Aaron Magloire
Aaron Magloire (he/him/his) hails from Queens, NYC and is a rising sophomore at Yale University, where he’s had the indescribable privilege of studying poetry under Emily Skillings and Claudia Rankine. He’s a big fan of nighttime car rides, cherry tomatoes, and overusing the word “maybe” in his poems.
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Not a Poem About Ahmaud Arbery
I am loading the dishwasher,
stacking china white
like bones
like flags
like teeth, bright
in a fleshy black head.
I am not thinking
about running.
I am watching the red-winged blackbirds
perched on edges of wheat
before ascending
synchronized, swift,
those red feathers from afar
like still-dripping wounds.
I am not thinking
about running.
I am done memorizing
names
faces
mothers.
School is out for the summer
and June is on the horizon,
quiet fire coming
to burn what has been lost.
I am not thinking
about running.
I am thinking
four days ago
my father drives two hours
to bring me my guitar.
I tell him leave it in the driveway
because virus still raging
because people still dying
I tell him leave it in the driveway,
watch him from a distance,
say, through wind,
that at least with everyone inside
we haven’t seen any black men
dying on the television.
And we laugh,
guitar as our witness, breathing
in its beat black case.
I am thinking
if nothing else
like we always have
I will music.
I will sing.
Be safe I tell him
when he turns to his car.
From the porch I watch
his broad black shoulders
steady in that lifting wind.
stacking china white
like bones
like flags
like teeth, bright
in a fleshy black head.
I am not thinking
about running.
I am watching the red-winged blackbirds
perched on edges of wheat
before ascending
synchronized, swift,
those red feathers from afar
like still-dripping wounds.
I am not thinking
about running.
I am done memorizing
names
faces
mothers.
School is out for the summer
and June is on the horizon,
quiet fire coming
to burn what has been lost.
I am not thinking
about running.
I am thinking
four days ago
my father drives two hours
to bring me my guitar.
I tell him leave it in the driveway
because virus still raging
because people still dying
I tell him leave it in the driveway,
watch him from a distance,
say, through wind,
that at least with everyone inside
we haven’t seen any black men
dying on the television.
And we laugh,
guitar as our witness, breathing
in its beat black case.
I am thinking
if nothing else
like we always have
I will music.
I will sing.
Be safe I tell him
when he turns to his car.
From the porch I watch
his broad black shoulders
steady in that lifting wind.
Commentary
Aaron’s Commentary on “Not a Poem About Ahmaud Arbery”:
When I wrote “Not a Poem About Ahmaud Arbery,” the shooting death of 25-year-old Arbery, a black man, by two white men in southern Georgia was making national headlines. It’s unspeakably sad, but not at all surprising, that in the three weeks since my writing the piece, yet another instance of black death in America—the murder of George Floyd by a white Minneapolis police officer—has occupied those same headlines.
“Not a Poem” is as much about Arbery as it is about Floyd, and as much about Floyd as it is about every black American killed by violent manifestations of the anti-black racism with which America has yet to grapple.
And yet, “Not a Poem” is not about Arbery or Floyd at all. When I wrote the poem, I wrote it because I didn’t know what else to do. I could barely bring myself to read the basic details of Arbery’s death, let alone watch the video of his killing that was circulating recklessly on the Internet. “Not a Poem” is about my own emotional exhaustion, a tiredness born of hearing the same story over and over again, each time with a different face and name. It’s a tiredness I share with my black friends, peers, family, and the poem was an attempt to acknowledge the necessity of trying, for sanity’s sake, to not think about death, even if we might fail.
EIC Christine Taylor’s Commentary on “Not a Poem About Ahmaud Arbery”:
I am a teacher, and this year I made the decision mid-year to leave the school where I had worked for eight years, a wealthy, predominantly white suburban private school. After years of being harassed by colleagues, berated by parents, and unsupported by administration, I took back "me." How many of our institutions tout their supposed commitment to diversity and inclusion only to pay lip service to the reality of what diversity and inclusion actually mean? In December 2014 following the death of Eric Garner at the hands of the police and subsequent protests, I was asked to give a speech during assembly at school, not necessarily on this incident, but on anything having to do with "honor." Few wanted to hear about racial bias in our justice system; few wanted to hear about political disenfranchisement; few wanted to hear that our silence and inaction makes us complicit. Students complained, faculty complained, all behind my back. I was written off as just another angry black woman.
And I mention this to point out that we have been here before. I was in high school in 1992 when Rodney King was savagely beaten by police and the nation erupted in protests and riots. The fear that we will continue adding to the playbook of death and injustice lives in me every day. And as Aaron says above, it is absolutely exhausting. I have received so many messages via text, email, and social media from white people checking in to see if I'm okay. I really do appreciate that AND I also need you to be doing the work of racial just EVERY DAY, not just when headlines have taken over the conversation. In her collection Citizen: An American Lyric, Claudia Rankine talks about the little moments that build and build which eventually lead to the big moments. I suppose it's easier for us to see the big moments, but we need to do the work of identifying how we have been contributing to the little moments so that we can dismantle systemic racism. And we need to be honest. Some of those messages that I mentioned were from people who definitely "sold me down the river" at times when I needed them most.
"Be safe". . .for me, Aaron's poem speaks to a shared history and reality. We're just trying to live. And the best way I can do that right now is to shut down: I have stopped reading the news, I don't go on social media, and I rarely leave the three-block radius of my home. As I write this, I am sitting on my front porch listening to birdsong and having my elbow nibbled by the stray cat who has decided that I'm his momma. This is the best I can do right now.
When I wrote “Not a Poem About Ahmaud Arbery,” the shooting death of 25-year-old Arbery, a black man, by two white men in southern Georgia was making national headlines. It’s unspeakably sad, but not at all surprising, that in the three weeks since my writing the piece, yet another instance of black death in America—the murder of George Floyd by a white Minneapolis police officer—has occupied those same headlines.
“Not a Poem” is as much about Arbery as it is about Floyd, and as much about Floyd as it is about every black American killed by violent manifestations of the anti-black racism with which America has yet to grapple.
And yet, “Not a Poem” is not about Arbery or Floyd at all. When I wrote the poem, I wrote it because I didn’t know what else to do. I could barely bring myself to read the basic details of Arbery’s death, let alone watch the video of his killing that was circulating recklessly on the Internet. “Not a Poem” is about my own emotional exhaustion, a tiredness born of hearing the same story over and over again, each time with a different face and name. It’s a tiredness I share with my black friends, peers, family, and the poem was an attempt to acknowledge the necessity of trying, for sanity’s sake, to not think about death, even if we might fail.
EIC Christine Taylor’s Commentary on “Not a Poem About Ahmaud Arbery”:
I am a teacher, and this year I made the decision mid-year to leave the school where I had worked for eight years, a wealthy, predominantly white suburban private school. After years of being harassed by colleagues, berated by parents, and unsupported by administration, I took back "me." How many of our institutions tout their supposed commitment to diversity and inclusion only to pay lip service to the reality of what diversity and inclusion actually mean? In December 2014 following the death of Eric Garner at the hands of the police and subsequent protests, I was asked to give a speech during assembly at school, not necessarily on this incident, but on anything having to do with "honor." Few wanted to hear about racial bias in our justice system; few wanted to hear about political disenfranchisement; few wanted to hear that our silence and inaction makes us complicit. Students complained, faculty complained, all behind my back. I was written off as just another angry black woman.
And I mention this to point out that we have been here before. I was in high school in 1992 when Rodney King was savagely beaten by police and the nation erupted in protests and riots. The fear that we will continue adding to the playbook of death and injustice lives in me every day. And as Aaron says above, it is absolutely exhausting. I have received so many messages via text, email, and social media from white people checking in to see if I'm okay. I really do appreciate that AND I also need you to be doing the work of racial just EVERY DAY, not just when headlines have taken over the conversation. In her collection Citizen: An American Lyric, Claudia Rankine talks about the little moments that build and build which eventually lead to the big moments. I suppose it's easier for us to see the big moments, but we need to do the work of identifying how we have been contributing to the little moments so that we can dismantle systemic racism. And we need to be honest. Some of those messages that I mentioned were from people who definitely "sold me down the river" at times when I needed them most.
"Be safe". . .for me, Aaron's poem speaks to a shared history and reality. We're just trying to live. And the best way I can do that right now is to shut down: I have stopped reading the news, I don't go on social media, and I rarely leave the three-block radius of my home. As I write this, I am sitting on my front porch listening to birdsong and having my elbow nibbled by the stray cat who has decided that I'm his momma. This is the best I can do right now.