Incident - Weebly



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|Language = POWER… |

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|…Our words = Our POWER |

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|How do we CHOOSE to fight? |

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|7th Grade ω English Language Arts |

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|RESISTANCE THROUGH POETRY |

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Name:

I Am Not My Hair by India.Arie

Little girl with the press and curl

Age eight I got a Jheri curl

Thirteen I got a relaxer

I was a source of so much laughter

At fifteen when it all broke off

Eighteen and went all natural

February two thousand and two

I went and did

What I had to do

Because it was time to change my life

To become the women that I am inside

Ninety-seven dreadlock all gone

I looked in the mirror

For the first time and saw that hey....

I am not my hair

I am not this skin

I am not your expectations no no

I am not my hair

I am not this skin

I am a soul that lives within

Good hair means curls and waves

Bad hair means you look like a slave

At the turn of the century

Its time for us to redefine who we be

You can shave it off

Like a South African beauty

Or get in on lock

Like Bob Marley

You can rock it straight

Like Oprah Winfrey

If its not what's on your head

Its what's underneath and say hey…

Does the way I wear my hair make me a better person?

Does the way I wear my hair make me a better friend?

Does the way I wear my hair determine my integrity?

I am expressing my creativity.

Breast Cancer and Chemotherapy

Took away her crown and glory

She promised God if she was to survive

She would enjoy everyday of her life ooh

On national television

Her diamond eyes are sparkling

Bald headed like a full moon shining

Singing out to the whole wide world

Power by Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoric

is being

ready to kill

yourself

instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds

and a dead child dragging his shattered black

face off the edge of my sleep

blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders

churns at the imagined taste while

my mouth splits into dry lips

without loyalty or reason

thirsting for the wetness of his blood

as it sinks into the whiteness

of the desert where I am lost

without imagery or magic

trying to make power out of hatred and destruction

trying to heal my dying son with kisses

only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

The policeman who shot down a 10-year-old in Queens

stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood

and a voice said "Die" and

there are tapes to prove that. At his trial

this policeman and in his own defense

"I didn’t notice the size or nothing else

only the color." and

there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37-year-old white man with 13 years of police forcing

has been set free

by 11 white men who said they were satisfied

justice had been done

and one black man who said

"They convinced me" meaning

they had dragged her 4’10" black woman’s frame

over the hot coals of four centuries of white male approval

until she let go the first real power she ever had

and lined her own womb with cement

to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction within me.

But unless I learn to use

the difference between poetry and rhetoric

my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold

or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire

and one day I will take my teenaged plug

and connect it to the nearest socket

raping an 85-year-old white woman

who is somebody’s mother

and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed

a greek chorus will be singing in 3⁄4 time

"Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."

MOTHER TO SON by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor

- - - Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a - climbin' on

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you find it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now - - -

For I'se still goin' honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

[pic]

I'm Mexican, Chicana, y Tejana by Marybel Louise Ortega

I'm all of the above,

I worship Dios and pray to the Virgen,

I live my life as everyone should,

Todos they put us down because we are brown,

Y no nos dejan en pas,

They say we should stay in the fields,

Like all we do is piscar vegetables,

Working in the fields should make us proud,

We work hard not to let out familias down,

Our traditions we keep to show our culture,

and our familias we raise to be respectful,

Our familias stick together like glue,

and never turn their backs on each other,

Our origins are from great people,

Los indigenos son nuestros ancestors,

Ellos eran fuertos and smart,

They made us who we are,

Though we originate from Mexico,

Todavia somos Americans,

They won't take away our lives and the land we got,

Eso no se vale we’re not different by a lot,

We are important to this land,

People no pueden ver nuestra importancia because they chose not to,

We show them everyday we are strong,

Y they think que nos pueden controlar,

The battle has surely ended,

Pero la guerra is about to start,

We won't stop till we’re the ones with the freedom and the rights,

Y no nos paramos till we win this fight,

I'ma tell you now that I won't give up,

and we won't let our lives get all messed-up,

Me and my familia are proud to be Mexican,

because being who I really am means I know I can.

Untitled by Sanjana Bijlani

Performed: February 23, 2012 at CalSLAM Grand Slam Finals

**CalSLAM is the UC Berkeley spoken word poetry organization, and the Grand Slam Finals were to decide which 5 members moved on to CUPSI, the College Union Poetry Slam Invitational, a national college competition.

There is an unspoken rule that hung heavy

In the hallways of my high school,

Weighing down our heads,

As we passed each other again and again.

We looked like different kinds of same,

Our hands were likened to coffee cups our friends carried

Brimming with chai teas, ginger mochas, and caramel lattes,

The saccharine stab of untold stories still wedged in our memories,

We released our necks to hang like broken toy soldiers,

Only raising them, when the final bell sounded.

We walked by each other, passing for forgotten friends,

Or maybe just lost brothers and sisters.

Released into the parking lot like songbirds

The radios came alive in the afternoon sun,

With songs that never told our stories,

But had words that sounded more honest

Than any I ever said.

You see, I walked through hallways,

I folded my stories into letters I stored in my voice box,

Placed it on top of a moving train,

The one I used to take to get to my grandparents’ house,

The one that pulses through my veins

Asking me when I’ll catch the next one home,

Back to the beginning,

So I may understand how I got so lost.

I came here with a smile on my face,

With a smile on my face, an embrace in arms, trying to forget

That I cried at the end of a dance when

A boy wouldn’t come near me,

Afraid of my color running outside the lines,

Staining the white fences of his arms held away from me.

I came here thinking something would change,

But I still roam around in circles,

Hoping to find someone who will look at me,

Burning coals in back of their eyes,

Whispers escaping their lips, like the last breath of fire,

They know the sound of shame ringing every time I say my name.

When I introduce myself,

I remember the way my parents

Used to sing me to sleep with melodies falling from their teeth,

Like honey and promises, my mother stayed up to watch

The night give rise to a girl,

Every day, believing in sweetness and trust,

That this world is hers.

It doesn’t belong to me,

Not when I keep my head hung low,

My voice a little lower,

It took me seven years to find the pieces of the mirror

I broke, when I first changed my name

To fit tongues slithering to spit out seven letters

Never second-guessing if this is the way they fit together.

We were supposed to find each other

In cafeteria crowds, see the same loneliness

In mashed potatoes that don’t have enough spice,

Laugh at the way our voices slow down where others’ speed up,

We grow tired of running from the sounds

Of those who came before us.

But there is no familiarity in the way

You pour the tea in your hands over mine,

Waiting to see if it will darken my skin,

Because my parents loved across state lines,

Found each other in a crowded classroom,

Stayed together because they loved in a world of rainbows,

They chose colors like love, fear, loss,

Held together with hope and a light breeze.

On those nights I tried to wash away your inquisition of my skin,

I heard my grandmother’s voice sparking through

Telephone lines that run alongside the trains in my veins,

The complexion of love is always changing.

I have been waiting to see what that that looks like,

One day I hope to look up

And see you standing there, long after the final bell sounds.

Come talk to me, together we can remember

What we have always known.

Strange Fruit by Lewis Allen

Southern trees bear strange fruit,

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,

Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,

Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Strange Fruit is a metaphor for the many, many hangings (or lynchings) that occurred in the south prior to the 1930s. White men would hang black men, women, and children because of their race.

Questions to Consider:

1. What words in this poem hint at the fact that “fruit” is really a human body?

2. What is Lewis saying about these hangings?

3. Why is the fruit strange?

4. Why is this poem set in the “southern breeze”?

I Cry

by Tupac Shakur

Sometimes when I'm alone

I Cry,

Cause I am on my own.

The tears I cry are bitter and warm.

They flow with life but take no form

I Cry because my heart is torn.

I find it difficult to carry on.

If I had an ear to confiding,

I would cry among my treasured friend,

but who do you know that stops that long,

to help another carry on.

The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.

Then to stop and see what makes one cry,

so painful and sad.

And sometimes...

I Cry

and no one cares about why.

In The Depths of Solitude

by Tupac Shakur

i exist in the depths of solitude

pondering my true goal

trying 2 find peace of mind

and still preserve my soul

constantly yearning 2 be accepted

and from all receive respect

never comprising but sometimes risky

and that is my only regret

a young heart with an old soul

how can there be peace

how can i be in the depths of solitude

when there r 2 inside of me

this duo within me causes

the perfect oppurtunity

2 learn and live twice as fast

as those who accept simplicity

The Rose that Grew from Concrete

by Tupac Shakur

Did you hear about the rose that grew

from a crack in the concrete? 


Proving nature's law is wrong it 


learned to walk with out having feet. 


Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, 


it learned to breathe fresh air. 


Long live the rose that grew from concrete


when no one else ever cared.

To live in the borderlands by Gloria Anzaldúa

To live in the borderlands means you

are neither hispana india negra española

ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed

caught in the crossfire between camps while carrying all five races on your back

not knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowing

that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,

is no longer speaking to you,

that mexicanas call you rajetas,

that denying the Anglo inside you

is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;

Cuando vives en la frontera

people walk through you, wind steals your voice,

you're a burra, buey, scapegoat

forerunner of a new race,

half and half--both woman and man, neither--

a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means to

put chile in the borscht

eat whole wheat tortillas,

speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;

be stopped by la migra at the border check points;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to

resist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,

the pull of the gun barrel,

the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands

you are the battleground

where enemies are kin to each other;

you are at home, a stranger,

the border disputes have been settled

the volley of shots have shattered the truce

you are wounded, lost in action

dead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands means

the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off

your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart

pound you pinch you roll you out

smelling like white bread but dead;

To survive in the Borderlands

you must live sin fronteras

be a crossroads.

West LA Downtown by Erik L.

Standing outside, hearing sirens pass by

The sounds of children playing, their laughter which you

could hear around the block. The smell of the air, the

shattered glass from last night’s beer bottles.

Pictures of innocent people.

At night you can see the candles glimmering

from far down the block.

Graffiti on the wall, one writing over the other one

trying to claim its turf.

Abandoned homes where homeless people sleep.

This is my community

Or should I call it a Graveyard?

Parents looking at me walking down the street,

destroying my own community.

I can change all this if I myself change.

There’s another side of me, a happy teenager,

seeking for a better future

not only for me but for my family.

I’m a smart, wise boy I just choose the wrong choices.

Lord Take These Shackles Off Of Me by Aikili M.

Lord, take these shackles off of me

I’m in camp when I wanna be free

People wanna take advantage of me

So lord take the shackles off of me

I’m locked up, my girl is missin’ me

No communication but the letters she getting from me

That ain’t enough, I just wish my PO could see

That he’s takin’ all of what’s left of me

I’m 18 and they took me off the streets

Now my next step is the penitentiary

And that’s a life I don’t wanna see

So I ask Lord, take ‘em off of me

To My So Called Dad by Cesar A.

I guess you were never really there to watch me grow up

But yet you had time to always be locked up

We didn’t ever get to spend a full day together

like father and son

Cause all you ever cared about

was pulling the trigger to your gun

I can’t tell you how much I hate you

for not being with me and my mom when we needed you

Oh and hey, I just want to tell you congratulations

you’re about to be a grandfather

even though you never showed me

how a man is supposed to grow up and be a father

I remember staying up at night

waiting for my mom to come home

It was like she never had a chance

to spend time with me cause of her job

But unlike you, she didn’t ever make me feel unloved

Mom, unlike you, each and every chance she got she

would spend time with me

She even bought me the bike you promised to buy me

My mom’s love was one of a kind

It made me happy and alive all in my mind

I guess I hate you

for making my mom struggle day and night

You weren’t there to tell me what was wrong and right

You were just there as a sign of hatred against my dad

I got into boxing to keep me busy and let my anger out

‘cause I was afraid of physically hurting someone the way

you mentally hurt me

I’m about to turn seventeen but yet you never called me

to say happy birthday

Still I Rise

by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Untitled by Adriel Luis, aka subSCRYBE

no id

what am i?

can somebody please tell me what i am?

am i asian or man or a combination?

i glare in the mirror and picture a figure of vibrancy beyond comprehension

and by extension

just a guy with a lot to say

which is irrelevant

since whatever i utter will just be followed by the question

WOW! CAN YOU SAY THAT IN CHINESE TOO???

as much as i struggle to reveal my true self to you

unfortunately all attempts to model the image of myself as a man up til now

have been tainted with the stereotypes i’ve been brandished with

so don’t act so confused when i ask

what am i?

because society has lied to me and blinded me

to the point where the 9-digit label it cursed upon me

once convinced me that i actually had

social security

and i was convinced that since i was

spawned from american soil

nourished by american resources and

taught in american institutions

that american racism would never bear its ugly head

to bring down

what it brought up

because i was so convinced that

that made no sense

and i was convinced that everyone knew that

that made no sense

but see, i’ve learned since then

i learned since then that i wasn’t’ just another kid with the loose teeth

but instead i’m a crude geek that’s unique

i’ve learned that

though i have a defined skin tone

in this world it seems it’s my skin tone that defines me

but most of all

i’ve learned to be angry because of that

sadly i have this fury instilled within the very depths of my being

that I even have to prove myself to you

to get beyond your illusions of dropkicks and chopsticks

to make my true self seen with even a hint of logic

and you need to realize that though

my eyes are slanted and half-closed

i see your prejudice crystal clear

so now

even though I’m aware of what you mean when you ask

WHAT AM I?

I choose not to feed your prying curiosity

so

what am i?

i’m the epitome of the very reason

you find it necessary to water down my rich culture in your

melting pot

so don’t get mad at me because i choose to be that crazy

yellow-skinned nightmare admist your amerikan dream.

after all

i’m just trying to answer your question

And i’m having a hell of a time doing it

It Happened in Montgomery

(for Rosa Parks)

by Phil W. Petrie

Then he slammed on the brakes—

Turned around and grumbled.

But she was tired that day.

Weariness was in her bones.

And so the thing she’s done yesterday,

And yesteryear,

On her workdays,

Churchdays,

Nothing-to-do-I’ll-go-and-visit

Sister Annie Days—

She felt she’d never do again.

And he growled once more.

So she said:

“No sir…I’m stayin right here.”

And he gruffly grabbed her,

Pulled and pushed her—

Then sharply shoved her through the doors.

The news slushed through the littered streets

Slipped into the crowded churches,

Slimmered onto the unmagnolied side of town.

While the men talked and talked and talked.

She—

Who was tired that day,

Cried and sobbed that she was

glad she’d done it.

That her soul was satisfied.

That Lord knows,

A little walkin’ never hurt anybody;

That in one of those unplanned, unexpected

Unadorned moments—

A weary woman turned the page

of History.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 


And sorry I could not travel both 


And be one traveler, long I stood 


And looked down one as far as I could 


To where it bent in the undergrowth; 



Then took the other, as just as fair, 


And having perhaps the better claim 


Because it was grassy and wanted wear, 


Though as for that the passing there 


Had worn them really about the same, 



And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black. 


Oh, I marked the first for another day! 


Yet knowing how way leads on to way 


I doubted if I should ever come back. 



I shall be telling this with a sigh 


Somewhere ages and ages hence: 


Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—


I took the one less traveled by, 


And that has made all the difference.

Oranges by Gary Soto

The first time I walked

With a girl, I was twelve,

Cold, and weighted down

With two oranges in my jacket.

December. Frost cracking

Beneath my steps, my breath

Before me, then gone,

As I walked toward

Her house, the one whose

Porch light burned yellow

Night and day, in any weather.

A dog barked at me, until

She came out pulling

At her gloves, face bright

With rouge. I smiled,

Touched her shoulder, and led

Her down the street, across

A used car lot and a line

Of newly planted trees,

Until we were breathing

Before a drugstore. We

Entered, the tiny bell

Bringing a saleslady

Down a narrow aisle of goods.

I turned to the candies

Tiered like bleachers,

And asked what she wanted -

Light in her eyes, a smile

Starting at the corners

Of her mouth. I fingered

A nickel in my pocket,

And when she lifted a chocolate

That cost a dime,

I didn’t say anything.

I took the nickel from

My pocket, then an orange,

And set them quietly on

The counter. When I looked up,

The lady’s eyes met mine,

And held them, knowing

Very well what it was all

About.

Outside,

A few cars hissing past,

Fog hanging like old

Coats between the trees.

I took my girl’s hand

In mine for two blocks,

Then released it to let

Her unwrap the chocolate.

I peeled my orange

That was so bright against

The gray of December

That, from some distance,

Someone might have thought

I was making a fire in my hands.

United Fruit Company by Pablo Neruda

Translation by John Mitchell

When the trumpet sounded,

everything was prepared on the earth

and Jehovah parceled out the world

to Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda,

Ford Motors, and other corporations.

the United Fruit Company

reserved for itself the most juicy,

piece, the central coast of my land,

the delicate waist of America.

It rebaptized these lands

Banana Republics,

And over the sleeping dead,

over the unquiet heroes,

who won greatness,

liberty, and banners,

it established an opera buffa:

it abolished free will,

gave out imperial crowns,

encouraged envy, attracted

the dictatorship of the flies:

Trujillo flies, Tacho flies,

Carías flies, Martínez flies,

Ubico flies, flies sticky with

Submissive blood and marmalade

drunken flies that buzz over

the tombs of the people,

circus flies, wise flies

expert at tyranny.

With the bloody flies,

came the Fruit Company,

amassed coffee and the fruits,

in ships which put to sea like

overloaded trays with the treasures

from our sunken lands.

Meanwhile the Indians fall

into the sugared depths of the

harbors and are buried in the

morning mists;

a corpse rolls, a thing without

name, a discarded number,

a bunch of rotten fruit

thrown on the garbage heap.

[pic]

Original

Cuando sonó la trompeta, estuvo

todo preparado en la tierra,

y Jehova repartió el mundo

a Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda,

Ford Motors, y otras entidades:

la Compañía Frutera Inc.

se reservó lo más jugoso,

la costa central de mi tierra,

la dulce cintura de América.

Bautizó de nuevo sus tierras

como "Repúblicas Bananas,"

y sobre los muertos dormidos,

sobre los héroes inquietos

que conquistaron la grandeza,

la libertad y las banderas,

estableció la ópera bufa:

enajenó los albedríos

regaló coronas de César,

desenvainó la envidia, atrajo

la dictadora de las moscas,

moscas Trujillos, moscas Tachos,

moscas Carías, moscas Martínez,

moscas Ubico, moscas húmedas

de sangre humilde y mermelada,

moscas borrachas que zumban

sobre las tumbas populares,

moscas de circo, sabias moscas

entendidas en tiranía.

Entre las moscas sanguinarias

la Frutera desembarca,

arrasando el café y las frutas,

en sus barcos que deslizaron como

bandejas el tesoro

de nuestras tierras sumergidas.

Mientras tanto, por los abismos

azucarados de los puertos,

caían indios sepultados

en el vapor de la mañana:

un cuerpo rueda, una cosa

sin nombre, un número caído,

un racimo de fruta muerta

derramada en el pudridero.

-----------------------

India.Arie, singer-songwriter, is a Grammy-award winning artist. She wrote “I Am Not My Hair” as a message to her fans that women should not be defined by their looks. She explained that, “"As a Black American woman, a lot of your integrity is dictated by how you wear your hair," she explains. "The concept for the song was sparked when I decided to cut my locks, and all the different attitudes people had about it. This is my hair - and it's my life. I'll choose how I express myself."

Questions to Consider:

1. What is the THEME of India Arie’s song, “I Am Not My Hair?”

2. What do you think hair symbolizes for India Arie?

3. What do you think skin symbolizes for India?

4. Define Integrity.

5. What did India have to do before she came to her understanding about her hair?

6. What is “her crown and glory” in the last stanza?

Audre Lorde, Caribbean American poet, writer, and activist, was a self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet.” Born in New York City, Lorde writes primarily about conflicts in difference and multiculturalism. Lorde challenged feminism to include the experiences of women of color, confronting racism within the primarily white movement.

Questions to Consider:

1. Name two different places the events in the poem take place.

2. What is the mood of this poem? Support your answer with details from the poem.

3. Define rhetoric.

4. Why is the poem titled “Power”?

5. What do the following lines symbolize: “corrupt as poisonous mold/ or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire”

6. What is one reason that “desert” is an effective setting to evoke?

7. What does the 37-year old white policeman symbolize?

Langston Hughes (1902 – 1967) was a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance, a cultural movement that challenged racism through literature, art, and music. His poems, plays, and stories frequently focused on the African American experience, particularly on the struggles and feelings of individuals.

Questions to Consider:

1. Draw this poem as it is represented to you.

2. What message is the mother trying to get across to her son?

3. What does the crystal stair represent?

Questions to consider:

1. Why does this author choose to use Spanish and English together in this poem?

2. What are some themes of this poem?

3. What does the author mean by “because being who I really am means I know I can.”

4. Is it possible to have more than one identity? The author is Mexican, Chicana, and Tejana. What identities are you?

Sanjana Bijlani is a sophomore studying English and French at UC Berkeley, where she writes and performs poetry as a way of creating community and finding new ways to stay rooted in the idea of home. Home is always changing but she finds it on stage, in writing workshops, and in the company of friends and family. She believes in the strength of words to bring together communities and offer validation of our identities and experiences. For Sanjana, writing poetry is about learning to love completely and wholly, with no shame. She believes that we can use our words to offer ourselves the ultimate affirmation of who we are.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does Bijlani write?

2. Who is this poem intended for?

3. What is the “unspoken” rule in the first stanza?

The song “Strange Fruit,” most famously performed by black jazz singer Billie Holiday, was penned by a Jewish teacher named Abel Meeropol (professional name Lewis Allen) from the Bronx. The song exposes racism in the United States, particularly the lynching of African-Americans in the South. In 1999, TIME Magazine called it the “song of the century.”

California-born American actor and rapper Tupac Shakur wrote frequently about violence and hardship in inner cities, racism, social problems, and conflicts with other rappers. Influenced by the highly political rap of the 1980s, Tupac became one of the first socially conscious rappers from the West Coast.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why do think it’s interesting that a rapper admits that he cries?

2. What “duo” is Tupac struggling with?

3. What does Tupac mean when he says “peace of mind”?

4. Why does no one care that Tupac—a man from the ghettos of Cali—cries?

5. What does “a rose that grew from concrete” represent?

6. What theme do all three poems convey?

Gloria Anzaldúa was born in the Rio Grande Valley, Texas, in 1942. She wrote primarily about her experiences in the “borderlands” as a bilingual, bi-cultural woman. She was a leading scholar in the field of Chicano studies and women’s studies. As an author, poet, and activist, Anzaldúa radically shifted the educational landscape of the United States.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does the author write in both Spanish and English?

2. What are some of the “borderlands” in this poem (besides the physical border between Mexico and the US)?

3. Does this poem connect to your experience of living in the Valley?

4. Define “the borderlands” as Anzaldúa describes it.

Aikili M., Erik L., and Cesar A. were three of Ms. Wai’s students in Camp Afflerblaugh-Paige, a boys’ probation camp in East Los Angeles through a program called Borrowed Voices. She taught slam poetry to middle-school and high-school age boys. These poems were part of the final publication, the result of a semester’s long work.

Questions to Consider:

1. Name the tone in each poem, and explain how you know.

2. How does Erik L. see himself?

3. Why does Aikili M. repeat “Lord take these shacks off of me”?

4. Why does Cesar A. write a poem to his father, who will never read his writing?

5. What does it mean to be a father?

Maya Angelou, born April 4, 1928 as Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, was raised in segregated rural Arkansas. She is a poet, historian, author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, producer and director. Popular themes in her writing include racism and civil rights. She actively advocates for Africans, African-Americans, and women all around the country through spoken word.

Questions to Consider:

1. Describe the tone of this poem, and justify your answer.

2. Why does Angelou repeat “I rise”?

3. Who is the speaker of this poem (or rather, who does the “I” represent)?

4. Who is the audience of this poem (who is the “you” in this poem)?

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does Luis write “i” in lower-case form (and sometimes in upper-case form)?

2. Who is Luis addressing in this poem? (Who is the “you” in this poem?)

3. What do you think it means to be “a man”?

4. How does the audience see Luis? How does this differ from how Luis sees himself?

5. The poem addresses issues that face the Asian-American community, but what themes in this poem connect to your own life or your own experiences?

6. What does Luis mean in the last two lines when he says “i’m just trying to answer your question / and i’m having a hell of a time doing it”?

7. Does this poem effectively convey Luis’ message?

Adriel Luis, aka subSCRYBE, is a writer, spoken word artist, and graphic designer from Northern California. He frequently writes about racism from an Asian-American perspective. He blogs for the popular progressive site, , advocating for racial equality, educational reform, and human rights. Luis also helped found the spoken word youth group called iLL-Literacy.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is this poem about?

2. Does this story differ from other accounts you’ve heard? Why or why not?

3. Why does Petrie capitalize the “H” in “History” (last line)?

4. Why do you think Petrie wrote this poem?

Phil W. Petrie is a freelance writer and former book publishing editor. He lives in Clarksville, Tennessee, and has written articles for numerous publications, including Black Enterprise and The New Crisis.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is the main message of this poem?

2. What does the “sigh” tell you, the reader, about how the speaker feels?

3. What do the “two roads” symbolize?

[?]&(*,02R\^`dx„†–˜üñãÒÁ°£–ˆwiw£[M=M2Mh6%6?CJ4OJQJ-h‹~#hŸGø5?6?CJ4OJQJRobert Frost (1874 – 1963) was one of America’s most popular twentieth-century poets. For much of his life, he lived on a farm in New Hampshire and wrote poems about farm life and the New England landscape. His apparently simple poems, however, have many layers of meaning.

Questions to Consider:

1. What is the symbolic meaning of oranges in this poem?

2. What is the mood of this poem?

3. What does Soto mean when he writes, “I was making a fire in my hands”?

4. Does this poem remind you of any of your experiences?

5. Why do you think Soto writes about such a seemingly simple experience?

Gary Soto was born in Fresno, California, in April, 1952, to working-class Mexican-American parents. At a young age, he worked in the fields of the San Joaquin Valley. He was not academically motivated as a child, but became interested in poetry during his high school years. He writes primarily about the daily experiences of Chicanos, and has won several awards. His influences include Pablo Neruda and Robert Frost.

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda was deeply involved in politics and the fight for social justice and equality. He wrote “United Fruit Company” in 1950 to bring attention to current political issues. The poem’s purpose was to bring attention to injustices brought upon the native populations of Central and South America that were a result of American companies (and the U.S. government with the help of the CIA) and dictators throughout the region who exploited their labor and forcefully suppressed democratic movements.

Questions to Consider:

1. Why does Neruda write this poem?

2. Trujillo, Tacho, Carías, Martínez, and Ubico were all Latin American dictators supported by the American government, who profited off of their rule. Why does Neruda call them “flies”?

3. What is the tone of this poem?

5. Do you think the translation is accurate? What meaning gets lost between the original (in Spanish) and the translation (in English)?

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