A black man rising

Back when I was in middle school, my mother dabbled in political organizing as a campaign volunteer for Lucille Whipper, a woman of great stature where I'm from. I also tagged along on several occasions and got my first taste of politics at the grassroots level. Today, by chance, I learned of the tragic death of her grandson, Jasiri Whipper. As you can surmise from the tremendous shock, sorry, and solemness conveyed by every person with a comment, Jasiri was a stand-up guy. The thing that stood out to me the most was when someone questioned why they hadn't heard more about him when he was alive, despite the fact that he was a writer (and a damn good one) for the local newspaper. A very good question indeed.

You beat me.
No, you beat me.

You beat me on the back.
You beat me on the buttocks.

You beat me in my loin.

You beat me about my head and neck.

You beat me until I bled.
You beat me until I cried out.
You beat me until I fell to the ground.
You beat me until I lost consciousness.

You tried to beat me to death.
You tied to beat my Africa out of me.

But the more you beat me,
the more resilient I became.

Yes me,
the one who shoots your hoops
and runs your balls,
resilient.

Yes me,
the one you impoverish
and imprison,
resilient.

Yes me,
A black man rising.

-James Chapmyn