Remember Her Name
X
Marks the spot of unforeseen, unexplained,
Frantic, fragile, feelings forced into frustration
Twelve years, each replaying voids misplaced by media
Americakkka stuck- Christmas frenzy, 1997, holiday happiness,
Led astray by heartbroken families
Missing, seen on milk cartons, found lifeless
Lastly suspecting parental ties until now.
Forensic science
JonBenet Ramsey, dead.
While across lands,
3 decades after Chicago race riots
Battling life,
Underground exposure,
2 weeks later: masked by innocence, discredited by race story stolen, untold
Defined by economist, expected to die, and survived.
Documented, like a slave
Changed name to cut past ownership
Last names claim tickets, price tags for freedom, identity.
X marks her spot in history
Times,
Belated Outrage.
February 24th,
46 days after
Found on floors of vacant rooms, 7 flights suspended in hell
Subscribed violence for the poor, aiming to see grandma, caught by the wolf of
Cabrini green, prison snap shot, cell block, tower gates, life in slow motion
North side, chi-town, high rise, low hopes, demise
Infested with assumptions, gang violence, damaged
Devils leaving doors open for escape, outlet
Sun doesn't shine through windows, barricaded with bars
When police, peace officers, are afraid to enter...
She was just 9
Should’ve been Riding pink huffy, having
Sleepovers,
Knocking on doors selling souls Delights
Skating.
Yet she lied covered, bruised, purple embellished with hate.
5 years younger than Emmitt
And bombed inside
Could have been in Birmingham
Branded X, for all girls
(Kidnapped)
Stripped, strapped, snatched, stranded,
Stranger stole her sanity, silently.
Child like, diminished to materials, chopping block from society
Silenced, ripped vocals to re define help, screaming for heaven
Tortured, captured, caged...
Biting, fighting, kicking, screaming
Strength weakened to useless
Klepto stole her, never her soul, trapped, morbid to reality
Angels watched her
Hijacked her purity, seized her legacy, never again received
Removed from normalcy, placed in purgatory, lost in mistreatment, blackout
Tested her covenant, pulled at her faith, lesson of hope. Never lost her soul.
(Threatened)
Impulse, target, trigger, traitor, premeditated
Gun or knife neither used
Safety abused, slapped. Stuck between now and then
Fighting jeopardy, double the doubt.
Fear injections of instability, kicking pride with ego, shaking logic,
And changing ethics
Emotions seep through, everything slowly shattered, she was victimized.
Action embellished with disaster. Truth is facts act as facades to daydreaming.
1997.
(Beaten)
No whip, no connection to the physical harm, she was helpless.
Face, fist, switch, stick
Her ribs-broken
Body defined by beauty within
Fragile, impact increased dimensions
Blood hungry, attach. Injury doesn't described caused, nor effects.
Closed mouth fed by t shirts, body rejects. Malnutrition. Poisoned
With pesticides. Foaming. Tracing life.
Pain, stress:
Unrelated to the tears inside seeking repair.
Blind, immobile. Left dead. For dust. Slipping. Now stuck.
(Raped)
Young girl, removed from child like Made woman
Emaciated innocence, robbed.
Abandoned to dwell in pools of forgiveness, sacrificial self love.
Hate, assaulted mentally. Stripped of preparation. Life hit head on.
Legacy dehumanized to nothing, scorn. But success not predetermined.
Place into adulthood
Against will and destiny, never complete.
Parts punctured golden treasure. Internally. Shredded to pieces.
Only to find life again. Soul harvest, harness strength and
Faith, complacent with grace, moving with depth, life gets no easier.
Spirit came soaring through. Sunshine.
Laughter meets smiles. Not programmed for existence. But is.
Soul gleaming through silence,
Wheelchair bound freedom guided.
Rose grew between cracks. Life. Death. Breathe.
Kidnapped, threatened, poisoned and raped.
He beat her. She still inhales. Her soul, relief.
Survival. Live, let go.
Girl X-
Shatoya Currie,
Remember her name...
Showing posts with label girl x. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girl x. Show all posts
Monday, November 23, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Patrica Smith's : "Her Other Name"
For Girl X, Chicago
The first thing we took away was your name.
We erased the bleak shame from each syllable,
blurred the image of your tiny body broken into
network sound bytes, snippets of videotape
with a swollen face Xed out.
X
as in she is no longer a good girl.
X
as in two simple lines crossing
where a beating heart should be.
You were little, like we don’t want to remember.
You were stutter-folded, you were beaten liquid
on those lonely stairs, your skin was slashed,
you were raped with a fist and sticks, insecticide
sprayed into your seeing and down the tunnel of
your throat. He must have held your mouth open,
stretching the circle, leaving moons in your lip.
The violation left you blind and without tongue,
wrecked the new clock of you. You were jumprope
doubletime and pigeon-toed, navy blue Keds with
round toes and soles like paper, jelly sandwiches
and grape smash fingers, you, ashy-kneed rose,
missing rib, splintered and flinching through a
death sleep. In which direction do we pray?
To recreate you, they relied on ritual. Weeping
nurses gently parted your hair, the teeth of the
comb tipped in rubber, and dried blood showered
from your scalp like chips of paint. They rubbed
warm oil through the unraveling braids, threaded
ribbon through to the ends. We will give you back
your life by pretending you are still alive. Lowering
your X into a tub of warm water, they scrubbed
you with stinging soap, sang songs filled with light
and lyric, then dabbed you dry with those brutal
sickbed towels, avoiding the left nipple, smashed
before it began. They wrapped you in the stiff garb
of virgins and told you that you were healed, there
in that stark room of beeping machines and blood
vials and sterilized silver, they built you a child’s
body and coaxed your battered heart back inside.
Girl
Girl
X. The violation left. X
you blind and X voiceless
And they braided your hair every day, gently, the
ritual insane, strands over, under, through, over,
under, through, fingers locked in languid weave,
until the same of it all brought your voice back.
The nurses cheered, told you they’d found a cure
for history, that the unreal would refuse to be real.
Soon you’ll be able to see again, they whispered.
I know you never meant to be ungrateful, my rib,
when you rose up half and growled this grace:
that’s
that’s
OK you
can keep
my
eyes
The first thing we took away was your name.
We erased the bleak shame from each syllable,
blurred the image of your tiny body broken into
network sound bytes, snippets of videotape
with a swollen face Xed out.
X
as in she is no longer a good girl.
X
as in two simple lines crossing
where a beating heart should be.
You were little, like we don’t want to remember.
You were stutter-folded, you were beaten liquid
on those lonely stairs, your skin was slashed,
you were raped with a fist and sticks, insecticide
sprayed into your seeing and down the tunnel of
your throat. He must have held your mouth open,
stretching the circle, leaving moons in your lip.
The violation left you blind and without tongue,
wrecked the new clock of you. You were jumprope
doubletime and pigeon-toed, navy blue Keds with
round toes and soles like paper, jelly sandwiches
and grape smash fingers, you, ashy-kneed rose,
missing rib, splintered and flinching through a
death sleep. In which direction do we pray?
To recreate you, they relied on ritual. Weeping
nurses gently parted your hair, the teeth of the
comb tipped in rubber, and dried blood showered
from your scalp like chips of paint. They rubbed
warm oil through the unraveling braids, threaded
ribbon through to the ends. We will give you back
your life by pretending you are still alive. Lowering
your X into a tub of warm water, they scrubbed
you with stinging soap, sang songs filled with light
and lyric, then dabbed you dry with those brutal
sickbed towels, avoiding the left nipple, smashed
before it began. They wrapped you in the stiff garb
of virgins and told you that you were healed, there
in that stark room of beeping machines and blood
vials and sterilized silver, they built you a child’s
body and coaxed your battered heart back inside.
Girl
Girl
X. The violation left. X
you blind and X voiceless
And they braided your hair every day, gently, the
ritual insane, strands over, under, through, over,
under, through, fingers locked in languid weave,
until the same of it all brought your voice back.
The nurses cheered, told you they’d found a cure
for history, that the unreal would refuse to be real.
Soon you’ll be able to see again, they whispered.
I know you never meant to be ungrateful, my rib,
when you rose up half and growled this grace:
that’s
that’s
OK you
can keep
my
eyes
stop the violence series
i am currently working on reshaping my thoughts. breaking a writer's block that has appeared at different levels of inspiration and motivation that i can not even begin to express. the off the wall things that formulate are not necessarily given the proper space to be nurtured. but anyways...
my current project consist of this #stoptheviolence series.. in light of the last few African American youth that have been lost.. and countless murders that go unmentioned especially where i am from (Rochester,NY)...its the fuel to my fire..
i just dropped the first installment.. TASER While Black.. make sure you read that..
next up is the Story of GIRL X from 97'. If you are not familiar with her, no reason to kick yourself. There is always a reason for the lack of media coverage and exposure. This reason: Jean Benot Ramsey slain two weeks prior to the story of GIRL X. So of course... White Woman Syndrome hit hard. cabrini green and chicago have become numb to such incidents...
and hopefully my forthcoming piece will highlight her story.
my current project consist of this #stoptheviolence series.. in light of the last few African American youth that have been lost.. and countless murders that go unmentioned especially where i am from (Rochester,NY)...its the fuel to my fire..
i just dropped the first installment.. TASER While Black.. make sure you read that..
next up is the Story of GIRL X from 97'. If you are not familiar with her, no reason to kick yourself. There is always a reason for the lack of media coverage and exposure. This reason: Jean Benot Ramsey slain two weeks prior to the story of GIRL X. So of course... White Woman Syndrome hit hard. cabrini green and chicago have become numb to such incidents...
and hopefully my forthcoming piece will highlight her story.
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