May I Read You A Poem?

Home by Warsan Shire

TW: Racist and dehumanizing language

Thank you to all who participated in the “No Kings” protests over the weekend. You didn’t have to be in a crowd with a sign to be a hero, perhaps you kept the home fires burning for people who were able to go, perhaps you did something else for the community, perhaps you challenged someone with opposing ideas to discuss them further. There are endless opportunities to be involved if you’re mindful of the possibilities.

Since having brain surgery two weeks ago, I have been taking short walks in my neighborhood. There is a park near our house that offers a public restroom and a water fountain, local teens play soccer there in the evenings. I noticed a fair amount of soda and beer cans, water bottles, and other trash left behind. I tucked a pair of gloves and a trash bag in my pocket and made a game out of seeing how quickly I could fill the trash bag. I’m not supposed to bend over hinging at the waist, so I did a deep knee squat to pick up the garbage. Ten or fifteen minutes of squats gets those thighs burning! A guy walking to catch the train yelled “THANK YOU FOR DOING THAT.” Who doesn’t want a cleaner place to hang out? Not everything is “someone else’s job,” you know? We all can do something to show we care. Little things add up quickly and can be incorporated into your routine.

I had a sweet friend come visit me for coffee yesterday when he got off work. We talked about the protests and the recent ICE-related insanity in Los Angeles. Does our immigration policy need a makeover? Certainly. But making it into a reality show is some seriously fucked up thinking. I mentioned that while privileged folks are pondering leaving the country to escape this mess, (no shade, have considered) there are still people who are spending their last dime and risking their lives to GET IN. Despite current conditions, this is still the promised land. A land of opportunity. Opportunities that many of us take for granted and squander.

I was reminded of this Warsan Shire poem written in 2009. She is a Somali British writer and I find her work to be absolutely gorgeous, even when it is emotionally eviscerating. Especially when it is emotionally eviscerating. I invite you to consider her point of view when you think about what means to be an immigrant.

I’m off to do step two of Hot Brain Surgery Summer, today I’m getting my generator implanted. Will post the details soon. Peace out, love thugs. Keep fighting the good fight.

Home

By Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless

home is the mouth of a shark

you only run for the border

when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you

breath bloody in their throats

the boy you went to school with

who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory

is holding a gun bigger than his body

you only leave home

when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you

fire under feet

hot blood in your belly

it’s not something you ever thought of doing

until the blade burnt threats into

your neck

and even then you carried the anthem under

your breath

only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets

sobbing as each mouthful of paper

made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,

that no one puts their children in a boat

unless the water is safer than the land

no one burns their palms

under trains

beneath carriages

no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck

feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled

means something more than journey.

no one crawls under fences

no one wants to be beaten

pitied

no one chooses refugee camps

or strip searches where your

body is left aching

or prison,

because prison is safer

than a city of fire

and one prison guard

in the night

is better than a truckload

of men who look like your father

no one could take it

no one could stomach it

no one skin would be tough enough

the

go home blacks

refugees

dirty immigrants

asylum seekers

sucking our country dry

niggers with their hands out

they smell strange

savage

messed up their country and now they want

to mess ours up

how do the words

the dirty looks

roll off your backs

maybe because the blow is softer

than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender

than fourteen men between

your legs

or the insults are easier

to swallow

than rubble

than bone

than your child body

in pieces.

i want to go home,

but home is the mouth of a shark

home is the barrel of the gun

and no one would leave home

unless home chased you to the shore

unless home told you

to quicken your legs

leave your clothes behind

crawl through the desert

wade through the oceans

drown

save

be hunger

beg

forget pride

your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear

saying-

leave,

run away from me now

i dont know what i’ve become

but i know that anywhere

is safer than here