Death in the Eyes and As Without, So Within

Two Poems by: Kate McCauley

Death in the Eyes

In the north, we were raised to think
that we were better than
“the racist south.”
Do we dare think that now?
Is there anyone so godforsaken that
they dare to think that now?
Of course there is.
The willful ignorance is terminal.
Nothing can shake it now.

In the north, at least where I’m from
we were just able to isolate better
keep our lives white better
keep one eye shut better
gaslight ourselves better.
This history has been going on,
for centuries.
We just hid from ourselves better
under blankets of Minnesota nice
here in the great white north.
But now social media
and demographic change
are bursting our bubbles
in a way that’s increasingly hard to ignore
(though some, of course, still will).

Are we paying attention? Do we see
that so much of white shock and outrage
is the offense of this horror
happening in “our” city
and the stubborn insistence that
“we are better than this”?

Even now
even now
even now
it’s about our city, our peace of mind
our naïveté being forcibly shattered
and still we cling
to the idea that we’re better.
No, we damn well are not.

That’s the thing.
I grew up inside this beast.
Whiteness is whiteness.
Doesn’t matter where.
It’s a death cult of comfort.
Not just about power.
Not just about supremacy.
Whiteness unchecked
is not content to be best.
It simply won’t stop till it’s only.

We’re killing the world
so we can numb ourselves
till our last breath.
Because any time we
so full of death
come across someone
who doesn’t need to oppress others
whose humanity is still intact
it triggers us.
We haven’t fully succeeded at
killing off our own humanity
and the tiny scrap that is left
recognizes, in the face of the “other,”
how much we’ve lost.

We are cowards.
We cannot face the enormity
of that crushing pain
the weight of having strangled our own souls
for thousands of years
and we cannot bear to meet the eyes
the eyes that witness against us
for millennia have witnessed against us
how absolutely pathetic we are.
So we force others to bear
what we will not.

I know this.
I know it in my gut.
I’ve seen that look, on the white cop’s face in Minneapolis.
I saw it in the eyes of a man
who put cats in the dryer
because they ate some of his
birthday cheesecake.
I used to call him “Dad.”
And I’ve heard that quivering victim voice.
I’ve seen those shaky victim eyes,
on the white woman’s face in Central Park.
I’ve seen a dog dragged by the collar like that, too.
By the woman who had me exorcised.
As a young child.
For being angry.
I used to call her “Mama.”
No, I’m not shocked.
Those eyes sicken me.
Those eyes raised me.
I know exactly what they mean.
I saw what they did to their own.
What could they not do to others?

Whiteness is poison.
Whiteness is evil.
It will not stop
till it’s choked the breath
out of every single life it finds.
Till everything and everyone
is as dead as we are.

God forbid.

Whiteness is death
that needs to die
that needs to die
that needs to die
so the earth
and all her children
can live.

Lord, in your mercy,
hear our prayer.

| May 28, 2020

As Without, So Within*

Some pain is too tender
young
fresh
raw
exposed
to be approached very nearly
by something as coarse as speech
or as calculating as thought.

Only bare hearts
that have taken off their years of strength
standing tender
young
fresh
raw
exposed
can come close.
Can hear
what flows then.

I’m almost angry
that this is the case.
Because I want to be angry.
And there will be a time for that.

But now. Here.
In the presence of this senseless…
this violation…
this blasphemy…
It is sacred ground.
I have to remove the sandals
from my heart.
And wait.

To hear the holy word
that only these wounds can tell.
…

And I am also angry.
Here. Now.
There are many spaces in my heart.
Because man cannot live
by gentle rains alone
but by every crack of thunder
every eruption
every fire
every scream
that proceeds from the mouth of those
who make the way safe
for life to enter this world
to be fed
to thrive.

There is holy wind
in those words, too.

Kate McCauley | July 2019
*written after visiting the makeshift memorial for George Floyd where he was killed in South Minneapolis.

Kate McCauley

(not real name) lives in the Twin Cities with gratitude for her beautiful friends and elders on the healing journey. These days she enjoys learning about medicinal herbs and making lots of tea for fellow members of Church of All Nations.