Rage: noun.

Rage: noun.
:a strong feeling of anger that is difficult to control
:a sudden expression of violent anger
:something that is suddenly very popular

Thank you kindly (and most sincerely) Mr. Webster.
But you are a wrong.

I say that you are wrong and I do not call you a liar because you may have simply been unaware
and who could fault your fragile ignorance?

But you are wrong. I suppose that you, Noah–I hope you do not mind me calling you by your name–you did not consider me when you determined
the meaning of rage.

Consider me now.

Rage: noun.

I have controlled my rage ten million fold.
To exist while Black is rage.
Rage against you, when you ignore me
And you, when you beat me
And you, when you kill me
And you, when you steal from me
And you, when you deny me.

When I tread lightly among you

and you demand I smile;
Or when you believe my body is

available for your derision
And for your pleasure,
When you invoke me as your friend,
When you rejoice in the death of my brother
I rage.


I have expressed my anger slowly and politely
Making you comfortable enough to hear it.
Once a white woman told me that “Blacks” were happier and more productive as slaves (no offense.)
I hated her and she did not feel my anger.
Once a man twice my age and three times my size called me a nigger in a room full of white peers. They were silent then and he had the power of the word. Later the others scoffed—how dare he? They would never use that word around me. But if I could, couldn’t they?
I hated them and they did not feel my anger.
Once a doctor whispered to his nurse that he couldn’t take me seriously and I wept.
I hated him and he did not feel my anger.
Once a boss told me that race was no longer an issue in our community, after a White cop harassed a black kid because he didn’t like his manner of expression.
I hated him and he did not feel my anger.
Once a family friend told me that she saw past my race, patting my hand kindly as she spoke.
I hated her and she did not feel my anger.
I carried the hatred as an albatross, a token of my double-consciousness.
I live and work and exist among them, knowing them as they will never know me, and they do not know the extent of my rage.
Today a woman asked me why Blacks “make it about race” and assured me that we Blacks were racist and if we simply

stopped saying nigga
got jobs
took care of our kids
wore nice clothes
chose White names for our children
smiled more
stopped killing each other

stopped talking about race

racism would no longer exist.
She will tuck her White babe into bed
and she will be safe in her ignorance
and she will hide from the reality of my existence
and she will pray to White Jesus for my salvation
And she will thank White Jesus that another innocent persecuted White man will go free.

Later a White liberal will suggest that I consider MLK and promote peace and will ignore me when I point out that peace got MLK shot and me here begging you not to slay another black body.


And yet, I can reach across time to DuBois and Douglass and Truth and Tubman and Equiano and I will know them and they will know me and they will recognize me. And behind us a confident voice will determine for me that I don’t know struggle and that my ancestors would be ashamed and the voice will still and away and I will touch my Black family across time and space and draw them to me and I will know their rage
And they will know mine.
I will attempt to pray and I will wonder what words you use that your prayers are always answered. I will wonder if the god of your prayers looks like you and I worry that he does and is this what milton meant by servitude?

Rage: noun.
:unquenchable thirst and hunger for that which has always been denied
:the willingness to endure hell with the assurance that you will at last know what it means to burn.

i will end with words unsaid: II

I cannot recall a moment–that makes it worse. I cannot look back through the frail perfection of hindsight and gaze upon it–right there, that moment.
I lost it gradually. I did not notice it had faded until it was almost gone. Even then my attempts to recall were halfhearted–in traffic I saw a full rainbow and I thought, oh. Perhaps you were there. But it was brief and when the cars moved I moved and I did not bring you along.
Still, I went through the motions.
I could not admit the loss.
I do remember the moment that I became angry that you were ever real for me.
Again and again they die. Their mothers despair, and their fathers go to ground with them.
You do not answer. Your voice has never touched my ears, and the words, “he has a plan” do not still me.
I am alone in my thoughts, as I have always been alone. My heart belongs to me. No one will mend its pieces. No one will ensure justice, in this world, or the next.

My faith is gone.


You can not exist. Today I read a story in the paper; a pair of human remains was found in the creek where me and The Boy used to play.
They are–they were children.
Someone wrote about it online, and another someone wrote , “praying for God’s peace.”
What peace?
I hear that you work in mysterious ways–but I do not think you work at all.
My skin is brown, the brown of coffee and earth. My eyes are brown, the deep mahogany of soil. My hair coils from my scalp and reaches up towards where they said you are.
And people hate me. They hate this skin that you gave me and the eyes that I have only ever had to watch for you and the hair that can only be tamed if I strip it down bare and constrain it.
What are you, that you should watch them kill The Boy, that I should listen to them besmirch him and make him unworthy of justice, that his blood should spill and no one should clean it?
Someone wrote about it online, and another someone wrote, “praying for god’s peace.”
What peace?
You can not exist. Today I passed a man with a cardboard sign; the smudges on it read, “homeless veteran, please help.” I wondered about you, then, now where is your hand, to stop him from falling this low?
What are you doing while they pray? Why do you still not answer?
You can not exist. You can not see me, weeping for The Boy and praying for peace which will never be ours, looking forward to justice in this world because there is surely no next.
If you were there I would hate you. You made me this and you left me and you let them kill me and let me starve and you wouldn’t show yourself to me and you were silent and I could not find peace.