Perhaps it
was because
I read at a
high school
level by
the time
I was in
Middle School.
But I especially irked her spirit…
“You little Black Boys
are hoodlums
in training – at best”
it was the retort
she always
returned to.
It was steady drip
of demeaning
commentary
from my
Middle School
Teacher.
But my Father told
me clearly:
“You remember that son.”
“It will be more like her, you won’t escape it Youngblood, your skin ain’t no sin… but when you figure how to convert that ugly (racism) into your fuel… you’ll be more powerful than some cartoon man* running around in his drawers. You gotta learn to brutalize them with your mind.”
*I believe he was referring to He-Man and the Masters of the Universe.
And… I always remembered that –
I channeled my anger
to convert the omnipresent darts
of racism into
a fuel source
to persevere.
I became impervious to the torrential storms of inferiority complexes.
I rejected the hexes.
And… I learned to
repurpose words
taking my power back for those who
meant me harm.
I guess my nemesis in the form of my Middle Teacher was right.
I did become a hoodlum… the worst sort.
An author… a hoodlum for words.
Shun P. Writes... dot com 
Isn’t it amazing what you can do with words? Powerful post. Your Volume II looks interesting. I bet the pandemic was very conducive to writing. I’ll pick up a copy soon. Be well!
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Yes indeed, coupling them with the power of repetition is a powerful mix.
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