Some are born with a particular luxury
Never having to tell your sons those stories
Never having to warn your sons that due to God’s decision to wrap them in beautiful shades of browns
To adorn them with hair that rolls like marching men so stern that the mightiest of armies are troubled combing through
To bless them with full lips that kiss checks of weathered mothers
To gift them with spread noses that brutally inhale the smell of flesh torn by whips and chains
To equip them with strong backs that communities, cities and countries rest and rested upon
To sit heads upon necks tightened by literal and figurative nooses
To perch them atop of legs that run faster than driving hatred
To be a black man, created by God
Who live in a world, created by God
With men, created by God
And be hated
Coast to coast
The luxury of not having to tell your sons that speeding police cars motioning toward them have a higher probability of causing slow hearse processions for them
That at thirteen, while standing in wait at Six Flags, I was called a nigger by an adult stranger that saw me as a slur’s slur before he could see me as a man’s son
And because of the hate he passed to his sons, those eyes are the same eyes that will see my sons as nothing more than slurs
That is all they will ever be to men with guns and hearts un-possessed by God’s Word
The luxury of being able to say to a people hunted, hated and halted…move on
The luxury of piecing together what you see as sensible causes for the murders of our sons because he is not yours
And they were born of men without your shared luxury
The luxury to be able to sit outside of outrage and judge while saturated in privilege
The luxury or is it the audacity
Or is it the ignorance or is it the God
Should he not have made us so beautifully
Some are born with a particular luxury
Never having to tell your sons those stories
Never having to warn your sons that due to God’s decision to wrap them in beautiful shades of browns
To adorn them with hair that rolls like marching men so stern that the mightiest of armies are troubled combing through
To bless them with full lips that kiss checks of weathered mothers
To gift them with spread noses that brutally inhale the smell of flesh torn by whips and chains
To equip them with strong backs that communities, cities and countries rest and rested upon
To sit heads upon necks tightened by literal and figurative nooses
To perch them atop of legs that run faster than driving hatred
To be a black man, created by God
Who live in a world, created by God
With men, created by God
And be hated
Coast to coast
The luxury of not having to tell your sons that speeding police cars motioning toward them have a higher probability of causing slow hearse processions for them
That at thirteen, while standing in wait at Six Flags, I was called a nigger by an adult stranger that saw me as a slur’s slur before he could see me as a man’s son
And because of the hate he passed to his sons, those eyes are the same eyes that will see my sons as nothing more than slurs
That is all they will ever be to men with guns and hearts un-possessed by God’s Word
The luxury of being able to say to a people hunted, hated and halted…move on
The luxury of piecing together what you see as sensible causes for the murders of our sons because he is not yours
And they were born of men without your shared luxury
The luxury to be able to sit outside of outrage and judge while saturated in privilege
The luxury or is it the audacity
Or is it the ignorance or is it the God
Should he not have made us so beautifully
Luxury
by Jeremy C. Watson
Luxury
by Jeremy C. Watson
I wrote this poem as I sat thinking over the last few days about Ahmaud Arbery, who was gunned down without sudden outrage or repercussions. For some, it's another reason to rage...yet, for me, with two black sons, I immediately get overwhelmed with concern for how life and reality looks for them. As I found myself in thought, I kept thinking what a luxury it is for some to not have to worry about communicating the things that we, as black parents, have to communicate to our children...and it saddened me...and it angered me...and it inspired me.
I wrote this poem as I sat thinking over the last few days about Ahmaud Arbery, who was gunned down without sudden outrage or repercussions. For some, it's another reason to rage...yet, for me, with two black sons, I immediately get overwhelmed with concern for how life and reality looks for them. As I found myself in thought, I kept thinking what a luxury it is for some to not have to worry about communicating the things that we, as black parents, have to communicate to our children...and it saddened me...and it angered me...and it inspired me.