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WOLVERINE OBSERVER
February 12, 1971
EXPRESS YOURSELF
Message
From A
Field
Nigger To
A House
Niggeress
4th Row, Cotton Patch
Hot Day
Quit Man. Wallabama
Dear House Niggeress,
Through decades upon decades
of lynchings, discrimination, seg
regation, and minipulations;
Black House Niggeress, do you
still want to be like your white
mstress?
Through centuries of fear, ter
ror, and consternation, you have
become whitewashed! Your mind
has become like a day without
night and your body like that of
a zoological garden.
All of your mimic traits I de
spise, which leaves my mind in
a' constant state of curiosity, be
wildered over your realness. Are
you real, House Niggeress? Or
are you an artifact created by
your white mistress? Are you
pure like rain or are you com
pounded like an acid to eat and
eat, and finally devour yourself
in your own deceit. Speak, House
Niggeress! Speak now! Tell me
what you are: demon of hell or
satan’s own wife? Aunt Jemima
or Kathleen Cleaver colonized?
Or maybe, just maybe, one day
while under the noon sun. your
mother’s mammy gave birth to
you between rows while the sun
burnt an eternal adhesion of cot
ton to your skin.
Speak House Niggeress, speak
now! Tell me why, why you
bleach your skin and barbecue
your hair, why you pinch your
jaws and cut your lips, why you
squeeze your size 10EEE feet into
siz 6B shoes, why you wear
clothes pins on your nose when
you go to bed every night, and
tell me for hell’s sake why you
want to marry as fair-skinned as
possible, move to an all white
neighborhood, live in a big 14
room house, and drive a long
white eldorado. Tell me, House
Niggeress, and tell me now, why
you do all those things?
Sincerely yours,
Concerned Field Nigger
P.S.
GO TO HELL . . .
Black
Woman
by: Amal Sharna
You are my only hope present
and past,
And my only hope is that our
love will last.
You are my light my shining
shore,
You have my love, I can’t love
you more.
You are more beautiful than the
stars in the sky,
And my love grows more as
hours and seconds go by.
You are ignorant because you
don’t know,
But you will learn just by me
telling you so.
You possess all the knowledge
that was given,
And yeur judgment is beyond
question.
You have the power of a great
balance to keep all even,
You have this power to do
good or bring destruction.
Ypu are the Blackwoman in all
passion and glory,
man has otld a story.
And of you through all history
You can again be the Black-
woman you used to be,
You can set me and all Black-
men free.
Message
To
Troubled
Youth
By Miss Sylvia Bell
All youth who have misfit
parents,
All youth who have confused
homes.
It’s known, there may be too
little or yet too much current.
It’s know, that you are or they
may be alone.
These aren’t any valid reasons
to go astray,
These aren’t valid to just up and
leave home,
Learn to face problems maturely
as they come each day.
Learn to make right decisions on
your own.
For example, your family set is
excellent.
For example, is your challenge
to comb.
They may celebrate and barely
pay rent.
They may be confused; and so,
gets stoned.
Think, some may be your prob
lems that you lent.
Think, it may not be your prob
lem, they may owe a loan.
So be very concerned and
observant.
So be very light and show them
that they aren’t alone.
Show them and yourself that
you are intelligent.
Show them and yourself that,
yout of you, somebdy will
come.
You, not your parent, are to be
convinced.
You, not your parent, are to be
the future in the long run.
To My Fast-Talking
Slow-Walking Brothers
STOP! the love you save may be
your own. Yeah, you can dig it
runnin’ ’roun with your noses in
the air and your eyes GLUED to
the behinds of every healthy sis
ter on the yard — and some not
so healthy — with thoughts of
“lawd knows she sure must be
good in bed cause she damn sho
looks good out here!” runnin’
thru your head, and lines like
“girl mother nature damn sure
was good to you!” runnin’ out of
your mouth.
STOP! the love you save may
be your own. You use the gifts of
rhetoric and propaganda as tools
of seduction and give no thought
to the FACT that you have three
sisters on the string already, the
FACT that two of them are preg
nant — about to have your Black
bastards, the FACT that you are
about to misuse another Black
sister.
STOP! the love you save may
be your own. You are still trip-
pin’ thru the days of mellow
ignorance and still thinkin’ in
your unthinkin’ cockhound men
tality as if you never had a piece
of leg before.
STOP! the love you save may
be your own. Yes, I know you as
I was once of you, I know your
thrills as they were once my
thrills and I know your lines as
they were once my lines.
STOP! the love you save may
be your own. You will continue
to travel and trip, trip a pimp’s
trip — even though you’ll never
be half the man a faggot is —
to dream a pimp’s dream, to try
and live a pimp’s life as you
bleed to death and stumble from
whore to whore while making
whores of virgins and from hole
to hole while leaving behind the
skeletal shells of what were once
proud Black Women.
STOP! the love you save may
be your own. But one day all Jr.
gash men must look back and
remember the faces of the wo
men turned fanatics and the
beautiful Black bodies that writh
ed and wriggled to please a man
they never had totaled up the
number of hearts broken and sti|l
unmended and you will hear a
voice scream
STOP! the love you save may
be your own. Iceberg Slim did
and he digs it, but SWEET
JONES turned fanatic and his
death awaits those who laff at
the voice which chants “you bet
ter stop it, stop it, stop it, sto-o-o-
op i—i-i-t-t, sto-o-o-o-op
i-i-i-i-i—t-t-t—
sto-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
sto-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
THE MIND YOU BLEW WAS
YOUR OWN
Voice of Time
By: Amal Shama
Cry out old unheard Voice of Time,
But give way to rifles and rockets
of Vietnam.
No one can hear you over the vast
machines and factories,
And still we hear guns shooting
innocent people down.
Little baby crying hungry on the
floor,
While food rots on some other
shore.
I don’t have a coat and it’s ten
below outside,
While others try to tan their hides.
How can such non-sense represent
the free,
It might represent you but it can’t
be for me.
For I have heard all the crying
and felt all the pain,
And to go on any longer is too
much of a strain.
Ydu might be happier at y£tna.
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