Drum Up a Movement

My culture is gone. Down assimilation’s drain
I see my brown skin sinking into a swirl of cream
color. Is this why some say they don’t see color, only people?
I want to see color, I just don’t want to judge by color.
The beautiful colors that differentiate culture. The beautiful colors
that give me a sense of who you are as a person I want to know.
Some might say, “I am not just a color. I am a human being.”
Yes, I agree and with certain degrees that our ancestors have seen
from cold or from heat, color did sink. Our color’s skin deep
and since skin’s what we see, see that racist agendas used color as well for their ink
when writing out laws that discriminate all who had colorful cultures. So what’s left to see?
They saw colors and feared that throughout the years power just may have switched gears.
That’s what hate saw when they envisioned brown futures so hence, they assimilate me.
My assimilated process forced a culture not of my own. And since I have grown
I’ve worn suits and ties. I lace my shoes tight and comb my hair right.
Handsome am I? Or am I catalogued as a minority that’s abides all bylaws?
My sight has envisioned the world that I live in as a black and white, left or right view.
But I still see colors of people that step right or left; ignoring what lies up ahead.
And all this side stepping leads to hapless directing, unending a cyclical process
of washing. The color of me is hurting in streets with broken glass and broken homes.
I see the color of sadness in eyes brown like mine, assimilated behind classroom desks.
These children’s eyes, bold and brown but with powerful voices scared silent.
No wonder they choose not to fight but to rest. They cry, yes they cry
with eyes aimed at skies of rain- dropped tears like dropped lives,
rest in peace. While they sleep like the dead,
staring at dreams but all stuck so it seems, in burial boxes systematically made.
Like a production line, brown lives leave. One behind
the other, cemeteries clock them in as if this is their job.
Because our culture knows labor, hate fakes good neighbor
when giving out jobs we do not want. By “we” I mean me,
American me, but brown me- believe I know it’s not same.
Similarity comes like an assimilation drum, that makes us all hum to the beat.
I won’t dance for the system and I won’t hum for hate, but instead
I’ll revive my dead culture and drum up a movement,
has their been a movement of late?
I will move my people to think about the children
of beautiful color that used to watch it all sink down the drain.

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