Blood On My Hands
I have blood on my hands
that won’t come clean
no matter how hard
I try to ignore it
or wipe it away.
I have your great,
great granddaddy’s blood on my hands.
And the blood of your colored mother,
who was born into this world
that insists
that my white skin is worth more
than her whole life.
It is the blood of the black boy
who has to run for his life,
while I safely run to process my stress.
I wonder how he is supposed
to digest the hundreds of years of pain
he’s been forced to ingest
with everyone watching,
waiting for him to step out of line.
The police, they are watching.
The news desks -watching.
The boss, the bank, the bus driver- watching.
The women on the streets, clutching their purses -
they are watching.
The ‘do-good’ ally - subconsciously watching.
While his family has to watch
the dreams, the brilliance, the possibilities
choked out
of yet
another
generation.
It is the blood of George Floyd,
the blood of Ahmaud Arbery,
the blood of Breonna Taylor and
the blood of the babies
she will never conceive and hold in her arms.
The blood of the indigenous children
ripped from their homes,
kidnapped, killed, assimilated.
The blood, sweat and tears
of the migrant workers
who slave to get me
the stuff that I want,
while their families are caged at the borders.
It is the blood of a genocide
upon which this ‘great’ nation was founded.
A foundation of native bones and slave bodies,
of colored backs forced to bend low under the weight of the past
and a more dressed-up, modern-day oppression,
a pervasively-subtle domination that looks like:
not getting the loan, the interview, or landing the client
based on the implications of your name;
being pulled over again because of the suspicious nature of your skin,
which makes you late for work and fulfills the white expectation
that never thinks to ask why.
It looks like a 6-year-old girl being handcuffed and arrested at school,
a black man serving a hefty prison sentence for possession of marijuana,
while a white rapist walks free after 3 months.
It looks like a person of color making less while doing more,
and enduring the effects of an unending stream unconscious bias
that seeps into everyday conversation and convinces her to
succumb to the suppression of her own expression
in order to appear safe,
so that she can be safe,
and keep hold of her friends,
her job, her kids,
and the tiny stake that she has certainly earned,
that we now steal
to become a token, a beacon,
proof of just how far we’ve come.
It looks like going with the flow,
a quick laugh in the privacy of privileged friends
and silence.
It looks like silence
when it gets real
close to home
and I let things slide
to keep the peace in my family
at the expense of the peace in yours.
It looks like a million big and little things
that make sure the game is continually rigged in my favor.
So, upon this mountain of severed lives
I work desperately hard to climb,
higher, stronger, better
to get to the top
so that I can claim the wealth,
the power, this ground of comfort,
a place of peace,
as rightfully mine.
But
it
is
NOT,
rightfully mine.
Only this truth is rightfully mine.
Only this choice is rightfully mine.
Where do I go from here,
with all this privilege and power
and blood on my hands?
Only this choice is rightfully mine