Page 146 - 1970

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The cool of the summer evening Chills his brown skin
And he swears as
He finds
They have smashed his car Again.
His house aflame
His business ruined
Faith drives him on.
They don't know faith
Sick ignorance is their Bible
And their crosses burn.
He turns
To face the blinding beams
Of flashlights
Searing the roots of his mind
A click, a shot,
He falls, not dead
And the flashlights recede
The night's work is done.
Another 'nigger' is dead.
They carve another notch
In their twisted ego.
He stumbles to his feet
Groaning and groping
For something tangible
To ease the gnawing pain.
They have made their first mistake Their 'kill' is living.
Now
They have become the hunted. The cry is heard
Rise Soul Brothers
Judgement has come!
Peace is murdered;
War is born.
A million negroes
Blotting out the neon signs
A white man's voice:
Go home! Ya damned niggers!
A black man answers:
Rest in peace, whitey!
And his lead pipe
Meets its target.
Now the looting
And the burning:
Burn, baby, burn!
The whites are worried.
W orried?
The neighbourhood 'niggers'
Is blowin' their cool.
Why? I dunno.
The respectable white
All-American, apple pie eating Citizens of the city
Who wouldn't touch a 'nigger'
With a barge-pole
When in 'good' company.
But they come home early
To adulterate
Their negro housemaids.
In private,
Those respectable whites
Love bronze in more ways than one, But bronze becomes hot in fire
And on this already white hot fire, Coal is stacked.
Coal is dark in colour
So are negroes.
Watch out for sparks, whitey! Bottles fly, guns rattle.
It's a battle for the city;
It's a battle for the right
To be black in a white society. Good luck, negroes.
You won't need it,
You have already won.
It is a warm morning,
The sun blazes,
Its rays speckled
By intervening trees.
The fires are out.
The night has gone. Someone is sweeping glass From a broken window. Scars of a one-night war. The negro who was shot Is going to work.
His wound is gone;
Healed by revenge;
Healed by achievement.
The whites won't hurt him now.
They have learned the meaning of fear, They have pulled the pin
From a hot grenade,
Ah well, what has been, has been. Last night among the rubble,
The negro won respect.
-Nicholas R. Wand
THE BADGE OF RESPECT