This Poem was Submitted By: Mark D. Kilburn On Date: 2005-04-17 08:19:38 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Subtle and not so Subtle Racism

When in my youth, I was taught how Fredrick Douglass learned to read through the noble, compassionate, and kind efforts of  his master’s empathetic wife; despite great  risk to her own safety and standing. It was a learned form of subtle racism, and it was all bullshit. Little Freddy taught himself to read! Conning the white boys he played with by claiming he could out-read them. Sure enough, they’d out-read him every single time.   It was in the process of proving it, that Fred stole bigger and better words right out from under them. Words were immediately filed away for practice in private  with clever, admirable, and ceaseless determination. A self-taught genius dreaming the impossible. There weren’t any kind or empathetic slave owners! Where Fred had grown up, black male children were kept hungry, and when fed at all it was out  of a communal bowl; like you’d slop hogs. More often than not, it was the same sustenance  that the swine received. From the seeds of this  complete and hopeless hell grew Fredrick Douglass,  Indisputably, one of our greatest American heroes. His impossible dream of freedom came true. Last week, two cars pulled into a video store parking lot. One door dinged another and words were exchanged,  escalating to blows; until a white man pulled a pistol and fired twice, killing a black man and wounding his wife. The police arrived and allowed the killer to hand over his weapon, along with his version of the story. No search, no cuffs no trip to the station, no bail, no arrest. We know what  would of happened if the white man lay dead and his  wife was on the ground wounded-don’t we? That’s not so subtle…

Copyright © April 2005 Mark D. Kilburn


This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-05-06 16:06:18
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.73077
I don't know of this Fred Douglass. Guess I gotta Google him. I didn't know of racism until my parents left Montreal in 1948 to live in Florida, and then I quickly learned. And then there's the last paragraph. It could have been two blacks, or two whites squaring off...I think the problem in America (USA)is it's gun laws. Too easy to kill that way. Why is it that nations like Canada, England, Australia percentage wise have about one quarter of deaths by guns? Why? Good thing for you to research Mark.Anyway, a very interesting read. Thanks.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Helen C DOWNEY On Date: 2005-05-04 09:14:44
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.68000
Mark, What a great story! It's ashame the world is the way it is and that there is such a thing as racism. YOu wrote the truth. Woven words of truth flow beautifully throughout. Glad you posted this. Bravo! Helen
This Poem was Critiqued By: Latorial D. Faison On Date: 2005-05-03 22:55:06
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Mark this poem shines with all of the might of Fredrick Douglass and the countless other smart black men who lived and live the stuggle. Thanks for penning something to make us all think twice about what really is and what isn't. Things have changed, but I wouldn't use the word "drastic" when I say that. I love the way you begin this poem. You point to a wrong that white America has carried out for centuries and still continue to. No doubt, somewhere in history there were some nice white folks who pitied us. But where were the white folks who said, "I'll be damned if you gone treat this boy this way -- over my dead body?" That's the good white American that Black America needed to set us free. There may have been a few, but they damn sure didn't make the history books, and we didn't either, not until we started writing our own books. I hope that you will submit this poem far and wide, because its truth deserves to be read and anthologized for our generations and the generations to come. You have shown us the racism of the past, and yet the second half of the poem points to what's still wrong with the world today. It's the same ole' same ole' stuff. It's tough being black. Thanks for illustrating the painful reality that I believe will always exist as long as there is black and white. This is an excellent write. Thanks for sharing. Latorial www.latorialfaison.com
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2005-04-21 02:45:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.08333
Poet your words grab and tug at one's heart.......good structure, word flow which not only allows for images to be created with this read but emotions as well...........I thank God each day that I was not a part of that time but then again, are we not still there in many parts of the world today? Like the reference to little Freddie......teaching himself to read, to become more educated with each read which was a form of game for some yet quite serious on his part.......the picture of the starving children touches my heart even today as so many children in this country, a country that reaches out to other lands and nations, allows thier own children to go hungry.......sinful indeed.........in your closing stanza you speak well of what would take place today if indeed it was a black man who had shot a white man and injured his wife.....did God not make us all equal in His image? When the world wakes I pray it is not too late. Thank you for posting, taking the time to share this information and well written piece. I pray many that need to partake in the reading will see it and take it to heart. God Bless, Claire
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-04-20 13:35:38
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.40000
Hi Mark, I must tell you I did not know who Frederick Douglass was so I "asked Jeeves" on line and find that he was a very prominent African American. I have read this story poem several times and become even more enraged each time at the injustice done to black people for centuries. When I was married my husband was stationed at Camp Campbell in Kentucky...during the Korean war. I was stunned and appalled by the way the blacks were treated. The first time I walked to town and saw the black people step into the gutter to let me pass I could not believe it. When it happened the first time I told the man he did not need to do that and step back on the sidewalk...of course he would not and I felt so bad. One afternoon there was a knock at the door and when I opened it there was no one there...looking further into the yard I saw a black man standing by the garbage can so I spoke to him and told him to come up to the porch so I could hear what he had to say. I finally walked to him as he would not budge and he said he needed to do some work so he could buy food for his family. We were pretty poor ourselves, at that time, but I had him haul some wood and paid him more than he expected but I made him take it. I grew up in a small town where there was only one black family and we treated them the same as everyone else. It took me a long time to realize how cruel some people are and that made me feel ashamed. Now having said all that I want to compliment you on this piece. It is well written and a compelling read. When I read the part about Freddie stealing words right from under the white boy's noses I smiled past the lump in my throat. It is hard to believe what the slaves went through in the 1800's...it is a part of our history that we all should be ashamed to admit. Your last stanza about the shooter only being asked some questions and then let go is gut wrenching...to believe that today we are no better and have learned less than expected is unconscionable and it makes me feel sorry. I hope this piece will be read by many people and hopefully they will be the right people. If it can make even a few see the error of these ways it will be worth your effort. Bravo Peace...Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: charles r pitts On Date: 2005-04-17 21:33:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
i was born with mixed heritage, the product of poor white southern sharecropper (father) and more affluent bible-thumping, fire-and-brimstone, blue ridge hillbilly (mother). as a result, racism was as natural a part of our belief system as our belief in god. i grew up in a small, country town in nc where racism was shared among everyone like a good story or joke. it never felt quite right to me, but there wasnt really any minority opinions going around that offered any alternative viewpoints. i felt strange in social settings when a black friend of mine would be with the gang, and everything was fine until he left. sooner or later, a comment would be made and snickers and giggles would follow. i tried to play along, but felt embarrassed and sickened on the inside. then at 18, i joined the army as an infantryman and was shipped 1st to ft. benning, ga (for basic), then to ft. hood tx. thus began my journey to self-discovery. i decided to make my own mind up about what i believed in, what was right and wrong, and what i valued. i began to realize that my own color of people had done worse things to me than any other race. in tx, i was roomed with a young man from flint, mi who was as anti-white as i was anti-black. and wouldnt ya know it? after a tense first few weeks, we became as brothers. and another guy down the hall? he was hispanic, but his heart was as true as any i'd known. i decided everything i had been taught was BS, and that a person's character was the best gauge of integrity. a few years ago, i read roots by alex haley (having never seen the series), and malcolm x (loved that movie). it made me so ashamed to even be white. though i played no part those atrocitied, the blood in my veins came from those who did, and if i would have lived back then, i may have. i began looking for the subtle racisms you speak of in this piece. its everywhere. it is painful to hear other "whites" talk about how blacks ought to just "get over it". that it was a "long time ago" turning a blind eye to the continuing effects 400 years of slavery still has on black people. i have to stop here because i get so angry at how little progress we've made, and the glossy cover we put on this ragged, disheveled tome. i like everything about this poem. if it was mine, i would choose a poetic structure (renga, cinquain, sonnet, etc) and chisel down this piece to fit it. the topic, the info, the delivery are all most appropriate, most desperately needed. the right vehicle to present it could open some eyes. thanks charlie
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