It’s More True Than It Hurts

Whereas for some it was a shoe, or a slipper, or

a switch, or a hanger, or an extension cord.

Whereas for me it was a belt or a wide open

palm that preserved me—kept me unspoiled and

humble. Whereas my mother can only recall being held

by the throat once when sneaking in after curfew:

my satin-robed grandmother waiting in the vestibule,

my mother’s tiny body exalted and pressed against

the floral wallpaper. Whereas my grandmother’s fear

will never cause more trauma than a sore throat and

a long myth. Whereas what happens to a Black girl child

who doesn’t come home or does stay out too late in 1976?

Whereas, for my mother, what happens to a Black girl child

who is beautiful and quiet and free where the world is unlovely

and expensive? Whereas one of them sat four desks over

from a girl who left school, eleven and pregnant. Whereas

my grandmother has one daughter and my mother three and

there are no sons, just scared, solemn-faced fathers. Whereas I

have never levitated or skipped school or been pregnant or

known the slap of anyone with whom I did not share a name.

So, is protection the thing they gave me to cry for? Am I more

well acquainted with obedience or happiness? Whereas they are

the same victim. Whereas I know well the fear of God—it brought me

into this realm, out of spite, and uses everything it can reach

to keep anything from taking me out of it.