How Can I Convince My Mom of My Activism?
A poem
Mom, let me tell you a story:
The “maybe” of my future was slim,
Of transforming apathy to awakening
As we, a family — disciples of norms,
Have not been in the streets,
Laying a body of one’s own,
Trumpeting the ills of society,
Holding placards with tattooed red fonts,
Justifying the injustices —
Of scavengers on the dumpster,
Of farmers planted with bullets,
Of lawyers having blood drool on their heads
No one did. So, I will be the first
To lay my body on the traffic
To trumpet the cancer of the nation
To hold placards that may stain my fingers.
Mom, let me tell you the feeling:
You and I knew, we have pulses for the marginalized,
But still, we are not the same.
You limit your power in giving extra coins,
Well, mine’s not a coin, but a voice;
Money can’t solve the problem; revolution, is
Those things, In my eyes, it’s just
In yours, it’s wrong
We gaze in the opposites,
Though I don’t want you to cross on my fence,
And I know, you don’t want me to go home,
With bruises and pain
But, Mom, I’m not only yours;
I also belong to them;
Look, them — the kid who yearns for education,
The gay couple praying for marriage,
The soul of the E.J.K. victims
They need me, Mom.
Let me do this, please.