Happy National Poetry Month! Today’s 30 for 30 (Twitter hashtag #30for30) poem comes from 2Deep the Poetess, host of tonight’s “11th Hour” Poetry Slam at 14th & V. The “11th Hour” Poetry Slam is presented by Busboys and Poets and is held on the second Friday of every month at Busboys and Poets 14th & V.
Muslim Angel
by 2Deep the Poetess
Rush Hour
Dim light
The sound of the hustle and bustle of destined feet rush by
Head bobbing to the rhythm of modern complacency
Conformed to public transportation etiquette
Confined
Blending
Silenced
Until
Muslim angel,
Because such a thing exists,
Dressed in full, all white garb
Hijab edges outlined in sea-foam blue,
Magnifying her faith 10 times over,
Wonders towards me in a 5th attempt to gain assistance
Previous attempts brushed off by head turns
Flaps of Express newspapers in response to her
Popping like bullets of insults
As headlines of Osama’s demise dangle in her face
As if to say, “Look at what we can do to your kind, here inAmerica”
I saw this
In that moment, I was not proud to be an American
If this was, in fact, the way an American should act
I knew it was not her Farsi trained tongue exercising broken English
That made them ignore her requests
I understood her just fine
“Help me”, sprang from her lips
And translated to comprehension via my eyes
Before I even removed my headphones
I asked if she could repeat herself
“Good Morning”, she said
“Help me, please.
Van Doren.”
Without second thought I took the metro map out of her hand
Took her hand in my other and said, “Follow me.
I will take you.”
A gasp schoolyard bullied its way out of the throat of the Caucasian woman standing next to me
Eavesdropping getting the best of her
My original mission of getting to work on time escaping me
This was bigger than me
Something greater inside of me whispered
“Do not let go of her hand.”
And I obeyed
Seemingly safe within the metal cage
Transporting civilians into the breast of the Confederacy
Older Black woman sang disgust
Like a house nigger gawking
As if I was a field nigger threatening to bring mud into the big house
Exercising her Jim Crow
Removing herself from the front of the car, next to us, to sit elsewhere
Muslim Angel and I stuck out like sore thumbs
Comparison to Freedom Bus rides
We sat front seat at society’s counter
Demanding we be served respect
Express newspaper under my thigh
Feeling guilty for seeking out current events
For today I now knew
I was not proud to be an American
She was I and I was she
And here we sat
Traveling to a place where only one of us knew how to get to
Me to Van Doren
She to a place where she could brave the prejudice and still keep her chin high while seeking help
She needing to know what I knew and vice versa
Yet we sat in silence
Communicating through squeezed palms
Praying to one another for remaining true to who they were
And though she spoke Farsi and I English
We both managed, somehow, to speak human
And we continued to hold on to one another
“Next stop Van Doren”, rang over the intercom
Promised land for her and I
As I walked her out to the platform of her destination
Allah shook God’s hand
Hugged
And said many thanks
All the while I noticed we never said bye
Never shared names
Yet knowing we were sisters just the same
Understanding our coexistence in the midst of those who merely exist
