All posts filed under: Race & Politics

Michael Kleber-Diggs at July 13, 2016 Black Poets Speak Out event [credit: Tom Baker, MPR News, 2016]

Saint Paul Morning

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By Michael Kleber-Diggs The author originally read this piece on July 13, 2016 at the Black Poets Speak Out event held in response to the shooting death of Philando Castile in Falcon Heights, MN. Learn more and listen to an excerpt from his reading on the MPR website.  Morning, walking my neighborhood I come upon a colony of ants busy at work. I take care not to step on any and miss them all, then encounter, up a ways, a fellow traveler greeting the day. I am frightening her.  No. She is afraid of me. Is she an introvert? Is she a neighbor? Is she just in from the ‘burbs, from the country? Is she scared of the inner city? Am I the inner city? Is she racist? Aren’t I the one who should be wary? Or is she a survivor – like me? It can’t be what I’m wearing: khaki’s, a blue & white check button-down, short-sleeve shirt, those Keen sandals I favor because they’re comfortable, my feet can breathe in them. You guys, I am …

People at Philando Castile's funeral

I am Philando Castile

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by Tyeastia Green “Thug: noun a cruel or vicious ruffian, robber, or murderer.” I’m not a thug. My dreadlocks hang on the nape of my neck There’s a halo of pride A glow of esteem, built upon by all of those who came before me. My people, who have long since passed Leaving their legacy. As we continue to search for the cultural identity stolen When we mounted ships for the land of free. I’m not a thug. Education won’t spare me. Money won’t refrain me The love of my family, can’t keep me in safety. For there are too many who fear me. Too many who see me, threatened by my physicality. Because I was born into a country That never meant for me to be free. I’m not a thug. Thug is code for the N word you don’t want to speak. Outwardly. Thug is code for the cowardice you feel, unfoundedly. As my blood spills. Apparently, too much to ask not to be killed In a country my ancestors built. Their chains traded …

Black gaming screen with whitish/bluish letters that say "Continue? Yes/No"

Continue Screen

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by Briana Lawrence As a gamer, I know how it works. You play the game until you lose, but when you lose, you get the chance to continue. Back in the 90s, when I played the likes of “Street Fighter 2,” the continue screen did its best to lure you back in. The announcer would count down in a booming voice, and your character would stare back at you, beaten and broken. But if you hit that “Start” button, they would jump back into the ring, completely refreshed and ready to go. I’ve been thinking about that continue screen a lot lately. On Sunday, June 12th, I went out with my partner and her family. Before I left, I saw a snippet of a news story on my feed, but didn’t have time to delve into it. There was something about a shooting, and I’m sad to say that I’ve gotten used to seeing stories of that nature. So I put my phone away and spent the day with my in-laws, which ended with her …

Black man with rainbow flag

There’s no such thing as a safe space: Grieving after Orlando

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by Irna Landrum This post was originally published on Daily Kos and is republished here with permission. I needed an updo. I have dreadlocks, thick heavy tresses now long enough to fall over my shoulders. I was going to be a bridesmaid in an outdoor wedding in New Orleans. In the summer. The thought of my locks touching my face and my neck and my shoulders and back while I stood smiling in steamy humidity was too much to bear. I needed an updo. At the recommendation of several of my dreadhead sistren, I found a stylist in the 7th Ward, drove to her through pouring rain, and waited more than an hour to be seen. I walked into the shop and saw locs and afros and braids being done. I heard the familiar Creole cadence of speech I’d grown up with. I was called darlin’ as soon as I walked in the door. There are no spaces like this in my current city, Minneapolis. This new place immediately felt like home. When homophobia slaps you in …

Snelling Avenue Green Line Station in St. Paul

30 Years A Minnesotan

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by Walt Jacobs In the summer of 1986, I started an engineering internship at 3M. I was a kid from Atlanta spending the summer in the Twin Cities on my way to college in the fall. I grew up in mostly Black neighborhoods in the south so spending three months in the predominantly White Minnesota cities was quite an adjustment. In fact, the first time I walked into a McDonald’s my inner voice screamed, “There are White kids working at McDonald’s!” As the summer wore on I was shocked to see White and Asian folks in public housing complexes and was stunned when I could count the amount of Cadillacs I saw on one hand. Rear wheel drive is not practical for Minnesota winters! The first two times I was called “nigger” to my face were at Boy Scout camps. The third time was while sitting in a car at a stoplight on Snelling Avenue in St. Paul. I was on the passenger side with the window down; my colleague, a White intern from California …

Danger: Contents Under Extreme Pressure. Handle With Care.

A Difficult Job

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by Michael Kleber-Diggs This post was originally published on the author’s website and is republished here with permission. I keep thinking about that police officer down the street kneeling on that young black man and twisting his arm around, savagely, nonchalantly, while the child screamed ‘help! Help!’ I keep thinking about them. At the moment it happened my wife and I were walking in a park two miles to the north. It had been, to that point, a difficult week at our house. Our daughter is nearing the end of her Freshman year in high school, spectacular recovery work is needed in her math class; the calendar has other final exams, four (4!) dance recitals and her school’s formal. My work has been insane and so has my wife’s. We aren’t sleeping enough – none of us are sleeping enough. At some point you will be asked to parent well when you are tired. My wife and I were walking around the lake in an agitated state. We have just the one egg to obsess over, …