Melissa de la Cruz’s Sample Poetry

I can’t breathe

From beneath the pressure

Not the pressure of a knee on my neck

For there is no pressure that my normal parallels stories of white privilege

There is no pressure that I live with the advantage of anonymity

There is no pressure that “I blend”

There is no pressure that I do not look suspicious

But there is THIS pressure

The pressure of voices BEING SILENCED

The pressure of a movement BEING THWARTED

The pressure to ANSWER QUESTIONS irrelevant to the cause

The pressure to JUSTIFY RIOTS meant to distract justice from being served

The pressure INCITING VIOLENCE

The pressure DIVIDING “We, the People”

The pressure that people are UNWILLING TO LISTEN to the definition of white privilege, let alone ACKNOWLEDGE its existence

The pressure that I CAN’T CHANGE THE WORLD

The pressure that nothing I SAY OR DO WILL IMPACT history

The pressure that the cycle WILL CONTINUE

The pressure that things WILL GO BACK to the way they were

The pressure that black Americans ARE SEEN as suspicious

The pressure that black Americans ARE KILLED for being black

The pressure that (INSERT VERB) while black CAN GET SOMEONE KILLED

This is why I can't breathe.

Has my privilege contrived this asphyxiation?

My privilege can easily make it stop, so I might inhale with ease. 

I refuse to exhale, however, until these injustices cease.

I won’t exhale

Until we replace that pressure

Not with a narrative we do not believe, but with compassion

A compassion that builds us as a community

A compassion that gives us the ability to see each others struggle

A compassion that allows us to know that acknowledging that struggle does not negate our own battles

A compassion that removes our angry defenses deployed at the words white privilege

A compassion that shows us that differences exist between white and black Americans

A compassion that tells us that these differences do not have to divide

A compassion that reveals to us that being color-blind may be misguided

A compassion that validates the notion that some of us are defined by the color of our skin

A compassion that leads us to denounce years of racial injustice in America

A compassion that helps us to recognize that racism is a disease imbedded in the fabric of this nation

A compassion that tears down the walls that have been reinforced by our failures

A compassion that has no side-effects of guilt or blame

I’m tired that our nation lacks this compassion

I’m tired of hearing the caveat “Not to sound racist, but…”

I’m tired that racial injustice is politicized rather than humanized 

I’m tired of the assumption that a black person did not earn a competitive position, but is only there to satisfy diversity requirements

I’m tired of trying to convince people that my friend is one of the most talented writers of our generation, and not that she is just a good black writer

I’m tired of people requiring the life story of a black victim in order for them to judge the legitimacy of a claim

I’m tired that black Americans are systematically prevented from voting in this country

I’m tired that corporations own prisons and schools and have created a school to prison pipeline that targets black youth

I’m TIRED.

And if I am tired, how can our black brothers and sisters not be EXHAUSTED?

THEY say time heals all wounds.

I wonder, “Who are THEY?”

Have THEY known such anguish

that sears the skin, leaving

gauzy layers that seep

through gingerly wrapped flesh?

Are THEIR dreams dicey treks,

where THEY face torment and

unpredictable fate?

Do THEY live and breathe fear

of the villainous hands

that haunt THEIR sleepless hours?

I want to believe in THEM,

but how long is the time

for these wounds to be healed?

THEY say forgive and forget.

I repeat, “Who are THEY?”

Are THEY called on each night

by wicked memories,

with each vision vying

for the pole position?

Is THEIR sleep stolen and

THEIR wakefulness blurred

as THEY fight to forget?

How do THEY forget it

if all THEIR efforts

to forgive are in vain?

I want to meet with THEM

and ask if THEY too say

that ignorance is bliss?

Why, then, should I believe

THEM?

Daily reflections

Long faces study their books

Hurriedly waiting

For silence to break

Lips pursed, she emotes

Sighs cloud his grimacing face

Together they speak

They hear nothing said

Acrid loneliness

Thoughts drown in their crowded minds 

Separately as one

Whispering shouts, “Why?”

He gives her the floor

She absconds with his anger

Words he never said

Now voiced by her tears

Strangers but for this

A chance meeting in treatment

Her story, his life

No clear meaning, shared