Black History Month and Super Bowl Weekend: A Traumatic Experience Made Me a Political Poet

0
999
Khalil Davis of the Super Bowl Champion Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

By Cymone Davis, Exclusive to Inglewood Today

My name is Cymone and I’m one of the amazing Davis children. My twin brothers, Carlos and Khalil, play for the NFL teams Steelers and Buccaneers, respectively. My sister, Monique, was recognized as Employee of the Year for her role with the U.S. Department of Justice. And then, there’s me. The middle child of this successful bunch; with two Master’s Degrees, I’m currently the City Manager of Tullahassee, OK and School Founder of Kingdom Come International.

Neither of my parents received a Bachelor’s Degree, but have remained married for 30+ years. They instilled love and pushed their four children towards their dreams.

Davis siblings, Monique, Khalil, Carlos and Cymone.

My family is a testament that dreams do come true. We’re currently in Tampa, FL and just celebrated my brother winning a Super Bowl ring his rookie year. And yet …

We’re Black in America. Amongst all success, our skin still proves to be a barrier. My family is an anomaly, even for most Americans. But, we’re Black.

ALL IN THE FAMILY—During their early years, The Davis Family, Khalil, Carl, Monique, Carlos and Cymone.

It’s been much blood, sweat, and tears to get where we are. And Black trauma.

A few days after celebrating my brother going to the Super Bowl against our hometown Chiefs, I experienced trauma that forced me to write. I felt my voice wasn’t being heard. I felt my skin still proved to be a barrier for people to listen.

On Tuesday, January 26th, around 8:30 p.m. at my apartment in downtown Tulsa, OK, the high of the Buccaneers win came crashing to a terrifying low when someone started to bang on my door. It was loud, aggressive, and scary. I snuck to the door and outside was a white man dressed in all-black, with wire-framed glasses, and a black skull cap. Apparently, this man was upset and I didn’t know why. He was banging, but he never spoke. I didn’t either, I was too shook. I thought of my family. I thought of my life. I thought of Breanna Taylor.

I later discovered it was apartment security who was banging on my door.

Feeling like my concerns weren’t being heard by the apartment complex and the security company, I was forced to pick up a pen.

In a matter of days, I wrote a collection of poems that speaks to black pain and trauma, but also of cultural heritage and victory.

In honor of Black History Month and Breonna Taylor, I present two poems from the literary work of “Bang the Door, Beast Unleashed: A collection of poems when trauma hits home.”

Cymone Davis outside the Black Wall Street Mural in Tulsa, OK. (All Photos Courtesy of the Davis Family)

1. Capitol Ode.

We live in a country where cops can’t even keep Capitol Hill safe.

Do I feel secure in this security?

Hell no.

Hello?

Do you hear me…

We live in a country where cops can’t even keep Capitol Hill safe.

The ships that created slavery

manifested this shit.

The mountains that produced Caucasus aided and abetted

this shame.

Let’s be clear

You are to blame.

Your very own enemy.

When did you ever speak?

Your friends and family

marched that fateful day.

I’m just stuck in this game

as you play these

Capitol charades.

What’s the carnage and survival rate?

Wait… they all made it out safe?

Wow, America is in a valley now.

I guess we all in the belly below.

But yet

I look to the hills

which cometh my help.

To pull me out

from under this mess.

An ode to my Ancestors

You are very the best.

2. Liberal friends.

This is for you

and all your little

liberal friends…

White flight is bright

When Black lives are blight

They scream Black matters, Black pride!

Meanwhile, they hide behind

as their hides is on the sidelines.

When you gonna get in the game and actually play some D?

The score is in motion and all I see is you being social…

Media shows both sides.

Like its 2-faced,

Too fake.

The shots on the gram,

the protests going ham…

You eat it like its cake.

You soak it like a sponge.

You click your camera and scroll your screen.

When are you actually gonna SEE ME and not scream?

Manifest the black dream.

Join the fight and not just for a scene.

You strive for a photo op,

Pray for Nobel Peace

Not peace in streets.

You show up late to the party

With pastries and happiness.

Your highness is rooted in my reality

Your silence is loud in the room

You CHOOSE when to be moved.

Your foot barely hit the pavement

When I AM the movement.

You can escape when I can’t.

Because white flight is bright

when Black lives are blight.

Cymone’s current journey is building Kingdom Come International, an black boarding school in the oldest, historic all-black town in Oklahoma.

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here