Contraband Marriage
by
Tichaona M. Chinyelu
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Whirlwind Publishing on Smashwords
Contraband Marriage
Copyright © 2010 by Tichaona Chinyelu
www.inthewhirlwind.com
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Confession of errors is like a broom which sweeps away the dirt and leaves the surface brighter and clearer. I feel stronger for confession.
~ Mahatma Gandhi
Our women must not pull back in the face of the many different aspects of their struggle, which leads them to courageously and proudly take full charge of their own lives and discover the happiness of being themselves, not the domesticated female of the male.
~ Thomas Sankara
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Table of Contents
Introduction
Vienna
Like Grass through Concrete
Contraband Marriage
I Am
The Murky Matter
Brother’s Keeper
Requiem for L
Divinity
Soundtrack to a Night
Whatever, Baby
No Expiration Date
Mutterings to Myself
Muttering Couplets
Muttering Killjoy
A Woman’s Dilemma
Everything/Nothing
Beef is Not When I See You
…then comes science
From Whence I Came
Corresponding Prisons
Noose on my Finger
Water has a Few Enemies
Channeling Pontius Pilate
The Highway
the small axe
To the Father of my Son
Forgiveness
Bob and Weave
My Place in the Sun
Filial Love
We Know Nothing bout Love
Out of Kilter Love
Blue but not the Sky Kind
Role Reversal
Like Winston Loved Salma
My Spirit Talks
Trifecta
180 of 360°
The Grace of a Decision
I Represent
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Contraband Marriage
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Vienna
I
am so close.
Louisville, Evansville, Paducah, then Vienna.
I
don’t know about louis or evans
But I know about lewis and
clark.
Don’t know Vienna either
whether it’s pronounced
vee-n-ah
or vy-en-ah.
but I know a lil something about
boats
and I’m learning more about prisons.
Vienna is a
town on the move.
Last time I was here
they were tearing up the
ground
to build a micky d’s
where the sons and daughters
of
corrections officers
will work after school
and during the
summer.
Now it's up and running
and I hear their unspoken
sentiments
as they take my money
just like I hear the thoughts
of their fathers and mothers
as they process
yet another
black woman
visiting someone
she loves
in prison.
Gotta
love a country
that
from california
to the new york
island
from the redwood forest
to the gulf stream waters
was
made for me and for you
to bring crack here
so blacks can sell
it
smoke it
get incarcerated behind it.
Gotta love a
country
that
was made for me and you
to build and work
at
prisons that look like prisons.
schools that look like
prisons.
k-marts that look like prisons
complete with
watchtower.
But as I walk into the prison
I find that’s
only part of the story
and not even the most significant
part:
Harriet Tubman put the gun
on my great
grandparents.
Brought them up outta the south.
They landed in
Boston.
Thought for a while
of getting involved
with the
abolitionists
but hunger dictated the work.
Great grand took in
washing.
Big grand hired himself
out as a bricklayer
built
some
of those fine Boston homes.
They scraped together enough
to send one child to day school.
At night that child
taught
the others
And so it went.
One of those taught
Opened a
school for others like us
Right there in her bedroom
Didn’t
have a bed nohow.
Great grand
who used to be a cook down
there
opened a catering business.
Things improved
and the
first children
born up north
went back down there
to
Tuskegee
and studied
under the great Booker T.
Wasn’t
no talk
about anti-lynching campaigns
down there.
Ida B.
Wells tried it
but barely escaped with her life
and wasn’t
no way
for me to follow her.
Harriet wasn’t there
with
her gun.
She died in the poorhouse
and that wasn’t gonna be
me.
Wasn’t gonna be me.
Wasn’t gonna be my
children.
Wasn't gonna be my grandchildren.
Wasn’t gonna be
my great granchildren.
Wasn't gonna be us.
Generations
later
I look at them
the great grandchildren
as I wait
for
the paperwork to be processed.
I listen to what’s said
and
what remains silent
as they refuse to look back at me.
I hear
that it’s a choice
between the factory
and the department
of corrections.
I hear that they’re here
for the
paycheck
and I hear as well as see
that a paycheck
is not
the only thing
they’re picking up.
Like Grass Through Concrete
I.
When asked how
I could love a man in prison
I respond by asking:
how did your great grandmother love
your great grandfather
during plantation days?
As oppressive as the situation was
the loving didn’t stop
because you’re here.
When told
that was different
I drag out the part of the constitution
that says slavery is illegal
unless you’re convicted of a crime.
When they say oh…
I say yeah oh…
Then I ask them Asha’s question:
“could they reject the greatest love
they’ve ever known
just because it came from the worst place
they’ve ever known?”*
II.
Sometimes love goes underground
like a vampire
who knows it’ll die
if it’s hit by the light of day.
Sometimes loves goes underground
only to push its way back up again
slowly but persistently
like grass through concrete.
III.
We make it work by inches.
Our hands extended above our heads
pushing at the concrete
understanding that
even if it’s turned into a wall
that wall will one day crack and then break
under the pressure of our hands
and we will breathe free
together.
* The Prisoner’s Wife, pg. 21
© 1999 Asha Bandele
Contraband Marriage
Unofficially contraband
Like weeds that dare to subvert
Concrete.
Loving him, marrying him
Prisoner,
Felon,
Gangster,
Thug
Was something
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Hundreds of miles from his family/community
The distance was supposed to be