Struggle
Struggle
Our existence is supposedly a verb summed up by restraint,
but when the dissenters scream injustice,
the justice seeks to destroy all evidence of malicious intent.
A system that should lift us up,
before the struggle weighs us down
to indirectly incite the conflict.
An inherent fear of everything that is black—
my eyes that are black,
are cold,
my hair that is black,
is bold,
my skin that is black,
doesn’t fit the mold of what is expected to be.
While we are expected to be struggling members of society.
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To be black is to “struggle.”
“We the people” all struggle, supposedly one, under god,
but some under the rod,
under the eye,
watching the plantation,
or the prison cell,
the modern-day enslavement.
*
My existence is summed up by a verb.
Black constriction,
Eric Garner,
George Floyd,
their efforts to free themselves of control,
free themselves from the grips of the very system this country was founded on, failed.
Their struggle was documented,
video recorded,
their struggle is the microcosm of the Black experience,
of us
freed
from the slave ship,
and forced into labor,
of being “freed” from the plantation
and forced into shackles
behind metal bars.
*
The “struggle”
is the black men and women
hanging from trees,
blowing,
like the breath of Till.
Blowing,
in the wind the way swings do,
Blowing,
how the black body is sat atop,
an artificial hierarchy.
*
The “struggle”
is having 21 years of government experience,
only to be defeated by a belligerent,
wanna-be militant,
attempted despot,
The “struggle”,
is having your intelligence challenged in every academic space,
not because of the contents of your character but the implications of your race.
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To be black is to “struggle.”
When 49.7 percent of our homes are broken,
when your systems of hate perpetuate and proliferate this rate,
how else could we not?
When you proclaim we embody crime
but juxtapose our violence
with “peaceful protest,”
like the fire in the sky burned from crosses,
like the cars that ram into the voices of reason,
like the Stars and Stripes that assault our existence.
*
Our “struggle” is a war that is documented but ignored,
Our “struggle” is the bodies that fill the cemetery,
Our “struggle” is the black boys and girls,
who grow up without a father.
Our struggle isn’t solely on us,
so when you pronounce and proclaim that black-on-black violence is our claim to fame,
let you be reminded that our struggle caused a war,
caused a battle,
let you be reminded that you rallied your saddle,
to fight for enslavement.
Let you be reminded that our struggle was shown at the White House,
a supposed Birth of a Nation,
while the true birth of the nation came from the backs of enslavement.
Let you be reminded that our homes, and hopes and dreams were bulldozed in the name of renewal,
let you be reminded that damages were never paid,
let you be reminded that these voices still live.
*
To be black is to “struggle.”
When land was in sight, they saw the light,
but we—we saw the spite,
of the shackles that hugged our ankles,
of the memories of home,
of metal stuck to bone.
What is more 1776,
than bodies forced to pick,
death seemed more freeing than this.
So when slaves ran away, to their master’s dismay,
this disobedience on property seemed slave revolt display.
Their struggle was not in their hands,
what captured around their ankles was not free will,
but chains and conditions that marked humans off as:
“property,”
“fugitive,” and
“slave.”
*
What could possibly be more American than black struggle,
black trouble,
what is more liberating than black bodies
disintegrating,
prohibiting
integrating,
protesting
immigrating.
What is more
red,
white,
and blue,
than sets of cuffs that come in
twos?
*
My “struggle” isn’t invisible,
so when you tell me that slavery was hundreds of years ago,
I’ll remind you of the bodies flowing in the river like slit from pollution,
I’ll remind you of grave injustices with no solutions,
and I’ll remind you, that this flag you struggled for,
is the same flag that wrapped its threads around the heads of black men and women,
the same flag,
that tells me that we’re separate but equal,
the same flag
that boasts that its lethal.
*
To be black is to “struggle.”
Our struggle is
your struggle
because when you march to the pearly gates,
your life will be indicative of hate.
My struggle is yours,
because my struggle is beautiful.
My struggle is black, and so is your name,
to sit there and justify entrapment,
under the veil of Christ,
when judgment day come,
your soul pays the price,
because all years of suffering you made precise,
it will be you who caused the strife,
they who take life,
ultimately will meet their match,
when our struggle is realized.
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So when you stand for your pledge,
I urge you to remind yourself of my struggle,
our struggle,
and tell me that my life is simply just defined by a verb,
that my name, my logo, my skin,
isn’t more than just property for labor,
that my body, just like yours,
is protected under the same preamble that this country was founded on.
When you say “We the People,”
Be clear on who “We” really means.
Copyright © Micah Hill 2025
