I just finished reading the Autobiography of Malcolm X.  The X stands for the African last name he would never know, erased by slavery.  Malcolm X was a truly honest man.  He was a fiery, passionate speaker of what he understood as truth.  I want to be like that.  I don't want to hold back.  I think back to those times, and white people, you understand what I'm talking about, when I've heard a friend or acquaintance make a racist joke, and I've just given them an awkward grimace, not wanting to offend them by censure.  But silence is racism.  Silence perpetuates the problem.  Malcolm X's vigorous and thorough dedication of his life to end racism has helped me realize that I cannot call myself a Christ-follower and NOT speak out.  So I'm going to try this new thing called courage, and I'm going to reject racist jokes of all kind, no matter how rude I am perceived to be.  

People like to justify racists jokes, because they're "harmless" or "just for fun,"  but jokes of that nature couldn't be more serious for several reasons.  First, they consciously or unconsciously hurt interracial relations.  In most cases, the joke perpetrator would not share the joke with members of the race it offends.  That creates a facade, a veil of truth. A "Here's how I act with my own race, and here's how I act with them,"  kind of mentality that obscures true solidarity.  Second, the jokes proliferate a false levity that has no place associated with racism.  The manner of a joke is such that humor is expected to ensue, but how are we justified a laugh at something that has its origins grown in slavery, rape, battery, and murder?  Third, the jokes cultivate an undeserved sense of superiority.  By saying the joke, one has placed his or her self into a position above the race at which the joke is aimed. "It's funny, because, clearly, 'we' wouldn't do anything so ridiculous."  

Post-1964, when white people asked Malcolm X what they could do to help his cause, he would say, "Where the really sincere white people have got to do their 'proving' of themselves is not among black victims, but out on the battle lines of where America's racism really is--and that's in their own home communities; America's racism is among their own fellow whites.  That's where the sincere whites who really mean to accomplish something have got to work."  America has come a long way since the Long, Hot Summer of 1964, but we are still not bigotry-free.  If you say you are an unprejudiced person, then you will take a stand for what you claim and reject prejudiced-attempts at humor.

Ten neutral moments. He said I'm supposed to find ten neutral moments to represent each year since the incident. Neutrality. I'm not sure I can remember events in which I felt neutral. The neutral moments are the space-fillers and the time-wasters. And those I choose to forget.

11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.

What does one do in a neutral moment? Work, I suppose. Clean, perhaps. Homework, maybe.

11... ... ... ...riding bicycle to the forest near my house?
12... ... ...who even remembers being twelve?
13... ..I lived on the island at this age...surrounded by white palms. White palms will work.

This is too difficult. Neutral...neutral...neutral. It's incredible how much stuff the human brain can push out. A whole life's worth in some cases.

One hand to the sky, sword in grasp, stabbing the stars.
The dust on my feet feels like defeat. 
No blood, only rain.
The drops on my face feel like defeat. 

One hand to the sky to rip the sun apart. 
This trailer park smells of defeat.
No scars, only shine.
This empty bottle smells of defeat. 

One hand to the sky to crush the clouds.
This icy wind whispers of defeat.
No tears, only fog. 
This approaching siren screams of defeat.

We see no loss.  We hear no death.

Brilliantly deluded fornicating flies. 
Offspring of the dirt, parents of the dirt.
We lift our bruised faces in defiance. 

And taste defeat.

Gravity is a malevolent thief, a robber stealing the tears from my eyes.  Unbidden and unwanted, the tears slip to the ground.  My bones ache with the constant pull of the earth, begging me to join the dust.  And I know-- the dirt is hungry for my tears least of all. Down.  Down.  Down.  This earthen coffin, like a gaping throat, awaits its feeding. 

If you've ever lost a loved one, I pray for you.

The nights are both too warm and too cold.  My bed is too soft and too hard. My back is too stiff.  My eyes are too dry and too wet.  The count-down has begun and comfort is unattainable.  They told me eventually the pain would go away.  Almost eleven years, and it hasn't.  The count-down has begun and the inner turmoil is nearly unbearable. 

These last few days, I've had difficulty smiling.  There is a heavy sense of impending sadness on the air.  A thick smog of despair is rolling in.  The count-down has begun.  I try not to think about it.  I try not to think about the dead.  I try not to think about death.  But it's difficult when holidays are marked by tears. 

My skin crawls, my throat swells up, hot tears drown my eyes.  They told me it would stop.