OBAMA
That shit was inspirational.
Like a 14-year old kid
seeing a partially dismantled
airplane in a black man's garage.
We didn't all stomp roaches in the morning
on the way to a cereal box
cinched up tight to keep out the critters?
No. Factory heat baked in the grease
that settled into the creases
of beat up, steel-toed boots and khakis
or brooms left calluses as big as dimes
on the leathery hands of those
who drove the big Buicks on my block
and still they struggled to keep up
appearances, show up on Sunday
and strut in Stetsons and Stacy Adams
after sipping shine on Saturday night
at the after hours spot.
That's it. That's what was done
when there were a few dimes left
after making the car payment.
The pimps and the dope boys would sometimes
come through in souped up sedans on rims
but that would be all that we'd see of them.
So imagine the surprise at the sight
of a honey-brown skinned man with light
dancing in his eyes as he took the time
to describe the foils and flaps
and wind resistance and what it meant
to fly with the 477th Bombardment
Group and to train with the big B-52's.
It sparked wonder. Made a little black boy
look about in wide-eyed delight and wonder
at the possibilities suddenly
revealed, as if the invitation
to come by and cut grass was more
than charity for the brokest member
of the high school orchestra,
but that he saw me, one of three
or four black kids on strings. It meant the world
and opened up a part of the world
that had been denied to me
in AP History. I didn't know.
I didn't know that there was more out there.
That black folk moved and made waves and change
and demanded that they be treated the same.
The high school counselor told me
to give up, to let go and to accept
the inevitability
of dope deals or molten steel,
before the collapse of an iron
economy; overwhelmed
by the Chinese. I denied her
the pleasure and went to State. I did give
up, though, eventually agreed
with her, and left in disgrace.
At least it was for me. Most
didn't even notice. Just accepted
my presence back on the block,
even though I no longer carried
the viola case that I'd attached
the straps to so that I could carry it
on my back and still throw hands
when it was time to defend
our Section 8 housing units.
They didn't care and didn't want to hear
my fanciful tales of black men
building airplanes on the West side,
way out past the university,
where the rich white folks reside.
Yeah, right. That don't seem right.
Did he sell dope or sell out?
Cuz that's how we can expect to get out
unless we can run real fast.
And black boys learn real fast
that there is a limit to how far
the feet can take you, like ducking through
back yards and hopping fences
at three a.m. when the police
are in pursuit, so even fast niggas
end up back on the block
after their careers or prison terms
run out. But the possibility
of some dude who looks like me, who donated
my instrument and made sure that
someone like me would actually play it,
made me believe in something
that I could not see.
I remember interrupting him
at some point and asking,
my imagination activated,
“What's a Tuskegee--?”
gzus
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