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Call & Response: The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead

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Speaking of faith

Date

Title

#98 ‘Tough on crime’ policies endanger the public

#105 A bucket of chicken

#37 A message for Mothers’ Day

#3 All that matters

#80 Amazing grace

#78 Anti-Catholic sentiment as public safety

#14 At the zoo, on display

#91 Beyond the wall (part 1)

#92 Beyond the wall (part 2)

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#103 Carrying my side of the plexiglass

#75 Contradictions

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#97 How do you see yourself

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#48 Inside of outside

#64 Invest in rehabilitation, not punishment

#99 Judicial pantomime

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#28 Pantoum of the forgotten prisoner

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#44 Potential to evolve

#10 Prison is time

#83 Reality check

#90 Refusing to die

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#104 Story of mine

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#74 Talking to my mom in autumn

#21 Talking to myself

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#53 The great American eclipse 2017

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#31 They took my baby away

#20 Three Shifts of an Eleventh Hour

#51 Through the fog

#56 To shine, beat the sun up

#9 Twenty years

#8 Undead: voices from the grave

#59 When I look

#93 When killers cry

#71 When You Look at Me

#65 Where does it end?

#70 You Have No Idea

Tags

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#28 Pantoum of the forgotten prisoner

They punish mental illness as if it's our sin

Lyle May2017/03/12

Notes

They punish mental illness as if it’s our sin

for Michael Anthony Kerr (1960-2014)

Nobody cares if you die in this hole.
They put you here for a reason,
devoid of warmth and sympathy, yet full of need
a drop in the bucket, time to move on.

After all, they put us here to suffer,
banished to a closet where moths eat our existence
a drop in the bucket in an unacknowledged history
Hang them, shoot them, break them on the wheel.

Only human beings are broken and banished with righteousness
Punish the weak for the darkness in man’s heart
Break them, bury them, hang morality by the gate.
Meaningless platitudes cannot penetrate the depths of this hole.

They punish mental illness as if it’s our sin,
so I laughed, screamed in rage. They starved me.
Because there is no mercy in the hole, I was full of need
and they said, “He does it on purpose.”

In my grief, I wept, screamed, and pined for my children
for my two lost sons, full of need, they left me in my weakness.
So I flooded the hole to bring them back.
To the legion of lost sons, to the cohort of the damned:

They would disappear our suffering if they could,
bring them back so we could say,
“Listen. Listen to our stories. Help us.”
They could not disappear my loss.

Instead, they turned off the water to spite me.
I said, “Listen. Please help.”
“Are you thirsty, Mr. Kerr?” So I tapped and banged.
They brought handcuffs to the hole in spite of me.

They chained me to the bunk.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Kerr?” So I cursed and spat.
“Listen. Please.” Chained, hungry, thirsty, full of need,
nobody cared if I sat in my filth.

“Please.” Nobody cared that I lay dying.
Cloaked in filth, hidden from the world, my sons came,
cold and bright, full of need, shining from beyond. I took their hands.
Nobody cares if you die in this hole.

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