OSCAR

Every fiber in me, every nerve
said: don't go see the movie,
don't go see Fruitvale Station.
Everything in me told me
that I would be re-traumatized
that I would be Oscar's mama
waiting in a surgery waiting room
with his friends, angry and scared
with his lover, the mother of his
only daughter, that I would sob
uncontrollably like it were Deon
or Darius on that platform,
shot in the back, through the heart.

That I wouldn't be able to fathom
the numbers of Oscars or Kendra Jameses or
Sean Bells or Amadou Diallos or Tarika Wilsons--
not just names, not just dead young people 
killed by a cop or a wanna be cop, gun drawn--
they are our children and a piece
of our souls left the planet with them
and the thousands more like the bodies
thrown over ships in the Middle Passage.
They are lost to us while lodged in us 

And I knew I shouldn't have 
gone to the movie to be reminded,
to have this blood cry out from
the ground, from the grave, from
my veins... but Oscar: you needed
me to bear witness, to add my tears
to the salt of the earth, to note that
tough and rough as you had lived
you also lived tender and raw
and loved your daughter Tatiana
and your mother--you loved them
and your boys, yes your boys

You were the one who made
sure people actually counted down
to the kiss, to the New Year.
You weren't looking for a fight,
certainly not to get in trouble 
with rent-a-cops itching to shoot... 
and no, Oscar
I don't believe for ONE minute
the officer thought he pulled his
taser, that he didn't know the 
difference between a taser or a gun
I don't believe it Oscar. And neither
do any of the people who video-taped
the whole thing with phones.

It's that kind of time now, Oscar. 
Police still get away with brutality and murder
but not without a camera pointed
at them, no--not without us knowing
and I know that's no comfort to you
who just that day before dumped
your stash, tried to get your job back,
bought crab for your mother's birthday
celebration, made love to your lover,
called your Grandmother to help
a stranger in the store know what 
she needed to fry fish and make
it southern style. 

It's small comfort, if any, Oscar, 
that we have your story on film, 
in digital form... that
some of us will buy a copy of it
and watch it again and again
and that we will cry everytime
and scream at the TV and all
the police officers who've ever
pulled us over and made us
feel very afraid, made us worry
that we would be next, made 
some black mama like me
worry for her sons like your mama
worried about you... 

Oh, Oscar, this poem means nothing except
I am angry and sad and scared
for the Oscars coming behind you
I want you and all the others who've
died before, violent and shot, to
form some heavenly band
and protect the ones 
left behind who live with 
the low-grade trauma
just below the skin, 
who wonder if this cop 
or cop wanna be
is trigger happy 
and looking
for a reason
to pull.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 31, 2013