Faye Turner-Johnson
Mother. . .Crying Out in the Wilderness
sirens blasting moving fast around the corner
you come after my child
trying to live in this free world of ours
as he steps from the car my child
early morning gym workout my child
really white people? my child?
under spotlights you harass
because I made him black like me
no other color just black like me
want to take my prince
wrap him in swaddling clothes
hide this precious one amid the safety of tall reeds
float him in a basket somewhere down the Nile
pray an alien queen rescues him
keeps him safe ‘til he grows into his kingship
mother crying out in the wilderness
because I make him black no other color
so he suffers black like me
you come after my child
trying to live in this free world of ours
as he steps from the car my child
early morning gym workout my child
really white people? my child?
under spotlights you harass
because I made him black like me
no other color just black like me
want to take my prince
wrap him in swaddling clothes
hide this precious one amid the safety of tall reeds
float him in a basket somewhere down the Nile
pray an alien queen rescues him
keeps him safe ‘til he grows into his kingship
mother crying out in the wilderness
because I make him black no other color
so he suffers black like me
Commentary
Faye on "Mother. . .Crying Out in the Wilderness":
I wrote the first lines of this poem a few years ago after a phone call from my son, an actor living in Los Angeles.
He called to tell me about an incident earlier that day when he had arrived at the gym for his daily 5 a.m. workout. As he parked and stepped from his vehicle, a police car sped around the corner and pulled up next to him, flooding him with flashing lights. After a few moments, they turned off the lights and drove away. Though he did not say it, I knew he had been shaken by the experience. Trying not to further upset him, I just reminded him of the proper way he must comport himself when faced with situations like this that could be life threatening.
As the mother of an African American male navigating his way in America in these treacherous times, the writer in me burst into rage and I wrote, “really white people…my child?” I left those words on a blank page for at least two years, not knowing what I was going to do with them. But as more and more incidents were reported of Black people being murdered all over America, I completed the poem. In it I wanted to express the agony that so many Black parents feel not being able to protect our children when, most often, their only crime is the color of their skin.
We have our talks with our children about the correct way to respond when faced head-on with law enforcement. This poem is a talk with myself confronting the pain I feel realizing black and brown people are still treading the deep, murky waters of racism and discrimination in America.
I wrote the first lines of this poem a few years ago after a phone call from my son, an actor living in Los Angeles.
He called to tell me about an incident earlier that day when he had arrived at the gym for his daily 5 a.m. workout. As he parked and stepped from his vehicle, a police car sped around the corner and pulled up next to him, flooding him with flashing lights. After a few moments, they turned off the lights and drove away. Though he did not say it, I knew he had been shaken by the experience. Trying not to further upset him, I just reminded him of the proper way he must comport himself when faced with situations like this that could be life threatening.
As the mother of an African American male navigating his way in America in these treacherous times, the writer in me burst into rage and I wrote, “really white people…my child?” I left those words on a blank page for at least two years, not knowing what I was going to do with them. But as more and more incidents were reported of Black people being murdered all over America, I completed the poem. In it I wanted to express the agony that so many Black parents feel not being able to protect our children when, most often, their only crime is the color of their skin.
We have our talks with our children about the correct way to respond when faced head-on with law enforcement. This poem is a talk with myself confronting the pain I feel realizing black and brown people are still treading the deep, murky waters of racism and discrimination in America.
Biography
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Faye Turner-Johnson is a graduate of UM-Flint with BA degrees in Theater and Elementary Education. Early on she wanted to be a singer, but never quite developed a voice that would take her beyond her bathroom shower. After her retirement from teaching, she has again turned to theater and writing to ‘sing’ her songs of protest and dismay. Her work has appeared in the Five-Two, Sky Island Journal, Whirlwind Magazine, Lift Every Voice (An Anthology of Poetry) and other publications. She has completed a chapbook, “A Voice Speaking Out,” which she is currently submitting for publication.
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