Something that really jumped out at me in last week’s readings was the divergent sense of unity and isolation presented in the war poems. I hadn’t previously taken the narrator/author’s perspective into consideration in this way, but last week it became really clear that in the background of these war landscapes, each writer has a very definitive sense of company —or lack there of.
 
What I mean by this statement is: when addressing the subject and experience of war, some writers make clear that throughout the toils and unspeakable horrors of war, no one is suffering alone. And although comradery doesn’t lessen the harsh realities of war, it alleviates the burden, and there seems to be a great deal of consolation in this solidarity.
 
“Dulce et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen opens with this stanza:         
       
“Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.”
 
To Owen, there is a sense of fraternity and unity between the men fighting. They share a cause, they share the same deteriorating physical and mental state, they share the same reality. As he tells his story, he avoids isolating himself, and instead opts for writing using “we,” “our” and “all.” The man who is killed at the end is even referred to as “My friend.” All of these diction choices suggest that while war is in every way horrific, the men fighting are in it together and never without a common connection.
 
As readers of “Dulce et Decorum Est,” we don’t picture a lone soldier making his way through a warzone. Instead, we see an entire army of wounded men trudging through a battlefield.
 
On the other end of the spectrum we have Yeats and Auden. Both poets feel extreme isolation positioned at the forefront of a war. W.B. Yeats’ “An Irish Airman foresees his Death” reads:
 
 
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
 
Yeats’ poem is utterly solitary, alone and isolated. The airman narrating the story never felt called to fight for and protect his home. He’s presented as unaffected and ambivalent by his situation, as he doesn’t care about the country he’s protecting and doesn’t hate the country he’s fighting. The countrymen he’s meant to guard are poor and will likely die anyway. There is no conviction in his role; he signed up because he didn’t mind dying. To match this position, Yeats only writes using first-person singular narration. There is certainly no use of “our,” “we,” “us” or “all.” The poem is entirely about “I” and “me.”
 
Zooming out from World War II and other international conflicts, I think it’s important to consider what these differences mean in relation to social justice. For example, we may think of gang activity as a parallel to war. There are similarities in terms of borders and territory, violence, membership/inclusion, sense of purpose and initiation. Another war parallel is fighting against stereotypes, experiencing domestic abuse, or breaking out of poverty.
 
 
But what does it mean for someone to feel fraternity and unity within a gang, versus feeling alone and not sure why they’re partaking? What does it mean for an abused woman to feel alone versus one of many? How else does social justice relate to isolation? Which perspective is better? Which makes the most sense? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section below, and I look forwarding to considering this theme in upcoming readings!

"God prepare me for the war, 'cause comfort be the thing that'll make a king fall." - Andy Mineo
 
The quote above was said by rapper Andy Mineo in the title track of his sophomore album, Uncomfortable. His argument, throughout the song and album,  is that complacency can lead to our downfall without us even knowing it. Thus, we must step outside of our comfort zones and begin to embrace discomfort. In a course like poetry and social justice, we have no choice but to do just that.
 
One of our first in-class assignments was to pair with a WBS student, write a short biography about them, and present it to the class. In order to do this, we had to do two things: find and interact with a high school student we had never spoken to before and discuss our personal lives with them. For some, it's an easy feat to strike up a conversation with a stranger and talk about themselves, but I am not one of these people. After 16 years of education, I'm used to these occurrences and they've become easier over time but they are no more comfortable. As my partner asked me questions, some I was prepared for, some I was not, I found myself questioning my answers, asking myself "Why?" before she got the chance to. Not because I felt judged, but because I knew that — whether we acknowledge them or not — all of our preferences have reasons.
 
However, this was not the most uncomfortable moment of the course. That would come a week later. During our writing session with the Breakbeat Poets, we were asked to write about our hometowns or where we were from. I have a love/hate relationship with my hometown and my poem reflected that:
 
I proudly insist that it's named for an abolitionist Quaker--
Not a racist or act of violence.
Eagerly, I point to it on the map,
"See triangles have centers too"
As much as I complain, I argue, "it's not that bad"
But, my friends still there say "I hate this town"
And sometimes, I do too.
 
I wrote down everything I could about my hometown, trying to capture the push and pull that I felt. But, when I read over it, I was petrified at the idea of presenting the poem to the class. I didn't want anyone to think I came from some racist, conservative, hick town even though I did. There were thoughts in the poem that weren't from my own experiences, but things I heard from friends. It felt inauthentic to share them. Not only that, but I'm fiercely protective of my hometown, Virginia, and all of the South, so when I share my experience there with others, I'm fully prepared to defend myself. It's like when I make fun of my siblings around other people. I'm allowed to make fun, but if you join in, you'll face my wrath. While I knew and trusted that our class was a safe space, the very thought of sharing my poem made me uncomfortable.
 
But, when I did, it was the most freeing experience I'd ever had in a writing class. Hearing others bare their souls, some with conflicted emotions just as I had, made me feel less alone. A lot of us had faced experiences and circumstances that we knew would make others uncomfortable and in turn made us uncomfortable, but in embracing that discomfort, we found that we could be on one accord. This idea is further enhanced by the works we've read so far in the course. Some poems, like "Runagate" by Robert Hayden, make us uncomfortable because they're in forms we're not used to seeing and can be difficult to understand. Some poems, like "Crack House" by Quraysh Ali Lansana, make us uncomfortable because we do understand and stepping into that world leaves us haunted. Some poems make us uncomfortable because they remind us of the atrocities that humanity has endured, survived, or been a victim of.
 
Cesar A. Cruz said that "Art should comfort the disturb and disturb the uncomfortable." I think that the kind of poems we read and write in this course should do just that. Social Justice Poetry should bring to light what's wrong with the world and all of the injustices that people face, and it should make the reader uncomfortable. There's a lot in this world that should make people uncomfortable and, like sitting with your legs crossed or a clothing tag that constantly rubs your back, knowledge of these things should make us uncomfortable enough to act.

Rap is a art,
No,
Rap is a contact sport.
No,
Rap is the way he breathes.
In, and out. He releases everything he wanted to say to his deadbeat dad
Into the microphone.
His opinions about racial injustices he sees everyday, the corrupt government's justification for locking up and killing his brothers and sisters.
Rap is poetic,
A poet, who performs to music.
Poetry is rap. And rap is poetry.
So, enlighten me, what is poetry?

Poetry is the struggle.
Trying to find the right syntax for every sentence.
Late nights spent crying, when your rereading, noticing that your nightmares come to fruition in the form catcalls and an old man at a crack house telling you, "Baby, come here" as you walk to work.
Poetry is art.
The way you can physically style a poem in any matter you choose.
The different forms,
For example, haikus, sestinas, odes, prose, narrative, monologues, rap, spoken word and many, more, forms.
Poetry is a way to be an activist, a form of justice in a city full of injustices that we could name on our fingers and toes.
I can't write social justice.
Poetry is a work of art, that can be big, and small, never silent, loud as a lion
I ain't lyin.
Trying to be correct in grammar.
I am not lying, when I say going to an independent school is so damn hard.
But I'm armed,
With my pen and paper.
This is a poem and this is art.

Rap and poetry.
Formulation of questions like the ones I raise my hands to answer.
​Would you listen to the words that I speak if my words were looped over a beat, you can dance to?
Would you feel the syllables and letters vibrate and flow through your system if I sung them?
Would you embrace and take them in if I waved my fist in the air, was rude and talked about using tax dollar to build a wall and demanded to see our president's green card?
Maybe you'd get what I'm saying if I told a joke.
Here.
Knock knock.
(Who's there?)
Subconscious.
(Subconscious who?)
Knocking my way into your subconscious until you feel the I way, he feels, she feels.
We all feel,
Different.

Poetry is a struggle.
No,
Poetry is rap in a different form.
Yes,
Poetry is a way I speak my truth.
Poetry is how we express ourselves.
Poetry, is, life!
​ So, enlighten me, what is life?

By Kennedy McDaniel

Recently a new acquaintance told me how interesting it is that I am not pursuing medicine. For once it was not said in support of the Muslim-Indian-Doctor stereotype, but rather in the support of the less heard of Muslim-Indian-Writer identity. While I try not to deal in stereotypes pertaining to myself (save for the occasional self-deprecating “Yes, my parents are totally okay with my studying Writing” and “No, I’m not pre-med on the side,”) it is in many ways unavoidable. This class, however, has made me face it head-on as I reflect on where I stand as a student, a writer, a social activist, a woman, a Muslim (the list can go on).
 
Carolyn Forché refers to the poems in her anthology, Against Forgetting, as work produced by those who “endured conditions of historical and social extremity.”[1] Poetry of witness, therefore is a tangle of the personal and the political simply because its executor is reacting to both. Our class’s workshop with the BreakBeat Poets called upon us students to become witnesses of our own histories—as varied or familiar as they may be. My response to the woman I mentioned above was an excited comment about how important it is for me to tell my story—my history, rather than reading it in the media—often by someone with no life experience as a Hijab-wearing Muslim woman.
 
One of the first questions I asked my fellow classmate, a Writer in Baltimore Schools student, was why she calls herself a writer. Upon asking her, I recognized that this is not a question I tend to ask myself often. I tend to consider myself “almost there” or “not a writer yet.” But as I’m writing this reflection it is rather clear that well written or not, I do consider myself a writer to some degree. After reading poetry from the BreakBeats Poets anthology, the question of identity became forefront in my mind. I’ve found identity is inherently twofold: it is how you perceive yourself in tandem with how you are seen by the world around you. An example: the students and professors I met the spring of my sophomore year have most likely never known me without my hijab (or don’t realize I’m the same student they saw around campus the year and a half before, pre-hijab). I however see myself as a women new to the life of a hijabi, not as seasoned as my fellow women who have weathered the comments and criticisms of people who ought to say less than they do or educate themselves more. Therefore, when I hesitate to consider the struggles of these women my own, it is because I know I have not shared those experiences (and I almost cringe to say ‘yet’).
 
However, as I continue to wear hijab, I’ve learned to begin considering myself as one of these women. Prior to taking this class, I knew that my reservations about considering myself a writer was rooted in the question of what my story would be, exactly. It seems that as with being a hijabi, being a writer is something I am. Needless to say, this has not solidified my identity question in a day: I see myself constantly in a state of change and consideration, wondering what my story will be. Of the poets included in this week’s reading, there were some that wrote with their identity inherent in their writing, as the medium itself, while others mused over the question of identity as the content. The poets, and their poems, called on both myself and other readers to consider our identities. I’ve found that for my story, whatever it may be, there are endless possibilities of how to incorporate my identity into it.
 


[1] Forche, Carolyn. "Twentieth-century Poetry of Witness." American Poetry Review. Vol. 22, No. 2. March/April 1993: 9-16. Print.

Black girls love like bursting levis, flooding you with shea butter, melanin, afros, and cocoa kisses.
Black boys love like trembling sidewalks-- cracking and shaking under the weight of the world-- managing to stand and rise.
Jamaican boys cherish you like royalty in Port-Au-Prince. Brazilian girls hold you close like you’re sweeter than sugar cane, centuries old and coveted.

In another life this acquired crop held
hierarchy     
over
humanity.

It cleared land.
It started wars.

The torment of a man confined to the fields…

Stalks rose high above his head.
Sweat glistened over his brow.
Tool in hand he struck down row after row in the suffocating Cape Verde heat.

The life of color is valuable.
The love is priceless.

Ebony and golden skin glow under the sun’s rays.
Products of the Nile and children of a beauty unseen until a lighter version is adapted.
Elizabeth Taylor was not our queen. The glory of Cleopatra stolen on the silver screen when royalty in purple turned white.

There is beauty in the color purple.

French,
Arabic,
Spanish,
Patois,
every dialect an ode to kings and queens.

Royal blood coursing through veins like Mediterranean seas.

Your hair coils and twists to protect your thoughts.
Your skin is bronzed.
Your history is a dedication to the power of will.
Your uncle has a name from Islam, Bilal, strength in his resilience.
Family trees bathed in color are shelters to the beauty of our ancestors.

Be blessed in your skin.

In Virginia, we only ever drive
to strip malls: the cleaners, martial arts
places, bagel franchises. Mother chews ginseng
every morning, watches the sun
rise, every morning slips sour vitamins
into my orange juice. Before this, there
was an acre of pear trees, a million magpies,
a dirty old river I would never step in. Summer
in my Virginia is harmless. School’s just letting
out & we ride our bikes to friend’s
houses, play video games in the dark.
 
Show me 1987, mother dressed
in a cool blue jacket, long silver earrings
dangling over her shoulders. No armband
feels right on me, no anthem & yellow
is a color I never understood--wallpaper,
a daisy’s heart. Close your eyes: mother
walks to school, rice packed in her bag,
she even throws pebbles at birds sometimes.

​Diana Prince as child star // I gild my shackles // superheroes arrive
 
the daily planet impersonates me
nightly. they’ve gotten lazy
and no more call me by my name.
 
wonder woman has a lipstick craze!
things are wild here in Hollywood hills
our lips are punky rooster killers
and we all wear black!
 
they call me kid nipple ring
and I splash out on cover, that
full screen thing they like.
holy smokes, gals, I leave
my snatch all over the place
I let it bleed, you know, I keep
what flies I catch.
 
wonder girl and both her perfect boots or
I buy my meals off flesh and
six lotto numbers! so can you!
 
it’s all scratch and sniff, I think,
and I’ve left my lasso far
from where I sleep.
 
wonder woman finds her mother,
weeping; metropolis, the city, lies
in wait, it watches. 

 What's whiter the Oscars or the United States Congress?

Neither answers to this question have a positive outcome on progressive legislation or my viewing pleasure. Let's face it: America is pretty white.

But do we have to be this obnoxious about it? From "representative" bicameral government institutions to the 94% white Academy responsible for this year's tragic nominations, we have failed. 

Here's my reasoning:
1. Creed
2. Dope
3. Straight Outta Compton

These three films alone illustrate the massive amount of talent demonstrated by black directors and actors this year alone. The thematic motifs of freedom, education, and perseverance beautifully intertwined within these bildungsroman tales are vivid proof that the system is broken-- shattered and obviously blind.

I saw Creed four times.
Dope brought me to tears at the reality of drug and college crossroads.
And while  Straight Outta Compton was full of misogyny and homophobia the film depicted the truth behind the careers of NWA magically.

How will Chris Rock handle his hosting? Will "black twitter" be watching? 
​
So, my point is that between the Oscars and Congress are both victims of the same tragic plight. Lack of diversity is a sign that while times have changed, a lot of conditions remain the same and perhaps this generation should fight back against it by solving the plague: be the change we want to see. Be the Academy (but A LOT better). Make Congress younger, more diverse, and more representative of its republic.

p.s. if Michael B. Jordan should ever happen across this blog post I personally believed the Academy should be dismantled for its ignorance to his performance as a boxer not struggling solely for a title, but for acceptance in a world where his conception meant infidelity. #BOOM