Mohamed Mattar // I will tell my brother

As the River Nile runs red

And solidarity turns timelines blue

Mohamed, let me tell you, that you, matter.

You. Mohamad Mattar matter.

And They. All. Matter.

Inna lillahi wa Inna illayhi raji'un

How can I be silent

When there are people who may never sleep again

For when their eyes close

All they can see is terror

As smoke filled skies

Carry the wails

Of children having their innocence stolen

And then waved as a flag for the world to see

Children not yet old enough to even spell

The word revolution

The word uprising

The word rape

The word silence

More silent than the bodies that now pile the floor of the morgues

Those left out to rot because there is no more room left to properly store them

While countess more simply just disappear

Ghosts in the darkness

And how can one look past

As connection to an entire country is intentionally stiffled

A blackout much darker than the skin that they say has nothing to do with the simple fact that

They just don't give a damn about the people of Sudan

Or the fact that in their eyes,

Certain histories that are older and much more alive than a cold, Godless, empty, shrine of colonialism

are and always will be,

Worth less

Less attention

Less money

Less prayers

Less hashtags

But oh God, if there was ever a way to say it

you know I'd say

Mohammed, please

Please hear me now

You, Mohamed Mattar, you matter

They all matter

And now as the River Nile runs red

And solidarity turns timelines blue

Know that we see you

And I might not ever learn the names of all of the victims but know this:

I see you

And you are worth it

More of our attention

More of our money

More of our prayers

More of our hashtags

And one day soon, I will tell my little brother

Who is but a child, still too young

to comprehend the weight of the words revolution and uprising

I will tell him That we as individuals may not have the power to change the whole world

But that there will always be power in numbers

And that when we see injustice

No matter the victim,

It is, and always will be

OUR DUTY

To try and stop it

Physically,

Verbally,

And at the very least,

In our own hearts

And I will tell my little brother, who is but a child

Still too young to fully comprehend the weight of the words murder and martyr

That whether he is ready or not

We must be ready to protect all of our brother and sisters

That every inaction is inevitably an action

That silence can be deadly

And that to simply do nothing, is to let down ones own soul

And all of humanity in the process

6/13/19

Thoughts on Ghetto Appropriation (Prose)

Yeah I get it, Hip hop has saved your life too.

But dig this-
It made mine.
The congregation of ghetto gospel that I grew up with wasn't preaching to your upper middle class suburban white grandad.
It is the funkified call to those who were down and out.
Tears of rhythm and beats of blues for those who can't cry.
Yet ALL YOU DO is cry about how it should be for everyone.
(By everyone, you mean you.)
So fine, we cut you one more slice of the soul pie.
(Nïeve oversight on our part)
Because lo and behold,
While we were serving your greedy asses,
Y'all up and stole the ingredients from our kitchen
Now white boy Tom is rocking a dashiki he copped from forever21
While his girlfriend Karen flashes her new boxer braids and bamboo earrings.
All while driving down the avenue to their newly "acquired" brownstone, blasting NWA in their 2019 leased Honda Accord.
"hashtag, FUCK DA POLICE Y'ALL."
Oh wait hold up, hoooold up. Ahw Becky's offended.
(She would tweet about the shocking and unwarranted reverse racism she received, but she hasn't figured out how to type with her new Acrylic nails she just got from the Koreans up the block.)

Don't fret "Gurl", I'ma break it down for you.
See, y'all stole the ingredients, but everyone knows Karen can't bake. So y'all can steal our neighborhoods, our blocks, our homes, our music, our clothes, our accessories and our vernacular. Real talk, y'all can even steal our men. No matter how you slice that pie, it's still gonna taste like shit.
But you're starting to look a little pitiful so I'll clue you in to the secret ingredient.
It's salt.
But wait, not just any salt. This that kinda salt that comes from years of being ridiculed and mocked. A special kinda salt that was sifted from the waters my ancestors Waded in. It's a salt that was found on the street my uncle was on when he got arrested for being black and making a u-turn. It's a kinda salt that formed when it mixed with the rocks your people put in to our Hoods. A salt that comes from the tears of anger we shed when  innocent brown lives are taken away too soon.  A salt that is formed through centuries of being objectified and fetishized, yet hated and mistreated. It's the kinda salt you start sweating when you're alone somewhere and the only other person in sight is a cop.
Let's just say it ain't the kinda salt you can buy at Trader Joe's.
If you have no experience with the salt I'm talking about then listen to me closely,
THAT. SHIT. AIN'T. FOR. YOU.
Don't get it twisted, this is not a PSA solely directed at white people.
It don't matter if you're paler than a saltine or darker than midnight, if you can't relate on a personal level, I'ma need you to do us all a favor and dead all that mess quick.
You can call it "Urban aesthetic". Call it "The Culture"  but in actuality it is a fantasy. A fantasy of being Ghetto without Ghetto People's Problems. It is a fantasy of being black without the stigma and prejudice that comes with the skin tone. We aren't playing pretend with your asses no damn more.
If no one has told you yet, let me be the one to do it;
I ain't ya sis
You ain't my nigga
I don't care about whatever "Crapper" inspires you, and I care even less about your one dumb black friend who once said it ain't a big deal to them.
I'm not them, and no matter what you do, you never will be them either.
So just go on and find another culture to steal already.
How's that for woke?



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