Teen Poem: Allow Me to Mourn the Living In Peace

By Amal Mohamed, 12 Grader

My name is Amal Mohamed. I am a Senior at Health and Science Beaverton High school. This poem is dedicated to the lost souls that gave and never asked for anything in return. In my free time I read, free write different styles of poetry since I am still learning what I like best. I hope by the end of 2019, I would have published a short poetry book.

I was born in East Africa under a tainted light

In a hut with a woman who was forced to be a doctor

A female doctor that helped with the procedure of bringing me to the light.

She instructed my mother on what to do

And how to proceed

My mother nodded in pain and she agreed.

The father wasn’t present.

But the small beaded eye child wrapped up in love was held close to the mother´s bare skin

And was cradled just seconds after escaping the only world she’s known.

I am my mother’s child.

She used to sting me and then feed me honey,

Because she wanted me to make sure that I knew the thing that could give me sweetness could also bring me pain.

So, I became cautious and vigilant.

Throughout the years,

I became a capricious child that went about her ways not regarding another soul.

I had to make sure not to be the flower that no one picked.

Mother was intransigent when I gleefully shared my dreams of becoming the next president

I come from roots that were embedded in racism and sexism

Women that were pinned to the kitchen counters and were asked with a firm grip to the throat

“Please make me a plate.”

And quickly, in affirmation they agreed,

Because at least this time he said please

At least this time the bruising wasn’t as deep

Maybe he’ll continue saying please

We’re told to lower our head and hands in disapproval for their approval.

We never seem to see eye to eye if he is constantly hovering over me

I am kneeling in obedience

I swore under my breath the next generation that uttered the words ‘mama’ to me would never witness such an interaction of two “lovers”

I pondered on the thought if loving a spouse was supposed to make an individual plaintive

I was bound to always follow the footsteps of the ancestors that were born under the same tainted light as I

I was told wanting more was bragging that I was better than the rest

I simply wanted better and to show the pious women they deserved better than the treatment they received

My malicious views against Somali men grew as long as the Pacific Crest Trail

I became belligerent when asked why I deemed men as trash

I answered sardonically ¨How come you don’t? ¨

I want to be proven wrong

I guard myself like a resistant soldier that would die for its country

I just want to hold someone innocently and not feel like I´m property

May the time come

But until then

Allow me to mourn the living, in peace