Denver,
Summer 2014.
White man on a bus.
Black youth—my age—as well.
Fight.
Words, words of hate.
“N*****,” they both called each other.
I’d never seen anything like it;
I’d never seen such hate.
The white man wouldn’t listen,
Wouldn’t heed a word.
I wanted to tell the black man that he wouldn’t make any progress,
But I held back
>out of fear of the fight
>and because I didn’t want the man to have to be submitted to a white voice
>again.
Help doesn’t always mean stepping in for others.
They wanted to take it on to the street.
“Colfax and—” what crossroad?
Broadway was my stop.
They wanted to fight out of rage
(the white man had started it over literally nothing),
But they were both scared.
I think one got off a stop before me, one after.
I hurried away for fear that I’d be caught in a brawl.
Denver,
Summer 2014.
I witnessed the results
Of a racist history, alive today.
I hadn’t known the divide was so real, still real,
And while I never saw another bus fight, I saw
>discriminatory housing laws causing segregation
>gentrification of the remaining black neighborhoods
>homelessness in men now out of the (broken) criminal justice system
>fear of poor, minority males
>poverty mere yards from wealth.
White man on a bus.
Black youth—my age—as well.
Hate and fear.
katelyn skye bennett 