I, too, read, America

I, too, read, America.

No, no.

I, too, read America.

I am the darker brother.

The one told read the canon,

encouraged to ingest the classics

because they make a well-rounded citizen.

But all the reading of all the classics

has not been enough to make men see men like me

as citizen or neighbor.

And this ingestion causes a peculiar kind of indigestion.

Not because my body is unable to digest,

but because my body craves something that feeds it on a level deeper than Reader’s Digest.

What matters substance, as long as you can

determine the central idea,

analyze its development,

and support your conclusion with evidence.

But no one wants to face the evidence that would ultimately convict the system that is central in developing the conclusion that all lives matter but not enough for some of them to exist on bookshelves.

They judge me for being malnourished,

but they are the ones who force-fed

me an intellectually unbalanced diet.

My ancestors, though, taught me how to survive on stolen crumbs,

until I became big enough to kill and skin independent phrases

and perfectly season subordinate clauses.

Now able to feed myself,

I no longer eat from paltry offerings that satisfy their unrefined palate.

I have tasted the richness of a robust literary cuisine.

So, I watch as they debate synthetic phonics vs. whole-language instruction,

two breaths that work together to create one fog over the page I’m trying to read.

Too crafty for the debate trap,

I inhale both in equal doses

to clear a path between subject and predicate.

So, I’ll continue to chew on nouns

And pull the last bit of meat from verbs,

filling myself until I regurgitate

humanity.

 I, too, read, America.

No, no.

I, too, read America.

I am the darker brother.

The one told read the canon,

encouraged to ingest the classics

because they make a well-rounded citizen.

But all the reading of all the classics

has not been enough to make men see men like me

as citizen or neighbor.

And this ingestion causes a peculiar kind of indigestion.

Not because my body is unable to digest,

but because my body craves something that feeds it on a level deeper than Reader’s Digest.

What matters substance, as long as you can

determine the central idea,

analyze its development,

and support your conclusion with evidence.

But no one wants to face the evidence that would ultimately convict the system that is central in developing the conclusion that all lives matter but not enough for some of them to exist on bookshelves.

They judge me for being malnourished,

but they are the ones who force-fed

me an intellectually unbalanced diet.

My ancestors, though, taught me how to survive on stolen crumbs,

until I became big enough to kill and skin independent phrases

and perfectly season subordinate clauses.

Now able to feed myself,

I no longer eat from paltry offerings that satisfy their unrefined palate.

I have tasted the richness of a robust literary cuisine.

So, I watch as they debate synthetic phonics vs. whole-language instruction,

two breaths that work together to create one fog over the page I’m trying to read.

Too crafty for the debate trap,

I inhale both in equal doses

to clear a path between subject and predicate.

So, I’ll continue to chew on nouns

And pull the last bit of meat from verbs,

filling myself until I regurgitate

humanity.