Unremarkable the Poem

After really reflecting on my comment about myself being rootless, I scribbled down a poem. I know this would never pass in the writing class I am taking as it does not open with a "zinger" the first and the last lines do not juxapose, and basically, the poem lacks everything that makes a poem. I am fine with that because the Poem, is really be raging against... against what? What am I raging against? I really don't know. I hope you take the time to read it, as it is the longest poem I have ever written and you can help me out in my quest....


Unremarkable

I am just an average girl
Middle class struggles with uncelebrated accomplishments
I live among sisters like J-Lo and Queen LaTiffa
But I am in their shadows.
Shadows. Shadows. Shadows

My granddaddies were not oppressors
While slave were being traded and Mesitzo were being raped,
They fought for their clans and watched
As their kilts were burned and their castles under seiged
They did not forget how to weave the patterns of their tarragons.
They did not forget. Not Forget. Forget

My Daddies were average men,
Broken by their war and mind-games.
They disappeared too soon: overworked, over drugged, over-whelmed
Under-appreciated, undermined, under supported, under achieving.
They taught me about Honour. Hard Work. HARD WORK,Hardwork .
Work ethic that killed them and child support cheques never paid.
Never paid. Never. Paid. Ne.ver. Paid.

My Mama? Who is she?
The first woman janitor of the state hospital.
All she conquered was stolen:
By children, by men, by the system, by Haters, by society’s boxes.
Her talents boxed up and shipped away to another foreign place.
Until all she wants to do is stay home, in her little house,
And yell at the neighbor-men for not feeding their kids.
Feed your kids. YOUR Kids. Kids.

I wish the men in my life were Denzel Washingtons or even Jackie Chans
With stubborn, intelligent jaws, marked by friendly, shy grins.
Or ancient-artists with modern twist.
Exposed sacred secrets married with humour.

Instead my brothers are starved victorious academic boys.
Bitter by he-struggles.
And Handsome constructions workers hating the brothers from across the borders
Claims they are stealing his job, robbing his pay.
Together they laugh like the haters who always Hate
And never win.
Never win. Never win. Never. Win.

So here I am.
My blue eyes hurt in the tropical sun.
If I don’t study hard, I’ll lose my scholarship.
I have to teach a litter of little haters because I have to have a job.
Pay the rent, keep Mama from starving.
But the world thinks I am a volunteer.
Ask of me for the handouts that I want but never ask for.
They yank when they “speak” to me, while I want to chat.
Kriolized be mi tongue.
I learned not to hate the haters or the brothers
But I war daily against the game.
Against the game, the game. Against. The. Game.

The Things Gurls Do

Forget the last post. Here is a nicer piece about the people in my class that I wrote today:

The teacher is late, so I sit in the back of the class playing with the German made purple magic marker. I am doodling some pretty strange stuff that I will regret later on my notebook. The thin, acne marked face girl (henceforth gurl, because that is how I say it) waddles in. She never walks, but always waddles, swaying her hips as she slowly moves. She sat about three seats a head of me. She chats with Eddy, to direct right, as she roles ans twists and giggles. Then she spots Juan, who is sitting next to me at my left. Flashing a bright smile, she makes a flirty statement that basically means that she wants a mint sweet and knows that he has one to give her. Then she slides to seat in front of him and draws in closer to him. She laughs and rubs his arm and laughs again. He says something and she says something back and laughs again. Then the teacher comes into the classroom and we learn about special needs students in the regular classroom. I wish I didn't have to put up my purple marker....

(I am trying a new writing style.... does it fit me?)

I am a Phenomenal Woman

I read this poem once. And I liked it, but I put it on the shelf in my mind (it is dangerous to "like" a poem by the way). Then the other day a male friend made a comment. I am still not sure if he meant to be insulting or encouraging, but that is not my skin... The comment made me think. In my confuse reflection, remembered the poem and took it off the shelf on my mind and pulled it up off the Internet. Thank you friend for the confusing remark you made.

Why can I say, like Ms. Angelou that I am a woman phenomenally? Why am I not a weak hapless girl? Because of God. He has given me vision and a grace to reach to be the phenomenal woman. Eve was made in His image too, and He understands me more then my friend with his confusing remarks. Sure I have a lot of growing to do; lets just say I am an in process phenomenal woman.

People often mistake my idealism for naivety. The truth is, they are naive. I can see beyond their silly remarks and I don't want to get caught up in their shallowness. I am not conceited, because I know where I have been. I am just phenomenal.

By the way, if you ever want to get me a gift check ;) out this website: http://www.mayaangelou.com/AngelouBooks.html