A Poem For My Algebra Teacher
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I know I promised
no more ‘Make you Cry Poems’
I said I'd never write another
‘Wipe your eye poem’
And for three years
I tried not to retract,
but after so many tears
I have to take that promise back.
I write this Thesis
after going through a lost photo album,
trying to trace the trails and tracks
of growing up young, poor and Black,
taking the sad trip back.
I hope you brought your tissue with you
Because my childhood was one of issues.
So I give you one more poem
for your eyes,
and if I make you sad, I apologize.
Please don’t hate me.
Like Miss Holiday
I been in pain lately.
The doctor said I got Blues Build Up
and it sits the soul like constipation.
When I hold it in
I get a painful burning sensation-
I gotta get this shi* out of me!
And since emotion is a sad reminder,
Perhaps Math, Science or notion will be kinder.
And to who ever said
that every problem has a solution
and is scientifically attainable,
I hope that the equation
of growing up Black and poor
is equally explainable.
And since I have been
at the Blackboard nearly thirty years,
hopefully, I won't run out of chalk
before I run out of tears.
The answer just has to be near.
Or maybe I have the X too far to the left
or the Y too far to the right,
maybe there’s just a slight oversight.
And so if I put this Essay to rhyme,
maybe I will solve it in time
Or in a lifetime.
And to not solve this problem
would be even more terrible,
So if anyone after me tries
I know I’m close,
all you have to do move a few variables.
For those who say Black children
are educationally damned,
I propose the following problem
for your next SAT exam:
My Black mother had nine children
by six Daddies in nineteen years,
and sadly only two of those Daddies
stayed around more than a year-
And if each week
my mother lost a River of tears,
what was the rate of my Mother's tears per year?
For extra credit
what was the total weight of her fears?
You can round off to the nearest tenth.
I didn’t have the strength.
And if the ratio of alcohol to tears
was three to one,
How much whiskey did my Mother need
before her life was done?
If Black Mother Hubbard
had no food in her cupboard,
how could she keep a man much less a lover?
Trying to ward off her own internal doubts,
That of the eight babies
only one or two would make it out.
These are averages to theorize about.
What do you do
when the down side of your life has no reciprocal?
We can search for an answer
but it will prove to be difficult
But she kept those blues
Bottled up inside
and at the age of forty-eight she died.
Diagnosis suicide?
When counting sorrows
Do you add, multiply or divide?
And your Stepfather
who was opening presents on December 25th
and was opening up your sister on December 24th-
How do you know
if an angle is acute or obtuse
when one of the sides are loose,
or when its base
is fooling around with the hypotenuse?
And though your step father wasn’t shi*,
he was the best a mother
with eight children could get.
And learning the "Tickle Game"
From your Step Father is cool I suppose,
until he says,
"Good, now lets play without clothes."
And when the Numerator says,
"Tell Mommy later!"
you just know that the big bad denominator
will get you…Soon or later.
I guess you can call these Improper Actions.
Or watching pornographic movies with him
at the age of eight,
when the Wonderful World of Disney
or chasing a frisbee
would have been just as great.
And Can I ever know if it affected my fate?
And if I could put her sorrows on a graph,
the negative coordinates would just laugh,
Realizing twenty years later
That all those stolen Christmases
had nothing to do with the Grinch,
just your Step Father feeling a heroin pinch.
How do you measure a child's heart break
by square inch?
Your Mother cleaning floors until Easter
just to reduce the friction.
Sometimes when you add up life
You have to use long addition.
And just maybe Pythagoras or Euclid
can help me with the following:
If being Black plus being poor
equals being miserable squared
Then what is the sum of Black Poverty squared?
Einstein are you there?
Some factors just refuse to be equal.
Some theories just don’t need a sequel.
And if I could get a scale
and weigh all the pain and sorrow
on one balance, more than 15 funerals,
Ten molestations
a dozen drug addictions,
all the loved ones who have lost their
"Gawd-damned minds."
Would I call life cruel or kind?
And your ten year old ears and ten year old eyes,
hearing and seeing your mother
telling the paramedic,
"Leave me alone and let me die."
The Circumference of Black life
taste nothing like Pi.
And should I best describe my Blues
as a segment which has a beginning and an end
or a Ray which has only a beginning…
Or a line to go on and on- never ending?
And when your last remaining picture
of you and your mother
has a junkie/ child molester in it somewhere-
if I took scissors and cut him out,
could I forget that he was ever there?
I cried out for the divisor
and the square root was scared.
Superman, Batman and no other Super hero
in a two-thousand mile radius cared.
Still for some reason I was spared.
And so I put these away these photographs,
and I’m done with all this Math.
The quotients are now quiet,
the angles are napping with the squares,
and I’m sure probability is here somewhere.
I just don’t know where.
Yesterday I looked at a picture of my mother
on a wall and stared-
Finally she is free from all those cares.
What did all of her efforts gain her?
And I look at myself.
Perhaps I am her remainder.
These are the Mathematics
I love to hear.
Excuse me while I wipe a tear.
Well this is my Thesis for Mathematics 201.
Until next time I'm done.
Copyright © Michael Ellis | Year Posted 2021
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