For this week, I have for you the video for the poem, “City Sports”. One of my favorite activities, back in high school, was playing handball–which is also called “wallball” in certain places. As soon as school ended, my friends and I would run to the local park and play handball till who knows when!
I don’t know how it happened, but among all the sports that were frequently practiced in my school, handball was the only one that brought all of us together! By all of us, I mean everyone–regardless of what race or what popularity level you were in the school. At some point, all of us found ourselves on the handball court, serving the ball. It truly was a sight to see!
Check out the video above. And if you haven’t yet, check out the full poem below. I’d love to hear what you think. Thank you ❤
I don’t know about your stories with basketball, football or whatever…ball But in my city, our sport is handball:
Where the outsiders and class-drivers reconciled Their pride, forces and hides Each Friday night, after school: concrete playground Blue round rubber band ball bouncing boldly. Man, that was our party
Our palms would bump till peel But this pain, we never feel. Slaps and echoes drumming Our eardrums Before it resonates into what seems to be an abyss; A neighborhood made of blocks, corner stores, out-of-schedule buses, Squirrels; pigeons And apartments ever too tight to fit our dreams, So the city never sleeps. Some say it’s because we are convinced that We will fix these dreams right Each time we’re breaking night.
But daytime is for society’s demands And kids walking in bands; Young adults mimicking gangs.
Maybe we only mimicked because, deep down. We knew. There were bigger purposes Than parading around corners, down blocks Where piggies oink with bother: Questions that could never answer, Why we’re always shooed off our own territory With diction about school, our potentials Which, for now, is in the form of Trouble seen in the skin color Of our brothers.
We always knew. This education: Stories of doctorates, laws and a backpedal To instruction, Was only the limits we were told To be bounded to. There had to be a way to let wind Slide under our capes. Although We, at times, refused to believe it.
But If a brother could actually use these real life wings That he won’t shut his trap about, Then, my brother, I’ll be the first to slide Up and down rainbows.
Sometimes Even we, tell ourselves to not believe in our dreams. Although, this stubbornness in us always sang else: There’s more beyond being trapped in this trap With a tight cap.
II My city life is: handball sessions at the local park’s Handball court. Where you know these Asian kids will not be beaten. Rounds on the basketball courts Where you know the black kids are Kings of the court. Skate spots that I doubt are legalized Where the white kids are discovering culture.
Culturally divided, we always were Culturally integrated, we always are For every now and then, We mingle our differences in the center of the court— Qualities of: Professional Athlete, Einstein and CEO Losing their differences.
Step behind that white line; cracked line And serve.