Alright (An American Tragedy)
Alright
“We gon' be alright, Do you hear me, do you feel me? We gon' be alright We gon' be alright”, alright as long as this flag runs red, white and blue, as long as my fist remains true, alright because this voice is heard, right?, even as slurs are spurred, alright because I got my block, my piece, my pole, my Glock, so in case anyone may pass this gun may blast, and we gon be alright, despite the terror in my town, because this Gun looks up and down, it don’t matter if you’re brown. This pole is red, guarantee you end up dead, because what’s more belligerent than militant, forces filling blood at its sources.
We gon be alright, because what’s more American than violence, and silence, leaving millions of Blacks jailed, ever since Columbus sailed, indoctrination of our Black nation of men and women who perpetuate supremacy, of Jacksons station. Manifest what our fate is, telling war was because of state is, while state is slavery, the talk of the town. Manifesto of hate, as you begin to straight, your bullets through your chamber, manifest your rule, and bulldoze over humanity, forcing Blacks, into labor, collapse our mule, retract our acres, manifest your destiny, leave a trail of blood, pails full of tears, then lie to your people to appeal to fear, but trust and believe that we gon be alright.
We gon be alright, because what’s more American than bondage, black bruises, brown marks, as the Confederates we hailed stand tall over parks. Our bodies ripped, our arms stretched, our backs scabbed, our legs stabbed, the chains grabbed and locked into our ankles, what could be more American than Black bodies in cuffs. We gon be alright, the slaves were freed, 1863, the freedom that pleads, but leads to a wall of worlds, a destruction of space, as Black bodies were seen inferior race. What so proudly we hailed, at the beginning of separate but equal, conditions, conditions, abolitions and coalitions of citizens We the People really swore to represent, under God, with cotton for all, with cash above all, while congress overlooks the inhumanity just down the hall, we gon be alright.
We gon be alright, as the urban planners come to wash community, White holiness seen immunity, as university’s, parks and genocidal parts of American history is untold, as the dirt underneath Black culture it holds, to promote a new future with supremacy bolds, emboldened to hate, march to the capital awaits, crowns of white, seas of fire, parallels to prior, whips and wires. Oh say can you see, the crosses burning in our communities, in the backyard of justice, in the playground of peace, upon the trees of hatred, where rope still hangs, to the capitol building where liberty strains, the birth of a nation, the station of hate, where Wilson portrayed, the real intentions of state, knights who march, march for hate. We gon be alright.
We gon be alright, as the hoses begin to spray, displaying how Blackness is seen as a fire that needs put out, that culture is a disease who’s leaders shout, and beg for equality, by the dawns early light, our communities fight, kick, scream, live on T.V, the walk for freedom, cut short by institution, while upholding the constitution, saying that all men, all meant not we, but we gon be alright. As we have a dream, we see beams of anger, bullets of terror, explosions in churches, governments error.
“We gon be alright”, as our leaders are taken out, if you disconnect the snakes head from its body the rest still moves, as the next generation of Black dissenters would prove, that no matter how many coups, justice would be a never ending fight, no matter how many heads you blew, freedom is still blue. One nation under blunder, blunder of Black communities, Black homes, Black culture, then wonder, why the margins are so thick, claim we don’t work hard enough, even though you price gouged homes, flight out of property, because you were scared we’d bring down the value, restricted our jobs, robbing us of opportunities, then have the audacity to claim that black communities are ghetto, not realizing the blame is a curved two way scope right back into the shooter, the shooter of discrimination, the doers of incrimination, the spewers of indoctrination, to convince a nation that Brown is lazy. But we gon’ be alright, as urban planners begin to flight, once again scared of Black world’s light, in an attempt to dim and diminish the next generation.
“Oh’ say does that star spangled banner yet wave?” Wave in the face of millions, as if liberation were one big sick joke, convincing ourselves that everything gon’ be alright, while we lack the control over our fate, our bodies, no royalties from being enslaved as we’re told we embolden the crime rate, while police stop and frisk, they shoot knowing no risk, kneel down to remind us of the first restriction on plantation, assume foul intentions, profile Black dimensions, because dreadlocks, brown skin, big curls, round nose, big men, mean criminal, but we gon’ be alright. O’er the land of the oppressed, land of distressed, scared of Black progress, claim that my presence is Diversity, as if filling the room with nuance and culture is shameful, Equitable, as if equal opportunity after years of the new slavery makes you oppressed, as if my Inclusion, is illusion of woken agenda, while failing to see the irony in your dilemma.
“My knees gettin’ weak and my gun might blow” because my words can’t show the sheer power in my disposition, and the home of the cowardly, while we elect and erect leaders of despotic intention, while framing one side as the new communists, while overlooking the case of Columbine, where bullets collide to paint a spitting image of red ignorance, while masses of people die at the expense of classes of bullets, you stand down and, I guess we gon’ be alright, as my friends and I rhetorically analyze ways to stay alive, as guns reign supreme. As children run, they run from each other scared of tag, they run from guns afraid of bag, a body bag full with the stories of repeated violence, failure to silence insanity’s drum.
I am no longer afraid to say that we wont be okay, we wont be alright, and that this land of the free, restricts and bounds our legs and arms by the same chains used years ago, worlds ago, while the dirt and ground show that history isn’t just below, but bubbles its way to the surface to remind that chattel wasn’t so long ago. This country’s great history of trails of violence, plantations of subjugation and control, institutions of justice for all, for some, eras of separate but equal; the most damming paradox, all rise and scream, the skeleton in the closet of a world not so long ago, of a world in which we still live. Whose bright stripes and bright stars, beamed off of Black bodies to remind them that they were fighters in the cause against their own interests? The red stripes on the back of laborers, the bright stars dimmed, and the light within dampened. What could be more American than pride and greed, two of the deadly sins, to be American is to be proud, but we must ask ourselves: What is there really to be proud about?
copyright © micah hill 2024
