Baklava
 
La Madrugada
 
Oatmeal
 
August 4th
 
Where are you going?
 
Sunset Trail
 
Richie
 
Peaceful Here
 
First Day
 
Early Morning Prayers
 
Feline Wisdom
 
Yellow Canyons
 
Edge of the World
 
Silver Weaver
 
Grace
 

 
Ancestral Crimes 

I walk in a river of blood.
Hands drip red from
ancestral crimes committed
against you,
and you,
and you.

My white washed world is pink. 
I want to hide.
Hide my shame at being the oppressor.
Hide my shame behind anger.
How did this happen? 
I didn’t do it.

Rage boils my blood when I see fingers
pointed my way.
“But, but it wasn’t me...” I want to scream.
“It wasn’t me.”

I want to bury my head, turn away.

Understand? 
How can I understand when
I look the other way. 
Too painful to look at your pain.
Too painful to feel mine.

“But, but,” I stutter. 
I can’t convince myself there’s any 
reason not to look anymore.

I see my self everywhere - 
on tv, in ads, in magazines. 
Blue eyes, blond hair, white skin. 
Yes, I see myself everywhere.
And you tell me you don’t. 
See yourself.
Everywhere.

Arrogance ambles through me.
I don’t even know it’s there. 
Except that I feel fine and you don’t.
Just because of how we look.

Time to wake up. 
Stop pointing fingers. 
My fingers at other people.
I am the oppressor.
My hands may not drip red from battle,
but my heart knows the crimes committed.
I’ve called you lazy latino, 
always doing it manana.
And I’ve been terrified of you 
Mr. sleek black man
on the other side of the dark street 
when I walk all alone at night.
And I’ve seen you, 
my Asian friend as calm and cool,
passionless,
without fire.

I’ve walked through life with privilege
that’s been invisible to me. 
The veils have lifted
and I can’t look the other way; 
pain and suffering
are around that bend too.
  

 Diane Sherman   /   1999