by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
With my appetite growing, while foraging for a reasonably-priced nosh—my black uniformed shadow, mirroring my movements, applied the kibosh! Whole Fools—White Foods?
by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
One Wednesday
I was walking home from a
Rehearsal with Vukani, at First Congo—
Or was it Capt. Crossman’s for John Brown’s Truth
Or an UpSurge! production meeting with Ruth?
Anyway, I thought I’d brave a security experience
And quench my thirst—I checked my wallet and
Prepared for sticker-shock—first!
I fixed my mental coat of mail and chain,
Slid the visor down on my brain
For the battlefield, shopping while black
Though this day my bassist friend, Henry
Had my back…
I was taken by the scents emanating from a former
Cadillac dealership across from the sanctuary, it was
African-American History Month, the shortest month
Of the year: February
I thirsted for a Kombucha or Reed’s Ginger Beer,
My internal clock told me I wouldn’t have long to
shop without fear…
After rehearsing, practicing or meeting I’m usually
Hungry too––so I headed for prepared foods, like a
bolt out of the blue
With my appetite growing, while foraging for a
Reasonably-priced nosh—my black uniformed
shadow, mirroring my movements, applied the
KKKibosh!
Disrupting my peace and simple pleasures with profit
preservation measures PTSD masking symptoms of
‘white’ supremacy—maybe he thought he was anti-
oxidant, and I was a free radical to frame?
Or, just some dumb darkie he could bluff and shame?
I’d just seen some Bogey, Brando and Gable––
So, I decided to Chekhov, turning the table
Stopping short in the middle of the floor—
Like I just couldn’t take any more, questioning
My shadow in my most moral, authoritative, voice
As if offering him freedom of choice:
“May I help you?”
What I really wanted to say was, “Look, MrMuthafukkka, you need to find
some real work to do around here today, and not try to use my shopping to
pimp a paycheck under the ruse of profit preservation, the pretension of
‘loss prevention’— ‘cause if you’d been paying attention, the ‘white’ girl
in the black business suit just slipped a lipstick down her boot… the ‘white’
boy yappin’ on his phone just conned a Black family with a sub-prime
‘Loan’—effectively stealing their home!”
My shadow in black uniform turned red as an ember—
Before the loudspeaker shrieked from a Team Member:
“Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Comin’ in
Not ‘white’ hued!
There were old one, young ones,
Rich ones, poor ones, passive ones
Lame ones, wanna act the same ones
Standing watching the Staten Island massage
Like it’s Shangri-La, and all a mirage…
Brought to them by Korporate Kings of
The Lone Star state: Old Foods pickled in
Hate! It was like returning to school in
September nails on chalkboard voice of
A Team Member:
“Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Spill some blood—
Choke this dude!
Say amen
Gertrude!
By then I’d lost my taste for a Kombucha drink—
Before I saw the big sign written in invisible ink:
WE RESEVERE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE
SERVICE TO POOR FOLKS AND CROWS!
That’s why I shop Lakeshore Natural and Trader Joe’s…
Raymond Nat Turner can be contacted at upsurgejazz.com
Raymond Nat Turner © 2015 All Rights Reserved
Even those who are significantly marginalized act in ways that, unfortunately, inflict pain on others.
Support for pro-Trump Republicans remains driven by relatively well-off whites in fast-growing, rapidly diversifying suburbs – not by economic despair in rural America.
Each year in January as King is honored in the eyes of the public, there is little mention of the demands of the man and his mission: his fight for economic justice.
The drive at the Amazon warehouse in Bessemer, Alabama marks one of the few times in the company's history that workers will have the opportunity to vote in a union election.
Between 500,000 and 1.5 million Algerians died in the war for independence, but the French don’t like to talk about it.
