Liberia
Liberia sticks to my skin
Hot thick dusty air and the gangster stare of five year olds cover me
And I can’t see past Pangaea-
Cuz the connected soul of la tierra entera is all up in my face here
I peer into pages of palm trees, dirt roads, and bloodlines
Find myself sitting around laughing with young cats in the earth’s womb
As normal as fries with a burger
As Liberia as potato greens with enormous fish heads,
As “my parents are dead”, as telling me that Jesus said, ‘Love your enemy’
I’m drenched in Liberia and I’m ready
To let this be what it is and not act like my opinions are epically informed
This layer of Liberia, feels endless in my pores
Like Mildred’s sisters baby and what Stephen lost to war
Ends been cut off along with electricity, innocence, and limbs
And the day’s last light dims Monrovia golden
A mother holding her child nurtures hope
She the turner of pages, the book of life an Atlas
Carries worlds up on her shoulders and laughs
I’m near collapse
Cuz Liberia is pressed into my chest
So tight I can’t even get an ‘I love you’ out my lungs
Liberians could answer all my questions but they’d rather have me guess…
If I can show ‘em love with a hug? I’m gonna have to go with Yes
Cuz unless mama earth tells me no,
I’m gonna join the Youth in planting seeds and wait to see what grows
In Liberia
Things are 1822 times more complex than they appear
90% indigenous population saying, “love of liberty brought us here”
Fufu on the table, Usher on the radio and cousin’s in staten island,
Reverence for the states that don’t even know you’re here singing, dancing and dying
Ready to sell your gold coast for a visa but where’s the silver lining?
Finally, I see it at a youth group meeting in a hood called soul clinic
Keeping it realer than their tin roof they push aside the pain
Young women and men waging an anti-rape campaign
Planting season over, they know damn well they are the rain
Wearing fearlessness and t-shirts that say my body is mine
They own themselves and the future and right now is their time
Suddenly, I realize I’m seeing tomorrow being born in Liberia
Breaking day in Daniel’s voice, Woloquoi’s eyes, and Fatumata’s song
And in Liberia, it’s rude to simply hum along,
this is survival music, head just above water, fresh out of the fire,
you still alive so you inspired music,
belted out with our hands held tight,
for healing and for food, for rains and human rights…
Liberia like liberation, Love sung in desperation
Sticking to my skin, sweating and letting go
The last note has to say it all, but I can’t hit that key
The song of Liberia- endless here within me-
Will it echo inside my mind like the gunshots in the dream
Plastered to my skin, will you see it when you look at me
Liberia’s dust, sun, and broken hearted glances
Sticking like memories and the smell of the streets
To my skin,
To my heart,
To all my days to come.
Showing posts with label Despierto de la Noche. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Despierto de la Noche. Show all posts
Monday, April 14, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
Where Brooklyn At? (Luke Nephew - Liberia)
WELCOME TO BROOKLYN…
Brooklyn, Liberia. Fill Fulton St. with sand and watch waves crash down on Flatbush and Nostrand. Take off your shoes and most common (mis)conceptions. ---Where Brooklyn at?... More places than you thought my people.
Out here it’s where universes get up as the sunset illuminates young people doing what they do. If beautiful could mean countless colors bumping floating and flowing into loud laughter, swaying hips, splashing ocean water in the golden warmth of a brave sun- then this is beautiful. Beautiful and Brooklyn. And Harlem and Lagos and Santo Domingo and Accra and absolutely Monrovia. So it turns out maps, like schools and declarations of independence, only kinda work.
The energy glistens off the water and reverberates in madd hearts beating strong and close together. Straight up dance party in the sand. Big speakers pump the beats and fresh-ed out young folk are getting down. Akon, Alicia Keyes interspersed with African Hip Hop keep us all moving. Knicks Jerseys, Yankees hats, fitteds worn just right…and if anybody was wearing kicks…they’d be fly for sure. But that wasn’t everybody. Others were just rolling in their tattered shirts, ripped jeans or soccer shorts and some plastic flip flops. But it flowed into what it was: BK remixed by West Africa.
I can’t help but wish so bad that Tahani and Jamila and Janine and Kessed and Gaby and Waddada and Shaun and Swift and Native and James and all my Bk fam were in this Brooklyn with me. What would your eyes see? Words say? Reflections ignite?
So there is an area outlined by some string for dancing. But you couldn’t contain this throw down with a thirty foot brick wall let alone a string. There's people grooving right in the ocean with the waves crashing over them. There's drinks in hands, bare feet in sands, and a distinct lack of tension. Young lovers cover each other with their arms and besitos. This many hugs simultaneously has a magical effect on a place. But, I remind myself, because it is necessary, that this is real.
This Brooklyn consists of about fifty yards of Beach with three walls made of interwoven leaves and some scrap barbwire. The other wall is the Atlantic Ocean. The floor is sand. Population: Liberian Youth. As we go in a young friend we just met in the streets takes note of Brooklyn’s vibe: “it is a nice Sunday afternoon. Everyone here is happy.” Word to the 3rd. I seriously can’t ever remember thinking that about one place in one moment in New York. Even on the first day of Spring people got issues. But to throw the breaks on idealizing Brooklyn, Liberia- a seven year old gets sand thrown in his face and a loud Hey! We turn to look and little man is holding a ‘drug needle’. He is scolded fiercely by the nearby teenagers because the needle has been used. He runs away. Bed-sty, East NY streets flash through my mind. It’s more like the hood than I thought.
A wave crashes, the music cuts to let the crowd sing out “Hearts all over the world tonight…”, and I look up- straight into the eyes of a five year old girl. Again, beautiful won’t suffice. She stands like a ballerina with a filthy thin cotton dress hanging precariously from her little shoulders. She smiles, outdoing the sun. The music comes back on, the boys playing futbol by the water yell goal, and life resumes its journey. It keeps on moving, taking time to dance to hug to feel to heal to forget to ignore to drink to believe things can be better to breathe to be together and alright. It’s good to be in Brooklyn.
Still, I turn to the young Liberian next to me and inquire: ‘Excuse brother, where’s the Bronx at?’
Brooklyn, Liberia. Fill Fulton St. with sand and watch waves crash down on Flatbush and Nostrand. Take off your shoes and most common (mis)conceptions. ---Where Brooklyn at?... More places than you thought my people.
Out here it’s where universes get up as the sunset illuminates young people doing what they do. If beautiful could mean countless colors bumping floating and flowing into loud laughter, swaying hips, splashing ocean water in the golden warmth of a brave sun- then this is beautiful. Beautiful and Brooklyn. And Harlem and Lagos and Santo Domingo and Accra and absolutely Monrovia. So it turns out maps, like schools and declarations of independence, only kinda work.
The energy glistens off the water and reverberates in madd hearts beating strong and close together. Straight up dance party in the sand. Big speakers pump the beats and fresh-ed out young folk are getting down. Akon, Alicia Keyes interspersed with African Hip Hop keep us all moving. Knicks Jerseys, Yankees hats, fitteds worn just right…and if anybody was wearing kicks…they’d be fly for sure. But that wasn’t everybody. Others were just rolling in their tattered shirts, ripped jeans or soccer shorts and some plastic flip flops. But it flowed into what it was: BK remixed by West Africa.
I can’t help but wish so bad that Tahani and Jamila and Janine and Kessed and Gaby and Waddada and Shaun and Swift and Native and James and all my Bk fam were in this Brooklyn with me. What would your eyes see? Words say? Reflections ignite?
So there is an area outlined by some string for dancing. But you couldn’t contain this throw down with a thirty foot brick wall let alone a string. There's people grooving right in the ocean with the waves crashing over them. There's drinks in hands, bare feet in sands, and a distinct lack of tension. Young lovers cover each other with their arms and besitos. This many hugs simultaneously has a magical effect on a place. But, I remind myself, because it is necessary, that this is real.
This Brooklyn consists of about fifty yards of Beach with three walls made of interwoven leaves and some scrap barbwire. The other wall is the Atlantic Ocean. The floor is sand. Population: Liberian Youth. As we go in a young friend we just met in the streets takes note of Brooklyn’s vibe: “it is a nice Sunday afternoon. Everyone here is happy.” Word to the 3rd. I seriously can’t ever remember thinking that about one place in one moment in New York. Even on the first day of Spring people got issues. But to throw the breaks on idealizing Brooklyn, Liberia- a seven year old gets sand thrown in his face and a loud Hey! We turn to look and little man is holding a ‘drug needle’. He is scolded fiercely by the nearby teenagers because the needle has been used. He runs away. Bed-sty, East NY streets flash through my mind. It’s more like the hood than I thought.
A wave crashes, the music cuts to let the crowd sing out “Hearts all over the world tonight…”, and I look up- straight into the eyes of a five year old girl. Again, beautiful won’t suffice. She stands like a ballerina with a filthy thin cotton dress hanging precariously from her little shoulders. She smiles, outdoing the sun. The music comes back on, the boys playing futbol by the water yell goal, and life resumes its journey. It keeps on moving, taking time to dance to hug to feel to heal to forget to ignore to drink to believe things can be better to breathe to be together and alright. It’s good to be in Brooklyn.
Still, I turn to the young Liberian next to me and inquire: ‘Excuse brother, where’s the Bronx at?’
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