into now is an entirely new system of racism and it is important as well that we acknowledge how this paradigm is shifting. Now with the theme of “tolerance” and “we can be friends so long as you stay off my front yard,” people are keeping what they think to themselves, so we believe that those times have passed us. Now that it is taboo to call a Negro nigger, and generally not ok to discuss race, we all go home with our bottled racist ideals. By becoming politically correct, we are not becoming a more tolerant society, but rather a society that lies in order to be tolerant. In sum, we’ve thrown out the white towel.
Now we have separate holidays, separate schools, separate graduations, separate merit systems, and with such separation there will never be a filling between the vast and ancient American canyons that separate Black and White. Autumn, her dad and others like them will continue to push that separation if she doesn’t grow to change her mind. I hope that Autumn finds the light and realizes that battling this front is a waste of time--at least on the scale she wants to ride. In conclusion, this is a very sad story and I hope that Mr. Ashante isn't badgering Autumn. It isn’t fair that a 7-year-old girl has to think and say these the things she is saying. However, if she doesn’t stand up and says these things, especially if she’s thinking them, who will? Who will provoke the masses and instigate the government and legislation? This little girl was condemned for sharing a point of view. This is the U.S. of A. is it not? Where is our fury, where is our anger? It isn’t about black or white; it’s about freedom of speech. This is a bright young girl and she should be allowed to speak her mind, because it is rare these days to find 20-year-olds who can stimulate me to conversation.
[1] May not be actual line.
[2] “African-American”
What is it about New York that’s so mystical and surreal? It’s simply the perfect place to live. There’s so much energy resting on the stained, blackened pavements of NYC, lingering on every corner and pulsing upward as it climbs the glass windows of skyscrapers tall enough to stroke the sky. Manhattan, home of the untouchables and fashion, of culture and obdurate art; home of Central Park, where cultures and classes collide, where reality melts inside a boiling froth of awed tourists, jaded cabbies and ancient beauty.
We played under the pressure, as the water washed on us like pouring rain, icy and alleviating. There in my little town, many old leafy parks sit on every neighborhood, each day growing older, already being old. Their fire-red brick walls remind me of a time I never lived, and it reminds me that in spite of me there is a lot of history that stands there. I miss the smell of auburn leafs in the middle of September, and the way the ground is lost under its dazzling autumn fire. I miss the busy bodies of 5th Ave, racing one another without ever really noticing the other, because there is no race; “I got things to do, you know!” they’d probably say.
I miss the subway stations, their gawky smell and the random, humble individuals that always have a story to say and a lesson to share when you’ve finally found a place to sit inside the train. I met all the crazy people of New York while I rode the R Uptown and Bayside; they are truly where the city’s heart resides. You can try to give a bum a house on the greensands of Capecod, and he’d refuse just to ride the subways of his city.
My friends and I skipped school often, back in seventh grade, and ride the train out to Coney Island. The beach was dirty and gross, and the sand was coarse, like broken glass (there may have been some broken needles…), so I always kept my shoes on. Even so, it was all breath taking. We sat by the rocks where Old Italian men sat in a big group to fish and smoke cigars. They’d tell us stories about sharks and sea monsters they had fought and we believed them. Most of the time we’d sit out there alone, watching the whooshing waves crashing at our feet, wishing that one day we could be old men ourselves, telling stories of underwater battles out in the Atlantic. I remember riding the Cyclone, the Ferris wheel, and getting ice cream on my shirt out on the boards of Brighton Beach—good times! It’s funny how NY seems so big to those who’ve never lived in it. Growing up, New York was only but my playground.
