Brown, Proud
A boy’s head was turned from mine on the bus
I saw his dark hair, slumped shoulders
He could be my little brother
Could be a neighbor kid out on the court
I’ve seen boys like him before
Populating the stoop of my Spanish Harlem apartment
Boasting a Domenicano pride on their chests
Baring grins and passing footballs
Over my head as I duck with groceries in hand
I know I’ve seen that hesitant sideburn
On other faces rocking dreadlocks and Jordans
Shooting the breeze outside the Johnny’s
Chinese restaurant in the nation’s capital,
400 years after their ancestors built it
I swear to you that brown nose is familiar
As the scent of fresh mint
Lathered in Asian tea and softened with French bread
On a spring morning when North Africa
Began to rise and fall in a new day
I can’t see his face, but I know as deeply as
I know the color of my blood
That it is all the brown boys I’ve seen in my short lifetime,
All the wayward fathers
Confused by their passion and betrayed by their strength
All the babies who succumb to the lie that
Growing older is growing wiser and stronger
All the brown boys whose mothers’ love
Suffocates away their ability to love another woman
And expect a partner, not another mother
All the chocolate eyes and shapely jaws
And potential-brimmed hands
Whose elders fought, not just to exist,
But to be heard and respected
Who laid down their lives and swords and refused Alabama buses
For brown boys who picked them back up
Without knowing what for
Whose lovely brown eyes scream
For a reason to exist,
But not for much more
And I look down at my own brown hand
With the same red blood in my veins
And I thrash myself for not turning to
All the brown boys on my stoop, my steps,
On the sidewalks and buses of my dreams
For not telling them their purpose,
A reason to be and to thrive
And to make my brown hand beam with pride.
If blaming them doesn’t help the backslide
If cursing their habits their speech or their pride…
I see it was never their burden to bear
They wear the mask
But it’s me behind what they wear
I curse myself for thinking and thinking
And never saying a word
The brown boy at the window –
On the stoop and the steps
At the ballgame
In the courtroom
At the party
In the rastas
Behind bars
Or at the frontdesk
In the bossman’s chair
At the podium
In the Versace suit
One fist held high for justice
One fist ready to fight for honor
The one more ready to quit than to try
The one with more bling than Biggie and 50
The one with a meek woman in tow
The one in my family photos
The one in my bed –
All beckoning me to see into their chocolate eyes
To turn their heads
Towards mine and no other
And say: “One day, my brown brother, you will make me proud”
- Ihotu A.
