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michaelion's review against another edition
adventurous
emotional
hopeful
informative
inspiring
lighthearted
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
4.0
I hate to invoke a harmful right-wing phrase when talking about this very Black book of wonderful poetry, but the inclusion of Claude McKay's poems in particular (The Tropics in New York, Outcast, and Flame-Heart) really made me think about Reject Modernity: "African American", Embrace Tradition: "Negro, American Negro, Black, etc." There's something so liberating about not just remembering the comment people use in diaspora war discussions, that: "The difference between you and me is a boat stop." But really, truly accepting it, welcoming it, embracing it. It's true, but it's also not true. Different people groups from as far up as Senegal, as far down as Angola, as far inland as the Congo and Volta rivers, all headed to different areas where they probably connected with people from the same areas as they were before. But then, look at us now. All descendants of them. All those survivors, who survived to have kids and so on and now we fight over what we should be allowed to call ourselves. But Claude McKay's poem made me long for Home. I'm from California. I've been to the South twice, no where near where mangoes could grow, and nowhere near were my grandparents who were the last of my family to live in the south lived, two of whom left too young to even remember, but I know what home is supposed to feel like. That's universal. That's how I felt reading McKay's poems. And when I see black siblings from overseas, I don't think "Oh, they're black but they're not like me. Those are [insert country here] blacks." No! No fucking way! My first thought is. "Wow. Look at them! They're beautiful." Because honestly we are so beautiful, it's distracting, it makes me want to weep. But then I think really, "Wow. Look at our cousins." Look at our cousins who take inspiration from us here up North. More often than we think they do. Look at our cousins who go through the same shit we go through. It's just quieter. What makes a Black person in Mexico, or Cuba, or Dominica, or Uruguay not a Black American? It's the same continent? Semantics, I know, I know... But this book of poetry just reminded me of something I forgot I let go of back in my peak tumblr days, in 2014, when I was 14 and thought a whole lot differently than I do now. It doesn't matter what country you're in, or from, or going to. We're cousins. We're siblings. We're family. What you feel, I've felt. What we've felt, another one of us has already made a poem about. Isn't that lovely? We're Black. We're Negroes. We'll be free someday. While we catch our breath, let's read some poetry.
Content Warnings
Moderate: War, Death, Classism, Racism, and Suicide
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