Discriminate

Authors note: I originally published this with no explanatory note, after a conversation with my partner in which we both agreed that no one would think these were my views, it was sufficiently over the top for it to be evidently a caricatured collection of some of the "microaggressive" things that can be said by people of one race to those of another. And lets be clear, I had in mind a white man talking to a black man in a country in which white is the majority. I wrote this after a conversation I had at work about the idea of microaggressions, in which we thought about who they were micro for - for the speaker, each of these comments may feel "micro", for the receiver, maybe not. I chose some of these lines carefully and deliberately, most of them are things I have heard said. But I wanted to come back and make absolutely clear that this is not a poem representing my views. We thought I didn't need to, but perhaps its not actually so very over the top as a caricature. Perhaps its a little too close to the bone. Perhaps that I would assume otherwise is in itself an illustration of my privilege.

You’re alright mate, one of the nice ones,

Quiet as mice ones, don’t have to ask twice ones.

But you’ve got to admit, the same can’t be said,

Of all of your race. No, most of the time

Your brothers in crime are a stain on our culture.

Don’t get me wrong, I admire you personally,

And I’m not being mercenary but you people retain

A nastier mindset, and they say you can’t train

An old dog, to do new tricks.

Your man, for example, I’ve forgotten his name,

He spits so much acid, indicts all us good folk,

Cries racist, when what have I done?

That kind of tirade, it incites something bolder

And people like you, you stand at his shoulder,

On the streets of my nation, call for representation,

And trample my rights in the dirt.

Well I say it’s ungrateful, bitter and hateful,

And now I feel sold down the stream,

While you trade on the race card,

See yourselves as the vanguard,

Lay claim to having a dream.

Don’t stare at me coldly, don’t call me irate,

Don’t bundle me up in your “racist” crate,

All lives matter, so rein in your hate,

But I too once had a dream.

Now what was once mine is mired in others,

And the minister says I should call them brothers,

But I can’t see the likeness at all.

Present company, of course, is something quite different,

You’re not quite the same, you’ve manners, you’re tame,

No, no need to snigger, you’re better, you’re bigger,

No thief or gold digger, I’m no racist, I figure,

You’re a regular

Black man.

+++++++++++

Written for Heather Hubler's Unscramble Challenge, below: