"Black Privilege" a poem by Crystal Valentine
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Black Privilege is the hung elephant swinging in the room
It is the memory of a slave ship,
Praying for the Alzheimer's to kick in.
Black Privilege is me already having memorised my nephew's eulogy
My brother's eulogy
My father's eulogy
My unconceived child's eulogy,
Black Privilege is me thinking my sister's name safe from that list.
Black Privilege is me pretending like I know Trayvon Martin on a first name basis
It's me using a dead boy's name to win a poetry slam
It's me carrying a mouthful of other people's skeletons to use at my own convenience,
Black Privilege is the concrete that holds my breath better than my lungs do.
Black Privilege is always having to be the strong one
It's having a crowbar for a spine
It's fighting even when you have no more blood to give,
Even when your bones carried you
Even when your mother prayed for you,
Even after they prepared your body for the funeral
Black Privilege is being so unique
That not even God will look like you,
Black Privilege is still being the first person in line to meet him.
Black Privilege is having to have the same sense of humour as Jesus,
Remember how he smiled on the cross?
The same way Malcolm X laughed at his bullet-
And there I go again asserting my Black Privilege
Using a dead man's name without his permission
Black Privilege is a myth
It is a joke
It is a punchline
It is the time a teacher asked a little boy what he wanted to be when he grew up
And he said 'alive'
It's the way she laughed when she said 'there's no college for that'
And it's tiring you know?
For everything about my skin to be a metaphor
For everything black to be pun-intended,
To be death-intended.
Black Privilege is the applause at the end of this poem
It's me giving you a dead boy's body and you giving me a ten,
It's me being okay with that
And I tried writing a love poem the other day
But my fingers wouldn't move,
My skin started to blister like it didn't trust me anymore,
Like it thought I was trading in this noose for a pearl necklace.
Some days I am afraid to look into the mirror for fear
That a bullet George Zimmerman-ed its way into my chest while I was asleep.
The breath in my mouth is weapon enough to scare a courtroom
I'll be lucky if I'm alive to make it to the stand,
For some people, their trials live longer than they do.
Black Privilege is knowing that if I die
At least Al Sharpton will come to my funeral
At least Al Sharpton will mason-jar my mother's tears,
Remind us that the only thing we are worthy of is our death.
We are judged by the number of people it takes to carry our caskets
Black Privilege is me thinking that's enough-
It's me thinking this poem is enough.
Black Privilege is this
It's this breath in my mouth right now
It is me standing right here with a crowd full of witnesses to my heartbeat.
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