Thought it was just me when I read the poem, so I scrolled through the peanut butter, washed my feet, and moved on. Do it all the time. Prob'ly won't stop actually. But I appreciate that someone took a minute to speak on it. Because it does get old--the peanut butter trudging, that is. Read [...]
Author: darlene anita scott
...yeah, the one you met the other day in the grocery store. She made you wanna say something to her. You did. And now you can’t remember her name. But that wasn’t really the important part of the meeting anyway.
I'm an excellent tryer and dedicated if not so-so runner. I’m probably too old to still play on the monkey bars. But I do. Maybe too young to groove to Sam Cooke. But I listen to him. I'm powered by plants, a pacemaker, and anything creative.
I like making collages, making up my mind and sticking to it, and making up recipes; almost anything by James Baldwin; almost anything with black beans in it; and probably more than is healthy for the average human: I like alone time and homemade popcorn—not necessarily together.
I daydream constantly. I write poetry and prose. Sometimes I teach it to people. Sometimes I read or recite it to people. And even less often I publish it.
I could be more tolerant of overpriced grapes, people who drive with parking lights on, and deafening car stereos.
I like to laugh but don’t do it as often as I should. Some people think I'm shy. Some think I'm a mute. I'm happy to be here and try to make the most of it.
If you have ever loved a black boy
boy /boi/ n. human male child
I was probably in 7th grade, crushing on one or many, the first time I felt real tears for a black boy. One I didn’t know and because the evening news reported I never would. My friend told me we were not connected; that there would be others to meet at the mall, on a college tour, as an intern. I am more convinced than ever that until we own and absorb the experience of what it means to be a black boy, there are gonna be a whole lot more that will never be met at the mall, on a college tour, as an intern.
If you have ever loved a black boy you know.
If you have ever known a black boy you know.
And if you have never been lucky enough to experience either, let me explain:
He is what we…
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Trigger
Trayvon Benjamin Martin
Feb. 5, 1995 – Feb. 26, 2012
It seems so obvious now.
I don’t want it all to be about race. I don’t. But I teach mostly Black young people who have told me things like:
1. My family calls me “white boy,” you know, because I’m the one who goes to college.
2. Slavery ended in, like, 1930 right? C’mon Ms. Scott, I can’t remember all these dates.
3. I can’t do _________ <– insert any work, challenging or not, here.
Today my Advanced Composition students and I compared Javon Johnson’s 2013 poem about a day with his nephew to James Baldwin’s 1963 letter to his nephew My Dungeon Shook from his collection The Fire Next Time. We were discussing the technique of letter writing.
When Johnson alludes to Oscar Grant, I tell them we cannot watch the YouTube video of Grant’s shooting because I…
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When Crumbs Don’t Bring Them Home: Watching the Trial of George Zimmerman
Trayvon Martin, 15-17 (undated)
Emmett Till, 14
Dorian (my nephew), 14
I’m trying to follow the case against George Zimmerman, accused of the murder of Trayvon Martin.
Trying still to skip around the stone in my throat, even though it feels like I may never not be tripping over such stones everytime I revisit this case. Or the case of Oscar Grant, hell, Sean Bell, Emmett Till, Aiyana Jones, place the name of a young black man you know here.
This poem appeared on UtR shortly after Trayvon’s death. I removed it so that it could find a wider audience in the Stand Our Ground anthology. I’ve wanted to write more, but I keep coming back here, same stone, which makes the title all the more fitting, eh? This is all, so, ughhhhh. Bleh. Yes, that. And this:
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Monthly Meter: October
fellowship/publication submissions: 4 fellowship/publication acceptances: 1 fellowship/publication rejections: 1 books: are nice. to read and stuff. Secret Shame: Hello Good Morning - Dirty Money Mantra of the Moment: It's all temporary.
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Throwback
Throwing it back real quick right here... #yesallwomen_____________________________________________________ BEYOND EVERY CEILING IS THE SKY she came in peace, left pretense at the door let her baggage lose itself on his secret closet’s floor. among the baggage and the skeletons, she knelt to say her prayers, but no matter how she tried to sort them her [...]
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Monthly Meter: September
fellowship/publication submissions: 3 fellowship/publication acceptances: 0 fellowship/publication rejections: 1 books: The White Boy Shuffle - Paul Beatty Secret Shame: my driving persona Mantra of the Moment: Keep going.
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Maafa
So I wrote this new poem. Maafa on a Monday Ride Through the City in Which I Decided I Should Just Go Ahead And Die Alone You have things but say you do not value them, well only my clothes which I keep because they’re quality but I could get rid of if I needed [...]
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Monthly Meter: August
fellowship/publication submissions: 0fellowship/publication acceptances: 0fellowship/publication rejections: 2books: The God of Small Things - Arundhati RoySecret Shame: Let's just say schmoozing is not my strength. And Big Freedia (you already know)!Mantra of the Moment: Ohmmmmmmmmm dingleberries. (And namaste).
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Remembering Hurricane Gaston
August 30thTen years ago this time--6:30 p.m.--I was struggling to get home from work. I was low on gas and cash because I was on a new contract and had been unemployed all summer. As the commute crept along in the rain and its requisite traffic, I calculated how much of both I was using.What [...]
darlene anita scott 