I wish I had been born in Rio.
Or Fucking Paris.
Even San Fran or San Antonio
Or any of those sanctified western cities.
But I was born in Middletown Pennsylvania.
That by any measure I know,
Any concept of culture,
Any notion of identity
Came down to being white
And possibly, but not necessarily
I was not raised in an affluent environment,
Spent near my first decade in Upper Darby.
Radbourne Road to be exact.
Shortly after my family left,
The entire neighborhood turned to stone,
Or more precisely concrete.
I went back once.
Saw quarters pitched,
And a gun drawn.
It was the early nineties,
White kids in good neighborhoods wanted to be NWA.
The crackers in dying neighborhoods had two choices:
Bang like you’re black
Or shave your head
And act like a racist bitch.
I was fortunate enough to run away.
Scrambling to a pay-phone,
I procured a ride back home.
Not five miles away,
Nestled firmly in the bosom of milk white America,
I buried my head again in the sands of
The Great White Flight.
It was years until I thought again about race.
Atleast, it never seemed an issue.
I like to think Chuck D was my informant.
But there was our valedictorian.
Only black girl at the suburban Catholic School.
There was the single black priest.
An African accent and a UN flack Jacket.
He never had a chance with the heads,
But so much love with the chillun.
They drove him off in less than two years.
We missed him much.
I had my own problems after that.
Death. More Death.
It’s hard to see how wrong the Buddha is when you are grief stricken.
It’s terribly easy to see how useless Jesus is.
I dabbled in everything.
I muddled through life.
I faked nearly every move.
I lied without lies.
I never judged anyone,
But they all judged me,
Most were completely wrong,
And yet they could see:
I will never forget,
And I refuse to agree,
With anything bullshit,
Unless it suits me.
So please save your lies,
Your tedious nonsense,
Your bias and see.
I am my own.
I’ve seen what I’ve seen.
We are all full of shit.
And none of ya’ll’r me.