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

REPARATIVE LOVE

When your very soul aches
for sorrow and your skin
cannot hold the pain
when your eyes leak
your grief, slow
and full
Love repairs
the hole, patches
it with kisses
and hugs
makes you believe
you might actually
survive

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 30, 2013

SOMEBODY

Alexis Michelle Myers

Somebody to know

at 4, she looked through

me and said: I love you.

Her declaration a feat

in itself because

she had just met me

and I want to believe

her... that she loves me

that I matter to her

since I am the first girl preacher

she'd ever heard preach

and since she declared:
I'm gonna be a model

and a preacher

I believe her about that

© Valerie Bridgeman

July 29, 2013

NOT ALONE

I sit solitary
but not alone
with my thoughts
you are here
in the mix
moments of our hands
touching, our legs
heated by proximity
and all of what it means
to know someone
without a word

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 28, 2013

FAMILY

not blood or time
or shared DNA
uncles on your mother's side
or great aunts you never
knew... that's not all family
is... but choice of love
of ties that bind
love braided
into your heart 
... in other words,
You

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 27, 2013

CONTRADICTORY

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large -- I contain multitudes.”  ― Walt Whitman

I am multitudinous
tonight, wanting to be singular
but even in this desire I know
my want is false
what I really desire
is to make sense of mangled
emotions that feel all kinds 
of ways toward you, toward
my life, toward the way
the day never goes the way
I plan, and how that is
always on me and no one else
how my heart is tangled
like wires too entwined 
to separate with any ease
how I don't remember what
easy feels like anymore
how comfortable I was
in the trap of my life and how
now that I'm free
I hyperventilate some days
I didn't know I'd gotten used
to slavery or that I had come
to expect it to feed me
bread of affliction/meat
of disdain and how I had
come to call it nourishment

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 26, 2013

SILENCE

This stillness
this silence is different
tonight
for the first time
in a long while
my mind is still
a silence of grace
of gratitude
of tiredness from
worthy work, 
from the kind of love
that brings rest
with it... this silence
brings me to 
a peace-filled
sleep.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 25, 2013

HOPE

I have hope
that what I want
the life I dream
will become
will manifest
will take full shape
will born its way
into this space
will be
in this moment
my hope morphs
into vision
into touch me
taste me
sound of joy
into I knew its
and what you says
into I told you
it would happens
hope grabs
the neck, the hand
says we come
together to this
place
we gonna see
it through
we gonna run
for it
gonna catch it
like we catch
fireflies
gonna march
it up to the door
and knock
and watch
reality show up
in black shimmering
evening gown
style

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 24, 2013

YOU

Stopped me with your voice
and I, who rarely want for words
could find none to match
what sounded like "glad'
when you spoke.
I am glad for having heard it.
Thank you.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 23, 2013

CALL

I needed another voice
besides the one in my head
so unforgiving, so unyielding
so blaming
I needed you to help
overpower that voice
that is rarely kind
always fault-finding
the one I can hardly find
the mute button for
you are my
mute button
and for that I'm grateful

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 22, 2013

DAY 201

When I said

poetry everyday

I meant

poetry

every

day

when it's easy

and not

when the tears

stuff my stomach

with paralysis

when grief

makes me curl

tight on a bed

around a pillow

when I miss you

and you

when I can't see

straight ahead

let alone around corners

when every time I think

it's getting better

the news

bad news

takes over

when love wraps me

in arms and I pray

you will always be here

that you won't leave

in spite of my infidelity 

my inability to keep faith

with my own self

when you won't return

and I hope you will

but I know this hope

is hopeless

I said poetry

every day

164 to go

poetry

here's to promises

kept

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 21, 2013

FURIOUS

On some days
it's just enough to breathe
but today, dancing
took the pain away
just for a moment
Louisa, me
and 150 others
sliding, electric
cha cha
dougie-style
cupid shuffling
and laughter
lots of laughter
because
Alice Walker
is right:
"Hard times require
furious dancing."
© Valerie Bridgeman
July 20, 2013

POSTED on July 21 (late, but written)

IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE POETRY

Days now
of pouring grief over keys
of re-member-ing fear
as a black mama
traumatized by news
of dead 8-year-old Ladybug(s)
and a verdict now only
one week old, but coursing
in my veins like blood,
pumping through my heart
like pain
and the poetry, well...
it's as arrhythmic as my heart
as uncontrollable as
the cries that won't
be tamed... I promised poetry

Do all these "black mama trauma" laments count?

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 19, 2013

CRYING RAPE/or BLACK MAMA BLUES

When my oldest son went to UT-Dallas, I gave him "the talk" relative to the area where he was about to live. I said, "you're about to be in Plano, TX. I know I've NEVER said a thing to you about who you date, and you know I don't care. But please be careful dating white in Plano." Mind you, we were pastors of a multiracial congregation and I was sure most of the children being reared in that church would cross all kinds of color lines in their partnerng life (I was right, btw). It wasn't the person; it was the community about which I was concerned. He looked at me like I had suddenly grown another head. I was actually ashamed that I felt I had to so warn him. Then, one night while in Dallas, he was accused of raping a white female student on campus. I'm still shaking as I remember his shaking voice as he told us the story. The ONLY thing that saved him was that at the time of the attack, he was with a church youth group (multiracial) and the white male pastor had several time-stamped photos of him at the time the rape occurred. I can't tell you how glad I was that he was so gregarious and outgoing and in every picture as I was that night. When confronted with the lie, the girl shrugged her shoulder and said that D was the only black boy on campus she knew by name (I WISH I COULD MAKE THESE THINGS UP). And the more unfortunate reality is that she was actually raped by a white male student... You have to understand: I have stories like these lodged in my body. ‪#‎blackmamatrauma‬ — feeling weary

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 19, 2013

POSTED ON FACEBOOK

DEAR SARAH

• Dear Sarah,

  I will post all day long on Facebook

  on Twitter, on Whatever social network

  media outlet I want

  I will keep posting and you and I will agree

  on one thing: It won't bring Trayvon back

  but it will upend the racism out there

  it will make you show your racist behind

  and front and baring teeth self while you

  talk about "drank" and "innocence"

  And dare to tell us to "stop dwelling on this"

  Get this clear: I am dwelling on it

  because you and your people think

  nothing of vilifying our children

  of shooting them in cold blood

  of blaming them for their own death

  And as long as there is a Sarah

  Valerie will be here, in defiance

  Get this: I. AM. NOT. NORMAL.

  And by your definition, I never want to be

  Walk away. Right. Trayvon ran.

  But that didn't get him safe.

  It got him Sarah- and George- 

  dead. Because it turns out you

  can't outrun vicious racism.

  You can't outrun hundreds of years

  of hatred and a 9 mm at point-blank

  "whatchu doing in this neighborhood nigga"

  range... so, get it clear. I'm going to keep

  posting. And praying. And protesting.

  and coming at you and your kind

  because, really. YOU are the problem, Sarah.

  YOU. ARE. THE. PROBLEM.

  
  

  © Valerie Bridgeman
  July 18, 2013

  
  

  Based on the post at Jaha's sight:

  
  

  Sarah Oliver I don't want to be a barer of bad news and I don't want to make light that trayvon is dead, but he wasn't the perfect little kid they showed in those elementary school pictures on the news, he was on suspension from school for drug charges and was buying the exact items needed to make "drank". Look at both sides of the story and this case followed the law, not just in Florida. The jury needed beyond reasonable doubt that Zimmerman went with the intentions to kill him and I don't believe when he got out of the car he planned on killing him. This isn't a case based on race, you and everyone else is making it that. Posting all day won't bring him back and it won't change laws that are there to protect innocent people. Look at the facts and stop dwelling on this. Most normal people would have walked away from this situation that happened a year ago but it escalated into a fight.

  
  
  
• 

  Jaha Zainabu Sarah, you do want to be the barer of bad news. Or you would have simply not posted anything and left us to our grieving. None of what you said even matters. This is a case based on race. Your statement about drank is even based on race. You want us to stop dwelling on this why? Because our dwelling makes you uncomfortable? If you don't like our dwelling go somewhere else. Go tell your people to stop giving us things to dwell upon. I'll wait.

  
  

THE BS OF "COLORBLIND"

You really have to know that the phrase, "We don't see color; we're colorblind" is ABSOLUTELY offensive and racist. If you're looking at me and don't see color, you are trying to dissolve me down to a "common denominator" that won't make white people uncomfortable. Sometimes it comes out like, "you're not like other blacks" as if that is supposed to be a compliment (it's NOT; that too is an insult).

I see color. I hear accents. I taste the distinct flavors of national and ethnic foods. I touch people's lives and let them touch mine. I enjoy the diversity of my friends from a variety of nations, from vast backgrounds, from the spectrum of the rainbow. SEEING it, HEARING it, TASTING it, TOUCHING it. THAT is the Kin-dom of God, not some fake "I don't see color." And PLEASE quit saying that Martin Luther King, Jr. called for a colorblind society. No. He. Did. NOT. He said he wanted a world where his four children would be judged by their character, not the color of their skin. That is not the same thing as "don't notice that my beautiful children are black." That is: don't let your white supremacist racist notions lead what you think about my children before you even know them.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 17, 2013

POSTED ON FACEBOOK

LET ME SAY THIS

Let me say this: 

I resent (right word) people changing the words of what most (I get this does not apply to all) people are calling for regarding the Zimmerman trial and the killing of Trayvon Martin. We weren't in the jury room, true. But we do not believe justice was served. We want justice--not vengeance. To say that Zimmerman "profiled" Trayvon, but it wasn't a "racial profiling" is an insult to our ability to process information. The police on the scene did the same profiling, never doing due diligence with the scene, not once considering it a possible crime scene and so the evidence was corrupted. And Trayvon was in the Sanford morgue as a "John Doe." They had his CELL PHONE. He could have been identified in minutes. His father didn't report him missing until the next morning because he thought Trayvon had gone to the movie with his older cousin. Dad just went to bed, thinking he'd get in late. The next morning, he reported it. When the police arrived, they showed him a picture of his dead son.

It is true that GZ is a pariah in public opinion and his life will never been the same. It is not cruel for me to say that no one's life should ever be the same if they kill someone, even if I believed it were self-defense (which I don't), even if it were war. Taking a life should change you. And mercy for his family because of course their lives are changed as well. But while I can feel the sympathy for them, GZ is still alive. Sybrina Fulton, Tracy Martin, and Trayvon's brothers will never hug, talk with, play with their son and brother and friend again. I just think that requires a bit more sympathy than Juror B37 seems to think. And no, I'm not "letting this thing go" for a while. I know that there are other issues and other people wrongly treated. Trayvon's case just coalesced the anxiety, angst, dread, trauma that is always just below the skin in this racist culture. You can de-friend me if my black mama trauma is making you uncomfortable. Go ahead. Please. Do.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 17, 2013

Posted on Facebook

DEAR SYBRINA FULTON

Dear Sybrina (Fulton),

I am thinking of you today. I wonder how your heart is? You've been called into an historic moment that no one would want. 

I, too, am the mother of sons. I don't know what kind of boy Trayvon was.  But his friend Rachel said he loved his mother very much. It made me smile as my heart aches for you--partly because it reminded me of days when my sons lay across my bed regaling me with stories from their day. Or times they talked sports with me, always ending with a hug and a wet kiss on my face. That's what I thought of when Rachel said, "Trayvon really loved his mother." I thought: he was a mama's boy. And if that's true, then I can only imagine the grief that comes with his absence. 

I have not had either of my sons die. But I remember nights when they were just out being "boys" and didn't come home on time. Terror gripped me every time. I never went to bed until I knew they were safe. The only exception was when I was out of town and they were in the care of their father or trusted friends. But "safe" is always a moveable negotiation for black boys. We know that too well... and certainly you know it better than me. 

I am rambling, but mostly because I just want to touch you and let you know you're not alone. I don't pretend to know how to comfort you. But I hope all the outpouring of support and all the outrage that mirrors or mimics your own helps. I hope. If it only leaves you empty, that too will be alright. You must grieve in your own way and our collective need for your public grief is our own trauma to manage. I hope you trust me when I say you owe us nothing. We, this society, that man, systemic racism has already taken your prince. And while you are gracious and are giving us a foundation, your dignity, your quiet grace, your abiding faith, your firm resolve, I want you to know that I know that it is an abundant gift that you do not owe us. 

In the meantime, I and so many others pray for you, for Tracy, for Trayvon's brothers and all the family we don't know and friends we wish we were. God sustain you in this season. Be gentle with yourself. Be as kind to you as you are to us.

With deep Honor,
Valerie

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 17, 2013

ON ANGER

ON ANGER

It serves those with power and privilege to tell those who are angry to "cool their jets" or (as I was told) to use "appropriate anger." It serves white supremacy and white privilege (even when it's in black- or brownface) to say that black people are dividing this country because some of us are traumatized by the Zimmerman verdict. It serves dominating cultures to say that those on the margins created the problem and are the ones with the "us vs. them" mentality and the country would be better if "you black people" would "just get over it." It serves colonialism for people to "choose" the "right kind of black" (I wish I made these things up) to speak in this time. Now I know it's hard for people to hear raging, screaming black folk, but when you characterize EVERY black person who is speaking as "raging and screaming" then it's going to be hard to hear it.

Let me say this about "appropriate anger:" In a situation in which I had the misfortune of being, black people had been speaking to a concern for several YEARS (not days or weeks, YEARS). It took one white man to stand with them for their concerns to be looked at seriously. And when authorities came back to me I was told, "now this is appropriate anger." Not the anger of those who were directly affected, but the anger of the speaking white male. PLEASE don't tell me black folk are the problem of the color line. That chalk is white.

Thank you to non-black friends who are risking their white card to make this case. I know it means outing yourself and risking having to clean up that "friend's list." But right here, in the face of black mama trauma, is where your being an ally counts.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 16, 2013

POSTED on Facebook

NO WORDS

I am a mother now
no poet, no words
to tell this terror, to hug
you Darius or Deon or DaShade
nothing that will hold you Jonathan
or Keith or Cedrick in place
I am no poet in these times
of sorrow when verdicts
may be lawful but are damnable
to our lives... I wish I had
something wise to say
as your mother as
the one you call so often
to tell me what wearies
you, but tonight.. not. one. word.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 15, 2013

THE GREAT LIE

THE GREAT LIE:

In the wake of my grief and trauma as a black mama, I just want to address the GREAT LIE. I am SICK TO DEATH of people opining that black people don't get outraged about black-on-black crime, that more black boys die at the hand of black people than white cops and "y'all ain't crying about that."

Let me disabuse you of your lie, of your fantasy, of your pathological presumptions that we are so sick with the gaze on racism that we can't see or smell death unless it comes white-on-black crime. It is a lie that we don't cry for our boys when they turn on themselves. OR that we are not working on these problems in an ongoing way. We were "up in arms" when 70 people were shot in Chicago over the long 4th of July weekend (no freedom in that). There are MANY of us constantly crying about the violence against black women and working on it.

Our turning our gaze on a historic racist system that is DESIGNED to allow people to be killed with impunity and has disproportionately been allowed against black bodies does not diminish the work. But this case seemed "open-and-shut" and we (I am a black mama crying and HOPING) hoped that a jury would start not with, "was Trayvon Martin hitting Zimmerman when he got shot," but with the notion that a black child at the half-time of an all-star game walked to the store to get his little brother skittles and himself tea and was talking on the phone with his friend since elementary school. It was raining. He had his hoodie pulled up and then he notices he was being followed. He ran. As a parent of black boys it is my worst nightmare. Minding his own business. Some vigilante, some police officer (and yeah, some WHITE some BODY) could kill him/them and just walk away.

I will also admit that I find it disingenuous for anyone to say "this has nothing to do with race" and that my history (long-term and recent) with USA racism colors my grief. If I believed this had nothing to do with race, then black Marissa Alexander would not be going to jail for 20 years for shooting a WARNING shot on the basis of the "stand your ground" law in Florida. Zimmerman shot a boy who was fighting a man who was stalking him. Zimmerman shot him because he got out of his car and pursued him. Oh, I know, he shot him because Trayvon supposedly was getting the best of him. But he shot him because he intended to do so. He gets his gun back to do it again.

I am praying for Trayvon's family this morning, and for myself and all the mamas and daddies I know who grieve and have had to bury a child, or who live with the low-grade, ongoing fear that their child can be killed for LIVING while BLACK. — feeling sad.

Valerie Bridgeman
July 14, 2013

Posted on Facebook first

DESERVED

You deserve what you've gotten
and you should just suck it up 
and take it...

He is being kind as he says these words
he knows the value of band-aids ripped
fast and clean 

Valerie Bridgeman
July 13, 2103

SNAKES

What do you do when someone you love and care about deeply choose to be in relationship with someone who has proven to be a snake in your life.... someone they KNOW has betrayed you. I am really, really struggling with this one. I am absolutely considering leaving any relationship with anyone who chooses someone who would try to undermine my relationship or lie about something I did. You want to know which of us is telling the truth: get us both on the phone. You don't want to know. You don't get to say you love me. I'm choosing me.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 12, 2013

OUR WORDS

all we have are our words
and prayer... yes, prayer
and hope layered like
coats and sweaters in fall
all we have
all there is in the face
of evil, of despair
is words laced with
love and Spirit
fused with expectation
and yes, prayer

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 11, 2013

EVIL

You. ARE. EVIL.
That's all.
Not "what you do is evil."
No. YOU. At your core.
How do I stay in connection
with EVIL and not be 
wounded. Or become
as EVIL as you are?
HOW do we
"overcome evil with good?"
HOW does that work?

And then I read: "be kind to unkind people. they need it most."

Sigh.
But you're not just "unkind." You are EVIL.
in flesh. in person. insistent.

NOTHING

I've got nothing to say
it's been a hard, good day.
That's all.
Nothing. Else.

ME

I WONDER

I wonder whether the dreams
that invade my sleep are made of substance
whether they will happen, have already
happened and I only have to see them
become what they were in that dream--
technicolor, bold, and ready to break
out of the night into the landscape of
now and here. I wonder whether you
will join me like you did in the dream,
like you want to see it come to pass
without pausing, like you're with me
all the way. 

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 8, 2013

STORIES

We swap stories about the lint
that filled the vacuum cleaner
and made it whirr rather than grind
and we smile at the small detail
of this story, of the hands we miss
strong, firm and soft hands
that cupped our faces... we both
have these stories about
letting go of the best of us
the best people who loved
us, we swap them like kids on
playgrounds swap lunches
or secrets too hot to hold...

We miss lovers in the same way
I know because we both grab
our stomach, our head
lean back and memories
are just above the tongue
telling another summer's tale
of how you sat on a brown couch
and counted your lover's fingers,
me of how my lover and I
pressed our knees against
each other, wrapped our legs
sitting on a bed, the only
way we made love that day
You and I know the power
of these stories we loose
in the atmosphere around us
they remake us with each
telling and I find I am
hungry for your telling
so that I'll know these
stories are not some
fantasy in my head--
they really happened
and every time I tell them again
they happen once more.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 7, 2013

48 HOURS

45 people in 48 hours

have been shot in Chicago

1 person (average) every hour and six minutes

1 hour and 6 minutes later

someone shot in Chicago

I wish I didn't know this stat

I wish I could write about

Solomon, my Yorkie or 

my friend's cat Michael

and how they each like to cuddle

I wish I could write about love

and how 13 hugs is the minimum

any body should have EVERY 

day Leo Buscaglia said

and about how touch starved

bodies might be among the 45

shot in 48 hours... 8 dead. 

I wish I didn't know that stat

I wish I could write about the

way the wind blows

through maple leaves

and a slight scent fills

the air with each breeze

about how heat radiates

from the pavement and your

hands, the way you touch me

I wish I didn't know about

untimely death, about

unnatural death, gun wounds

and trauma that lasts, about

shootings in Chicago or

Philadelphia or LA or Detroit

or anywhere... no, I wish

there was no such thing

as shot or dead people 

by gun fights by gangs 

by "disrespect"

or territorial turf wars

by wrong party in the wrong part

of the city, by kids caught 

in cross fires... I'd rather

be thinking of making

love with you, of laying on a bed

eating strawberries and laughing

I'd rather not know

this stat...

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 6, 2013