Kelsea Comb first published as a start to her blog. She is a person of many things, poet and writer are two.
She wrote this letter in the days after the election for the 46th president.
(Excuse punctuation, just started writing)
I would like to start with a poem by Countee Cullen.
Incident
Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.
Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”
I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That’s all that I remember.
For some reason, throughout this entire day, my mind has continuous been stuck on incident by Countee Cullen. It has been on my heart since the time I woke up this morning. It is a very ominous and heavy feeling that is honestly hard to shake. Hence, I have sat for quite some time trying to figure out why Incident has been at the forefront of my mind. Well first, Incident is a relatively straightforward and simple poem. It is highly comprehensive because of its seemingly rudimentary vocabulary. However, contrary to that, it is a brilliant and powerful piece of African American Art. On the surface, it deals with racism in Baltimore. However, applies to racism to America as a whole. It is a poem about a young man, of eight years old, experiencing the cruelty of racism for the first time. There are many subtle meanings and themes woven throughout it.
For years it has been my favorite poem, but on today, during the election it has hit me like it never has before. And, sitting here writing I believe I now know why. The beginning of this poem places us in the shoes of a young child. They are looking at the world through innocent lenses. The negativity of it has not yet stained their soul. We can empathize with this young person because we have all been eight years old before. We have all had that fresh, new, and innocent feeling of the world. However, by the end of the poem this fresh new perspective is shattered. The narrator’s childhood essentially ended on that day. They no longer had a fresh, new, and innocent perspective of the world. He was presented with the reality of the racism, the hatred and the hidden, but also blatant, racial hierarchy that exist within America. Most days, this is how I feel, no more than on today. I wake up some days saying let’s give America a chance, a fresh slate. Thinking of all the good things that have occurred and are occurring. I think perhaps tomorrow will be different. Maybe one day the systems that are in place will change. Maybe the persistent narrative that black people, black things, black culture, black education does not matter will dissipate. Perhaps the light at the end of the tunnel is not a train.
But then there are days like this. There are days when the crushing reality befalls me and I realize once again, America does not see me. It sees a second-class citizen. Your credentials mean nothing when you get pulled over. You are simply a black woman in a society that does not value your existence. And how insane is it, and I use insane purposefully, doing something over and over again expecting different results, is it for me to think, America can be different, when it has failed black America over and over again. It is like living with trauma, where you are constantly experiencing the trauma, but there is no way to escape the loop. This race should not have been this close. This is an election of morals, of livelihood, of humanity, of a blatant rejection of hypocrisy and hatred, but yet and still, it is the second day of waiting on results and it is this close. So yes, everyday this reality hits me and my fresh new perspective, I force myself to create, is shattered. And I am left as the narrator with a shattered childhood and robbed of all innocence over and over and over again. And at some place, some point, some day, I fear, just as the narrator, the idea I have of America now, will be all that I remember.
