Ode to Immigrants Hector Reyes

Tired of suffering, wanting a new lifestyle. Brave enough to break the laws. Courageous enough to take that risk. Fearless of the consequences.

Walking through the desert. Swimming through bodies of water. Praying they won’t be caught. All for an opportunity for change.

Coming to a place you would never imagine being. Attempting to create a better future for your descendants. Leaving home at the risk of never finding home again.

Having the courage to close a door, to open a new one. Some welcome you, others want you out.

Following the wise words of Emma Lazarus, we should all “lift our lamps beside the golden door.”

The Whisperer at My Door

Michael McKnight, Jr

WHO knocks at my door when all hope is lost?

Oh is it you? Reaper, whisperer of the night when night falls, you become my friend when the sun lays waste you become my protector when it’s my time to ascend to the heavens, you become my guide your Blade as sharp as tungsten needles our Aura as dark as a midnight sky the warmth of your hands as warm as cold night Your darkness beats louder than a body’s beating heart flowers sink in the presence of your smiles eyes roll in the absence your growls your skulled face sings Melodies stronger than the midnight blues

I tremble in joy waiting for the good news when I hear the knock at my door I look out of the shallow shell and I say to myself

Who knocks at my door?

Oh whisperer, oh reaper, I’ve come to accept your crimson love and hear your darkened roar

I praise you as the one I seek the whisperer at my door

They’re all Warriors

Richard Scott

I’m from?

More so what made me.

Who made me?

What helped me blossom from that bushy-haired baby?

I, once, was asked: “Who are the warriors in your family?” I instinctively responded: “They’re all warriors.”

My last name flooded the Post after Friday Nights in the Fall. 18 was the life limit for my father and his cousins. But this presumed guarantee transfigured into triumph and prosperity. A certain respect gravitated through Barry Farms earned by my Grandfather. The example set by Rip, a pillar in his community.

The Brown and Simpson side was more “Yes sir”, “No ma’am”. The military routine and culture coursed through their veins, which created generations full of those who embody discipline and love. But even this fierce family enhanced the tradition-rich pews that resided on East Capitol St. A regime built on Tennessee Avenue.

What made me?

The guidance of those who came before me and those who did everything they weren’t supposed to.

Who made me?

Grace-filled Gifts from God that appeared in the form of family.

What helped me blossom from that bushy-haired baby? Learning how to give back what they gave me.

Don’t call me African American It doesn’t represent me

You have 23 and Me and Ancestry but I can’t trace my history past the bloody seas that brought slavery

You erased my language my religion my food my music

You erased me and created something different a new man

One with rich culture

One who works twice as hard

One who laughs at adversity and strives for their vanguard

So although you changed me, I can’t be plowed I am not African

I am a black American and I am proud