Who said ebonics ain't punctual
who says I don't talk right just because I don't “talk white”
There’s not much of a difference between “how are you?” and “what's good fam ?”
greeting you in slang just has a more comfortable twang
then the normal hi or hello
I don’t see why I have to switch codes in every new place that I go
Why my tongue has to run from where it comes from
Why men mark my mannerisms as misguided
no matter how I think, what I say , or how I give greetings
people are always more focused on giving my melanin a meaning
where black means hands behind your back
and brown means shakedown
they put prison bars in front of our greatest minds
they keep our colors in between the lines
I’m pushing 17 and I still haven’t learned how to drive
I fear the police will pull me over on an “intuition”
I know ignorance has no break,pause,or intermission
I'm just trying to understand why color is always a reasonable suspicion
it's like my skin tone speaks volumes before asking what my name is even crosses your mind,
I must be blind
I just don't get this puzzle’s bigger picture
I guess I’m not bright enough to piece together the parts right
But I can certainly show you the dark side from civil rights to apartheid
I can tell you in confidence that African or African American
no matter what complexion
there's always a blacker bullet waiting to remind you the closest to white you can get is a chalk outline
statistics say by 12 I would have already committed my first crime,
gone to jail, by 16 I would have been sent there another time
I’m supposed to be in and out of prison for my entire life
but that isn't too long considering I’m not expected to make it past 25
The evens and the odds put aside their differences to stack against me
the way they wish to number my days
this skin must have an expiration date
they judge us at stands until we mature past ripe ,
work us till we’re sundried
Forget oranges and blueberries
It seems they love to partake in our strange fruit instead
it's true
I may be a strange fruit indeed
but I do believe that you too can bleed
being near you makes it hard to breathe
how can I sit still while you take bites out of me,
when I can still see my skin ,juice, and seeds
poke through your teeth?
I’m so afraid to be torn apart piece by piece
I want to let Maya Angelou know that I'm still unsure of how to let my caged soul sing
loud enough to let the world know that I'm still trapped
but soft enough to hear the muffled tone of freedom’s ring
freedom rings like police sirens
like daughters and sons strung high from poplar trees
like blacks being beaten ,battered, and bruised
like the boys in blue putting blood on the leaves
Sounds like more love for John and Jane doe
then what's ever been shown Dominique and Jerome
I speak properly because i'm no longer property
the police hold handcuffs to remind me that's optional
I have to remind myself that “talking white” and “talking right” aren't the same thing
But my “punctuality” is my way of letting my freedom ring
I let it bang through my teeth like bullets
wordplay is my war fare , I execute tools of rhetoric with excellence
my true vernacular vibrates with seditious volition
In other words my vocabulary is vicious
what I'm trying to say in essence is that articulation will always be a matter of expression
That punctuality should not be about accuracy but about fulfillment
As for me, I speak the Queen’s english but I still want to be the fresh prince
Slang is like my creole
I speak colorfully, my comments are a collage of crayola
I know the meaning of words but I leave them so twisted
In my war on textbook definitions that webster's dictionary could never re-enlist them
I want to change my etymology and rewrite my definition
to show that this color isnt defined by ignorance but intelligence
I've had history locked in between these lips
since the first time I heard that martin had a dream
and I can't help but think his vision and what I’m living aren't exactly the same thing
so when I say “what’s good fam ” instead of “hello” and walk away proudly,in actuality
it just a small attempt at making another man’s dream my reality
By: Matthew Faturoti
who says I don't talk right just because I don't “talk white”
There’s not much of a difference between “how are you?” and “what's good fam ?”
greeting you in slang just has a more comfortable twang
then the normal hi or hello
I don’t see why I have to switch codes in every new place that I go
Why my tongue has to run from where it comes from
Why men mark my mannerisms as misguided
no matter how I think, what I say , or how I give greetings
people are always more focused on giving my melanin a meaning
where black means hands behind your back
and brown means shakedown
they put prison bars in front of our greatest minds
they keep our colors in between the lines
I’m pushing 17 and I still haven’t learned how to drive
I fear the police will pull me over on an “intuition”
I know ignorance has no break,pause,or intermission
I'm just trying to understand why color is always a reasonable suspicion
it's like my skin tone speaks volumes before asking what my name is even crosses your mind,
I must be blind
I just don't get this puzzle’s bigger picture
I guess I’m not bright enough to piece together the parts right
But I can certainly show you the dark side from civil rights to apartheid
I can tell you in confidence that African or African American
no matter what complexion
there's always a blacker bullet waiting to remind you the closest to white you can get is a chalk outline
statistics say by 12 I would have already committed my first crime,
gone to jail, by 16 I would have been sent there another time
I’m supposed to be in and out of prison for my entire life
but that isn't too long considering I’m not expected to make it past 25
The evens and the odds put aside their differences to stack against me
the way they wish to number my days
this skin must have an expiration date
they judge us at stands until we mature past ripe ,
work us till we’re sundried
Forget oranges and blueberries
It seems they love to partake in our strange fruit instead
it's true
I may be a strange fruit indeed
but I do believe that you too can bleed
being near you makes it hard to breathe
how can I sit still while you take bites out of me,
when I can still see my skin ,juice, and seeds
poke through your teeth?
I’m so afraid to be torn apart piece by piece
I want to let Maya Angelou know that I'm still unsure of how to let my caged soul sing
loud enough to let the world know that I'm still trapped
but soft enough to hear the muffled tone of freedom’s ring
freedom rings like police sirens
like daughters and sons strung high from poplar trees
like blacks being beaten ,battered, and bruised
like the boys in blue putting blood on the leaves
Sounds like more love for John and Jane doe
then what's ever been shown Dominique and Jerome
I speak properly because i'm no longer property
the police hold handcuffs to remind me that's optional
I have to remind myself that “talking white” and “talking right” aren't the same thing
But my “punctuality” is my way of letting my freedom ring
I let it bang through my teeth like bullets
wordplay is my war fare , I execute tools of rhetoric with excellence
my true vernacular vibrates with seditious volition
In other words my vocabulary is vicious
what I'm trying to say in essence is that articulation will always be a matter of expression
That punctuality should not be about accuracy but about fulfillment
As for me, I speak the Queen’s english but I still want to be the fresh prince
Slang is like my creole
I speak colorfully, my comments are a collage of crayola
I know the meaning of words but I leave them so twisted
In my war on textbook definitions that webster's dictionary could never re-enlist them
I want to change my etymology and rewrite my definition
to show that this color isnt defined by ignorance but intelligence
I've had history locked in between these lips
since the first time I heard that martin had a dream
and I can't help but think his vision and what I’m living aren't exactly the same thing
so when I say “what’s good fam ” instead of “hello” and walk away proudly,in actuality
it just a small attempt at making another man’s dream my reality
By: Matthew Faturoti
Hi Matthew. I was moved by your thought provoking piece. Your piece captured the pain that many of us feel who are oppressed by people who allow stereotypes and fear to influence how they interact with people who do not look or sound like them. Words like "caged soul," "muffled tones of freedom, " and "history locked" conjures up powerful imagery and calls out for ways of working and being that move us into the future without reliving the past.
ReplyDeleteMatthew , I believe that you have outdone yourself with this piece.In presenting this poem ,you succinctly captured the struggle that many people experience who are often marginalized by the larger society. Although we are told in school to learn how to communicate in modern standard English , I believe that you presented a powerful argument that our language is greatly enriched by embracing multiple forms of speech. I love the line that reads"I execute tools of rhetoric with excellence" as well as the line " I speak colorfully, my comments are a collage of crayola". Awesome!
ReplyDeleteYou should definitely read this tomorrow at People's Plaza!
ReplyDeleteYou should definitely read this tomorrow at People's Plaza!
ReplyDeleteWOW! You make Martin Luther King proud. You give me hope for the future when we will not have an us and them country. Guns are not the answer, but smart intelligent young men like you will bring forth a new nation. Don't let me down!
ReplyDeleteWow! You grabbed my attention at "Why my tongue has to run from where it comes from" and held it strong. You have a gift for the power of words. I look forward to mulling over your thoughts and expressions more as I walk the Philly city streets over the next week.
ReplyDeleteMatthew, "The muffled sound of freedom's ring" creates images that reveal the history of unjust treatment. You powerfully compare the word freedom to the acts that contradict its meaning. What an awesome reflection on how your "punctuality" or ebonics gives truer meaning to our cultural experiences. Please, let your freedom ring!
ReplyDelete