To Celie

The first hero I ever had wasn’t my dad, or my mom.
It was Superman.
And I mean, who wouldn’t call Superman their hero?
He has super strength, super speed, heat vision, he can breathe in space
And aside from a stupid green rock and magic, he practically has no weakness.
Prime hero material, right?
But as I grew up and I learned that there was no such thing as a perfect person
And that Superman was not only fictitious, but incredibly unrealistic,
I started to wonder.
Who in the real world could be a hero?

I thought a lot about who it could be.
I could choose from writers, actors,
Scientists, engineers,
Millionaires with a million heirs,
People that had everything,
But then I thought...
What about those who don’t?

What about those who won’t
Dare disobey the commands of
A common man mad with power,
Not because they are stubborn,
But because they feared hour after hour
That one small slip up could mean decorating their skin
With purple bruises?
What about those who lived damaged lives
As the unwilling wives
Of a husband who talked with his fists,
What about those who had to watch
As their own babies were snatched from their hands at birth
And maybe they were alive, maybe they were dead,
They would never know.
What about those who suffered from beating after beating
As the beating of her own heart sped up with the worry that
Maybe death had taken her sister after all,

What about those who are flawed?
What about those, who after being gnawed and clawed apart by the rest of the world,
Finally convinced themselves that maybe the world was right.
Maybe I am worthless.
What about those who, after so much fire and brimstone,
Lose hope
And rationalize that they have been forsaken by a
Cruel deaf god,
Only to have a revelation.
Only to rise out of lavender ashes, wings ablaze and scream as a punch whistles through the air
Enough.
I’ve had it.
I am better than this.

Are those who blossom into lilac-colored butterflies
Not worthy of praise simply because they are born
As caterpillars, black as night?
Are those who voyage through hell and back,
Those with scars on their backs and even more on their hearts,
Those who bend close to breaking but manage to keep themselves together
Not heroic simply because they are not Supermen?
Because they have weaknesses?
Or is it the opposite?




Author's Note: A little spoken word poem I wrote for English relating to The Color Purple by Alice Walker (great book, by the way, I recommend it). For those who haven't read the book, it's about a woman named Celie and her journey as a poor, black, uneducated woman in a white-dominated society. As you can probably tell, things don't go too swimmingly for Celie, but she deals with it.

I know, I know, you probably think I'm really lazy by just copy-pasting an English project into a blog post and calling it a day, but the truth is, I am really proud of this poem. Not to sound narcissistic, but I think this poem is amazing. I think I did a pretty good job presenting it to the class too, because when I finished, my teacher had a huge smile on her face and I think I heard a "whoa" come out of a student's mouth. Really, really proud of this poem. Did I mention how proud I am of this poem?

Also, I would've written a story this week, but I have to take the SAT this weekend, so I'm kind of focusing on that. Note that "kind of" is the key phrase in that sentence. I hate the SAT with a passion and I think that it's just a tumor in our education system that needs to be excised as soon as possible. So in an effort to not play right into the SAT's greedy hands, I'm not focusing on the SAT too hard. Probably just gonna memorize some vocabulary (which, as a writer, I don't mind doing anyway) and go prepare some examples for the essay portion, that's it.

Wish me luck!