You talk some proud
You sound so white
I’ve heard since I was young
When I was just a little girl
I learned that Gullah wasn’t welcomed off my tongue.
A sea of beautiful
brown faces and yet
we’re the lucky ones
Kept hidden from our races
blind before our sons.
Our lips are bound
with wordless chains
We are made deaf to the drums
The hunger for our past remains
It cannot be undone.
Craving words of wisdom
Hands are reaching for their guns
The hollow clap of emptiness
Echoes in the slums.
And now the suburbs.
Word is mum.
So dangerous our silence
when power fills our lungs;
We’ve been robbed of our integrity
We are weakened.
We are dumb.
Until the tales are opened
and the pendulum has swung
We stand mutely by the by
separated
subjugated
done.
~Rachelle M. Turple
BlackLit101 