Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

27 December 2015

A PORTRAIT OF ITHACA COLLEGE PRESIDENT TOM ROCHON IN VERSE

by Dubian Ade


Image source: campuslately.com


He has no shame
his dry mouth
talking empty things as
if reading from a teleprompter
his commitment to diversity.
He is a string of arbitrary 
alibis hastily put together
Posture bent to one side
wringing his hands he
wipes his forehead
with the Klan hood
stuffed in his back pocket

He dresses himself well.

Eats well. Lives in a house
owned by the institution.
Drives a car that is owned by
the institution. Swipes with a 
credit card owned by the
institution.

Makes over 500,000 dollars a
year.

Adjunct faculty make less
than 20,000 a year. Can't even
afford the roof over their
heads. Staff work overtime to
feed hungry families. Hand to
mouth

students pay 60,000 to be at
the college. Tomorrow it will
be 70,000. It is not unusual to
see them struggle.

Students of color can barely
afford this institution at all. 

Meanwhile, he lives
comfortably.

In his spare time he enjoys

structural racism and white
supremacy.

When he is not busy, he is
finding new ways
of domination. Appoint new
trustees. Change the provost.
Silence the newspapers.
Punish the faculty.

You can find him re-imagining
blue skies.

Still hasn't apologized to Tatiana 
Sy

A body of lies 

he doesn't give a shit about
people of color.

His favorite word is "dialogue"

As in "listen to me talk about
bullshit"

His favorite color is money

When he grows up he wants to
be an obnoxious, wealthy,
incompetent, white supremacist,
president of a college institution.

He has two jobs. The first is
president of Ithaca College. The
second is as chairman of
Tompkins County Financial, where
he makes another 60,000 a year.  

When he speaks to the campus
body, his fly is generally showing.
He is generally fearful. He wrings
his hands. He stands awkwardly.
He is white fragility.   

sweat patches under his arms

he makes a fool of himself.

The campus body is humiliated for him.

Once he compared racism to having a bad hair
day.

He is the inside joke among students and
faculty

He is the kind of person who tries

To sneak out of the front entrance

of the administrative building to avoid student
protesters.

When he comes to work in the morning, he
sneaks in through the side door to avoid
people.

Not a people person.

Ask him a question about structural racism and
he will run circles around you like a wet dog
chasing his tail.

Ask him if he cares about Black lives

and he will let you know that Black lives are
your issue.

He will infiltrate a Black church because he
wants "dialogue" and desecrate it with his
whiteness 

They say he studied social movements in order
to suppress and ignore them.

He happily signs off on every microaggression
that runs by his desk

He thinks that an institution of higher
education should run like a business.

He is a puppet who sits in the lap of the board
of trustees.

He refuses to resign.

He has no shame.



THE DECOLONIZER strongly urges President Tom Rochon's immediate resignation.





Dubian Ade

THE DECOLONIZER
December 2015

Read the full newsletter here »

21 November 2015

ON VIOLENCE

by Dubian Ade


We have lived barely. Our naked bodies
clothed with thinning patience. Kept
warm between chapped hands rubbed
together, pealed at the cuticle smell of
deferred dreams
in Chicago it gets so cold.
In New York it gets so cold.
It takes the cold to realize that
maybe these buildings could make a good bonfire.
We watched in front of the TV screen the
night Baltimore made a name for its self.
Broadcast to the colonized the possibility
of exploding cars, molotov bottles, state
troopers who had soiled their uniforms
and will hang them up on cloths pins to
dry tomorrow.
I curl up underneath my rage to keep
warm and live out my vengeance through
the TV screen, my aggression vicarious,
extended outward.
My blood boils. Bubbling underneath the
skin like Fanon's Leukemia.
It is the possibility of the thing.
To be beaten in the streets and not roll over to
die. To respond with anything lying within
reach. A plank, a bat, a machete.
To be resurrected from police custody.
Freddie Gray's ghost poring gasoline onto
garbage cans. Sandra Bland throwing
hands with lieutenants. Water for the
martyr lamented.
Some of us are too young to remember
Watts. Killing us with white fragility we
forgot the possibility. Of the people giving
birth each second they destroy.
You misunderstand us. So we speak in
the language of now and borrowed
tongue. A violent system can only
understand violence. There is nothing
reasonable about occupation. There is nothing
reasonable about racism. There
is nothing reasonable about rape.
You misunderstand us. So come, let me show you:
There are revolts beneath my tongue and
under my eyelids. I did not put them
there.
Who put them there?



Dubian Ade

THE DECOLONIZER
November 2015

Read the full newsletter here »

A NORMAL LIFE

This poem was originally published in a print anthology of the 9th World Poetry Festival in Kolkata, India.


by Sophia Terazawa


For a woman to write history
is an old way of telling time,

yet she is not ancient

but a girl who stares into the barrel of a gun.


I do not imagine myself in a tunnel.

I do not imagine a helicopter,
 even I
do not imagine the diary of Ho Chi Minh,

for then I must imagine myself inside a jail cell,


and for a woman to be in a jail cell

when her body is already a prison,
I ask
 the historian to imagine the impossibility
of writing time
 through her black, infinite eyes.



Sophia Terazawa

THE DECOLONIZER
November 2015

Read the full newsletter here »