I Am Nobody’s Nigger

  DEAN ATTA

  I Am Nobody’s Nigger

  Dean Atta is a writer and performance poet. He has been commissioned to write poems for the Damilola Taylor Trust, Keats House Museum, National Portrait Gallery, Tate Britain and Tate Modern. Dean won the 2012 London Poetry Award and was named as one of the most influential LGBT people by the Independent on Sunday Pink List 2012. He is an ambassador for the Spirit of London Awards for Achievement through the Arts. He lives in London.

  www.deanatta.co.uk

  @DeanAtta

  Contents

  Forty Things I Never Said

  I Am Nobody’s Nigger

  Young, Black and Gay

  Revolution

  Fatherless Nation

  Therapy

  Paper Cuts

  I Am Red

  New Year

  Ascension

  Freedom of Love

  Mother Tongue

  The Flamingo

  Smash and Grab

  Mr Invincible

  Key to the City

  Without You

  Shadow Boxer

  Ego Extensions

  More Than This

  Off the Wall

  My Love

  Rome is Eternal

  How Did We

  Matters of the Heart

  Fragmented

  Quit Me

  Tunnel Vision

  Enough

  Ghostwriter

  Missing Persons

  Severance

  Second Hand

  Lost in Time

  Poems

  Forty Things I Never Said

  Well done

  I believe in you

  I’m proud of you

  You don’t know me as well as you think you do

  Every missed opportunity burns me

  I never loved you

  You are wrong

  I haven’t forgiven you

  It was only sex

  No strings attached

  I think you should go now

  When I left you that night, I cried

  I care more about the things I have lost

  When I told you I loved you, I lied

  I think you’re stupid

  I think we should use a condom

  I think you should respect yourself more

  I cheated on you, twice

  Delete my number

  Your broken heart is my greatest achievement

  I pity you

  Thank you

  Goodbye

  Don’t go

  No

  Come back

  I’m sorry

  Good luck

  I’m afraid

  I miss you

  I need you

  I didn’t mean it

  I did it on purpose

  When we got beaten up in Camden, I’ve never felt more alive

  I always wished I grew up on an estate

  I wish I were straight

  I don’t like to read

  I wish I was white

  I think most poetry is shit

  I always wanted to be an emcee.

  I Am Nobody’s Nigger

  Rappers, when you use the word ‘nigger’, remember

  That’s one of the last words Stephen Lawrence heard

  So don’t tell me it’s a reclaimed word

  I am nobody’s nigger

  So please, let my ancestors rest in peace

  Not turn in their graves in Jamaican plantations

  Or the watery graves of the slave trade

  Thrown overboard into middle passage

  Just for insurance claims

  They were chained up on a boat

  As many as they could manage and stay afloat

  Stripped of dignity and all hope

  Awaiting their masters and European names

  But the sick and the injured were dead weight to toss

  And Lloyd’s of London would cover that cost

  I am nobody’s nigger

  So you can tell Weezy and Drake

  That they made a mistake

  I am nobody’s nigger now

  So you can tell Kanye and Jigga

  I am not a nigger . . . in Paris

  I’m not a nigger in London

  I’m not a nigger in New York

  I’m not a nigger in Kingston

  I’m not a nigger in Accra

  Or a nigger with attitude in Compton

  Cos ‘I don’t wanna be called yo nigga’

  How were you raised on Public Enemy

  And still became your own worst enemy?

  You killed hip-hop and resurrected headless zombies

  That can’t think for themselves or see where they’re going

  Or quench the blood lust because there’s no blood flowing

  In their hearts, just in the streets

  They don’t give a damn as long as they eating

  Their hearts ain’t beating, they’re cold as ice (bling)

  Cos they would put money over everything

  Money over self-respect or self-esteem

  Or empowering the youth to follow their dreams

  Stacking paper cos it’s greater than love it seems

  Call me ‘nigger’ cos you’re scared of what ‘brother’ means

  To know that we share something unspeakable

  To know that as high as we rise we are not seen as equal

  To know that racism is institutional thinking

  And that ‘nigger’ is the last word you heard before a lynching.

  Young, Black and Gay

  My people are many and few

  Subdivisions of me and you

  Substantial people sometimes called subhuman

  Negroes, faggots and all the youts dem

  Don’t think your rights came overnight

  So many people had to fight

  To gain anything like equality

  We ain’t there yet but we’re gonna be

  Institutions instigate internal indignation

  We, brought up and betrayed by this nation

  Isms and schisms of my Babylon home

  Have held this king back from his throne

  But you can fight the system from within

  Yes you can befriend sinners and still not sin

  See me, I went to university

  Not even the first in my family

  I’m from a long line of scholars

  Trace me back to Greece and Africa

  Through Cyprus and Jamaica

  I don’t write to be pretentious

  But my vocab and vision leave you defenceless

  Trying hard to avoid the clichés

  But everything worth saying’s been said these days

  I’m ironic and yet I’m so on it

  So if you wanna test me, let me hear your phonics

  I’m not a battle emcee; I’m a community defender

  Young, black and gay, you best remember.

  Revolution

  There is a revolution awaiting warriors

  I recognise many righteous soldiers

  I will fight with you or alone

  Like the king I am reclaim my throne

  Me nah wait for your recognition

  Me jus fire upon you with verbal ammunition

  Me, One, I speak for myself

  And nobody else

  Every one of you has a voice

  To speak or not, it is your choice

  But silence is not golden

  Silence is the truth stolen

  And stealing of the truth

  Is exactly what dem do to the youts

  Miseducation relative deprivation

  Mislead young minds’ motivation

  Dealers, hustlers living bullet time

  The
ir lives could end in the space of a rhyme

  They get all the attention

  While the good them get no mention

  Young boys growing up with no direction

  No protection on his erection

  Sowing his seeds

  But not fulfilling their needs

  Young girls left to raise children alone

  No job and kicked out of home

  On the benefit system

  Where you fill in forms and no one listens

  Please listen up when I speak

  How many homeless you seen this week?

  Begging for change

  I said begging for change

  Don’t just be a sympathiser

  See through the mist, be a realiser

  See what has been done

  To brother, sister, daughter, son

  The revolution a go come

  The revolution begins with one

  But one is much stronger

  If he listens to those who’ve lived longer

  Listen to the wisdom of the elders

  Dem want fi tell you if you want to know

  When’s the last time you saw your grandma or grandfather

  It’s time to go

  With an open mind and loving soul

  As a community, as a whole

  There’s so much to be told

  You think dem lost it cos dem got old

  No, dem just stopped sharing

  Cos you done stopped caring

  If you are now prepared to hear

  Revolution may begin this year

  Go forth with what you have been told

  Tell young girl she’s worth more than gold

  Tell young boy what a man’s about

  The truth nah whisper, the truth does shout

  We are the revolution

  We are the solution

  We hold the key

  And it begins with you and me

  We are the revolution

  We are the solution

  We hold the key

  And it begins with unity.

  Fatherless Nation

  We’re living in a fatherless nation

  Where dads up and leave without hesitation

  The seeds are sown but the house ain’t a home

  Because the kids are left feeling alone

  He is the void in my heart

  He is the reason I cry

  He is the wellspring of my pain

  I used to wish he would die

  He is the one who cheated me

  He is the one who refused me

  He is the one who rejected me

  How could he want to lose me?

  He is always in my thoughts

  I think he not who he should be

  He is nothing to me

  Yet without him I never would be

  When faced with my eventual confrontation

  He made his final declaration

  Though I’d played out this scenario a million times before

  I’m still left with this wound, scabbed over but still sore

  See, I could not ask for any more of a conclusive response

  I had hoped to hear ‘sorry’ but it was not uttered once

  A cold and calculated ruthless reply

  Is what I got after years of asking why

  This call was inevitable he had time to prepare some lies

  I’m glad he could not see the tears fall from my eyes

  As telecommunicated words impaled me one by one

  He can imagine he was talking to a mature, grown-up son

  Breaking an abandoned boy who prayed he would come

  Back to fulfil a vital role in this boy’s life and no longer run

  Away from the most important job a man could ever boast

  Does world no longer know what matters most?

  To give life is natural; to take life is wrong

  To nurture life that you create is what should be done

  He does not believe in what people say he should be

  He lives and dies by his mistakes except his biggest – me

  It makes it worse when I’m told I’m just like he

  In arrogance and creativity we have an affinity

  Sharing something is better than having nothing at all

  Still there are times when I wish he would visit or call

  Watching the door ’til he comes home

  Waiting for he to call me on the phone

  Anticipating he will rescue me from feeling alone

  Watching he leave me for the last time

  Waiting for he like in a dole-cheque line

  Anticipating approval from he will be mine

  Watching the space where he never stood

  It’s like waiting for bad to convert to good

  Anticipating that he one day could

  Come back, though I doubt he ever should

  The absence of he caused me so much pain

  I could not bear to share his surname

  I refuse to be the legacy of he

  I’m what I managed to be, in spite of he

  There are others like he and others like me

  So let’s not allow a looping history

  Fathers, be there for your creations

  Help rebuild the fatherless nations.

  Therapy

  This is not supposed to be therapy

  I go to therapy on Wednesdays

  Being on stage is my getaway

  Or hitting the dancefloor on a Saturday

  I try to stay home on Sundays

  Cos if I’m lucky my mum makes Sunday lunch

  Roast chicken and potatoes, rice and peas

  ‘And, Mummy? Don’t forget the plantain!’

  Yes, I know, she spoils me

  I’m supposed to be happy

  Because most would be if they were this lucky

  I’m supposed to be the one ‘living his dreams’

  The one that they envy and aspire be like

  I’m supposed to inspire but I cry out

  I’m supposed to give hope but I’m so full of doubt

  I’m supposed to know exactly what I’m doing

  And precisely where I’m going

  Because I am a leader . . . right?

  I’m supposed to have the answer

  Or at least ask the right questions

  I’m supposed to be cruising in the fast lane

  But I feel so pedestrian

  He gave me this notebook to write in

  I’m not supposed to tell anyone

  But fuck what I’m supposed to do

  I’ve always done what I’m supposed to

  I was supposed to get my GCSEs, A Levels and a degree

  Check one, check two and, yes, check three

  A whole bunch of Bs and Cs and a 2:1 in my degree

  English and Philosophy

  What else was I equipped to be but some kind of writer

  Well I’m pretty good with kids, I coulda been a teacher

  But even my favourite at school, Mr Rattigan, told me

  ‘Never . . .! Ever . . .! Become a teacher. You can do more.’

  My granddad always asks me

  ‘When are you gonna go back to your studies?’

  He tells our family back in Cyprus that I’m a professor

  Dr Dean Atta

  But I’m far from a doctor

  My only PhD a Player Hating Degree

  But I don’t stay put long enough for you to hate on me

  Supposedly

  I’m a poet slash playwright slash producer

  Slash artistic associate slash creative director

  Slash confused dot com

  Online searching for my ID

  On Facebook faking familiarity

  Retweeting at you hashtag complete me

  BBM me, B-befriend me

  This iPhone is not my phone it’s a loan of identity

  See, I can be whatever and whoever I want to be

  With the rig
ht accessory, by any app necessary

  I’m supposed to be grateful for all this freedom

  Free to grab opportunities when I see them

  Because some let things pass them by

  Fixated on money

  Trapped by responsibility

  Or bound by their apathy

  ‘Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination.’

  I believed that first time I heard it and I

  Still do

  But am I supposed to be afraid?

  Cos I’m not

  I don’t need words from page to reach out and hug me

  Comfort me or tell me that they love me

  I just need them to tell the truth

  Cos I’m supposed to be here

  And I’m supposed to do this

  And, no, this isn’t therapy

  But it sure feels good to me

  To be sharing this, with you.

  Paper Cuts

  I write for forgiveness

  Forgiveness of my apathy

  I write for understanding

  Understanding of myself

  I write about me, mostly

  Mostly I write for nothing

  But sometimes I write for money

  I write for recognition

  My poetry is a protest

  Just because I don’t march

  Doesn’t mean I don’t care

  I can write in solidarity

  I don’t have to be there, on the street

  When a million men march on a beat

  I stand a capella, on my own two feet

  I can speak against injustice

  From a stage or on the page

  I’m a poet not a politician

  But I canvas for your vote

  With these words I wrote

  My ballot box is my bank account

  Your voting slips are in your wallet

  I write to leave a legacy but I am no myth

  And I rarely write with any idea in mind

  Of how my words will change the world

  But I like to think they will

  The pen is mightier than

  Any paper it writes upon

  I could literally rewrite history

  But you can’t prove a thing

  With a page left blank

  Are these words worth more on the page?

  Yes, if no one is listening

  If a writer writes alone who hears her pen?

  Just her, but all could read her story

  If she shouts out alone who hears her then?

  Just her, but at least she feels better

  But if no one knows her story

  Who could say she was alive?

  When you die, do you know what will survive?

  Do you trust and treasure your memories most?