Hey all,
Here is where I will be posting submissions that are coming in related to your experiences with oppression. I am hoping to start conversations on topics related to oppression so that we may take in different viewpoints and navigate ways to change the dynamics of oppression within our system. It is important to hear voices that may not otherwise have the ability to be heard. I am accepting submissions until the week of June 7th. Feel free to email them to me: isvharaconnections@gmail.com. There is more information on what I am looking for in one of my previous posts. Otherwise, email me if you have any other questions. I would like to say that you are more than welcome to engage in these posts, but remember to be compassionate and use awareness as you do so:).
I look forward to viewing and receiving your work!
Mahalo,
Rylee
This first poem is by Greta Serpento. Here are a few sentences about her, “I am a young poet, and often get shut down because my ideas are too far out there. I'm fifteen--what do I know about the world? My ideas are thrown away, kicked under the rug, all because I wasn't born in the 1980's. Very frustrating. I saw this, and decided to give it a go.” Here is Greta’s poem:
My papa was sitting at the old table
Staring at the bills
How are we gonna afford all this?
So I ran up to my room
And drew up a graphic organizer
I put in bullet points and tips and tricks
Ways to cut out waste
And ways to make bank
I ran down the rickety stairs
With my freshly printed pages
And started my lecture
The one I had been preparing for
I was so proud
So excited
But when I started, my papa shook his head
You are fifteen
What do you know about finances?
So I told him,
We just finished interest rates in Algebra
And we’re learning about taxes in Economics
I know a thing or two
And I have some ideas--
He cut me off
You are fifteen
Your ideas are idealisms
They don’t make sense
And neither do you
He took my papers and threw them in the trash
And told me to go be a regular kid
Anger
Hatred
Darkness
Why not listen to me?
Just because my number is small
Doesn’t mean my brain is
Happens at dinner, too
I get talked over when discussing
Sports, life, politics, anything of importance
And anything of no importance
Grandpa leads the conversation
But Papa follows closely behind
My input is not appreciated
Because I am fifteen
What on Earth do I know?
It’s not like I’ve lived through four elections
One pandemic, a few years of middle school, a few of high school,
And binged old ESPN reruns to understand their conversations
I am so young
I ought to hold my tongue
I haven’t earned my right to talk
I didn’t choose my DOB
But it’s now a me-problem
I don’t matter
Because my digit is less than twenty-one
Shame, shame, shame
I would say I didn’t expect this
But that would be a lie
The world is set up
For the fall of the young innocence
It’s set up to watch the children burn
And that’s the way it’ll always be.