Monday, October 11, 2021

Poem - Fannie Lou Hamer by Kamilah Aisha Moon

“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired!” 

She sat across the desk from me, squirming. 
It was stifling. My suite runs hot 
but most days it is bearable. 

This student has turned in nothing, 
rarely comes to class. When she does, 
her eyes bore into me with a disdain 
born long before either of us. 

 She doesn’t trust anything I say. 
She can’t respect my station, 
the words coming out of these lips, 
this face. My breathing 
is an affront. It’s me, she says. 

I never was this student’s professor— 
her immediate reaction 
seeing me at the smart board. 
But I have a calling to complete 
& she has to finish college, 
return to a town where 
she doesn’t have to look at, 
listen to or respect anyone 
like me—forever tall, large 
& brown in her dagger eyes, 
though it’s clear she looks down 
on me. She can return— 
if not to her hometown, another 
enclave, so many others, where 
she can brush a dog’s golden coat, 
be vegan & call herself 
a good person. 

Are you having difficulty with your other classes? 

No. 

 Go, I say, tenderly. 
Loaded as a cop’s gun, 
she blurts point-blank 
that she’s afraid of me. Twice. 
My soft syllables rattle something 
planted deep, 
so I tell her to go where 
she'd feel more comfortable 
as if she were my niece or 
godchild, even wish her 
a good day. 

If she stays, the ways 
this could backfire! 
 Where is my Kevlar shield 
from her shame? 

There’s no way to tell 
when these breasts will evoke 
solace or terror. I hate 
that she surprises me, that I lull 
myself to think her ilk 
is gone despite knowing 
so much more, and better. 

I can’t proselytize my worth 
all semester, exhaust us 
for the greater good. 
I can’t let her make me 
a monster to myself— 
I’m running out of time & pity 
the extent of her impoverished 
heart. She’s from New 
England, 
I’m from the Mid-South. 
Far from elderly, someone 
just raised her like this 
with love. 

I have essays to grade 
but words warp 
on the white page, dart 
just out of reach. I blink 
two hours away, find it hard 
to lift my legs, my voice, 
my head precious to my parents 
now being held 
in my own hands. 

How did they survive 
so much worse, the millions 
with all of their scars! 
What would these rivers be 
without their weeping, 
these streets without 
their faith & sweat? 

Fannie Lou Hamer 
thundered what they felt, 
we feel, into DNC microphones 
on black and white TV 
years before I was a notion. 

She doesn’t know who 
Fannie Lou Hamer is, 
and never has to.

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