Wrote this about a month ago.*
It's called In My Political Science Class that Day


I Remember it.
6AM- mom rushed in to wake me up.
She told me about a plane…
A plane that hit the World Trade Tower.
I did not really care.

But I saw them when they fell.
I was in my political science class…
And I cried in horror for our lives lost.
I was in my political science class that day.
Democratic differences, we were supposed to learn.
Omit violence! Learn the theories!
Passively… naively – I listened. But not that day.
We watched the towers crumble,
And the 5 pointed building burn black.

So I bought an American flag sticker,
And I put it on my truck.
I wanted all of them to know…
Whose flag they would see coming to kill them.
And I said ‘Fuck all the rag heads,’
Paying my taxes for it.

I watched Rome on fire,
And I knew we would find our Carthage,
A war on terror it was to be called…
As difficult to attack as it is to define.
Yet our ‘just cause’ was born thousands of years ago.
In another Rome that burned down.

He said we would not rest until they were all caught.
A column in the New York Times vowed that
We Would Not Run.
But we did- with guns in our hands, straight for vengeance.

And two months later, I stood around it-
The epicenter of that day- a gate around a graveyard.
The people looked solemnly, peeking through,
Like a cemetery where the dead were not buried.
I sang a song of war, our anthem, and cried like the rest.

And I signed my name on the dotted line,
And thought about the day I sat in my political science class,
Watching them smoke as the bodies burned.
The mothers cry, and the fire fighters fry.
The Air Force recruiter told me I was a patriot.

I went on with life, thinking I would be a hero.
To avenge those whose lives were ruined,
But the media kept telling us that…
Our whole world was changed, we must prepare.
War with them, and others, had to come.
We had to remember that day, remember the innocent people killed.
And when I began my inquisitive journey, I did.

So I read about Somalia, and I pondered over Bosnia,
shook my head at Nicaragua, wondered about Haiti
Was confused about My-Lai, and finally,
I questioned Iraq.
And I realized that there were other innocent people.
I learned about that in my political science class that day,
But not for months later did I see it.

Too many inconspicuous lies, a bit to many political ties,
A few too many pipelines.
If our national security means world supremacy,
Then we will never be safe.
And finally, I began to think of their lives lost,
And all mothers who cried, as others' bodies
We brought away…. They burned the same as ours.

And I knew what it was to have racist thoughts,
Because I had them.
Subliminal bigotry flowed through me.
But that is what us versus them brings.
It was an exclamation point upon a question mark.
I knew my values now conflicted.
So I did not miss my mark, when I erased it.
My name from the dotted line, gone.

protests, prayers and books, 2 years of education...
Two years after New York streets turned black.
We are supposed to learn about politics, in a political science class.
And we did, that day. We learned how politics works,
Far greater than the textbooks or theories could show.

An Iraqi girl was killed today, the television anchor said.
She said something in Arabic, but they did not translate it.
Editor’s bias is far greater than blatant lies.
We saw that from the embedded silence by the Tigris river.

I am in another political science class, an older man now.
History seems like a vicious dog,
Chasing it’s tail to tear it off.
But in this outrage, perhaps hope will find us,
Like our mother’s touch, shielding us from the rabid dog,
Comforting us.
And we still learn about political theories,
While others' buildings burned.

And the babies bawl for the food they don’t have.
What has two years changed except more lessons in politics?
Power and money seem to be,
What really toppled the towers.
A war on terror? What is it that so many other innocents have felt,
When they saw our bullets fly towards them.
The innocent screams are lost, to the flag on the back of my truck.

And after my political science class today,
I finally found a translation to the murdered Iraqis last whispers.

Captured before her life was ended, bombed by the coalition of the willing.

“Why does liberation smell like metal burning, and feel like fire?”



* This poem was inspired by Amy "AClam", among other souls

Some poetry inspired by a man that walked past me in Berkeley today

To my Arab brother, at Bancroft and Telegraph

He told me he was an Arab.
Not with his voice,
No utterance from his lips,
did he tell me this.

We wore a shirt that exclaimed it.
Not a tunic of Muslim dress,
Nor stereotypical script left for one to assume.
“I am an Arab.” It read in plain English.
Against a back ground of black,
The white font sprang wisdom.

I am an Arab- there is no ambiguity.
You don’t have to look at me and try,
Try to see if I am a Mexican, a Turk,
An Afghan, a Persian,
An Indian or even an Israelite.
I am an Arab, it said.

As if to challenge others to accept this,
To accept my heritage for what it is.
I am an Arab…
I am not a towel head, a camel jockey,
A sand traveler, a cave nigger.
I am not a terrorist, a racist, a fundamentalist.
I am not anyone else but who God,
Or whatever, created me as.

I am not a person to look wryly at,
Or wonder if I’m plotting something.
I am not the man you, and your president,
Want me to be.

No, I am an Arab. I am an American,
A person…
Like all others who have come here,
Stayed here, toiled here, died here…
Killed here.

I am an Arab, the shirt said,
Leaving room for no confusion.
No doubt of pride,
When so many cast eyes in shame,
And the beatings after 9/11,
The detentions, the false pretenses
That they gave to see just what I was doing.
You always need someone to blame,
To feel safe while you drive
Your whatever, wherever, around whomever.

But go ahead, call the FBI on me.
Discuss on your talk shows,
About my ‘inferior culture’,
And how it’s not ready for Democracy.
As if democracy could solve everything in our countries.

Wrinkle your nose at the smell that you think of,
When you think of me, that Arab smell.
Let your fathers call us ‘low lives,’
And your grandfathers declare that
‘We should all be nuked,’-
Meanwhile you swear up and down,
we are the ones who have and will use them.

But I am an Arab.
I challenge these stereotypes,
These fleeting thoughts of guilt you have,
For peeking over when you hear me
Talking to a friend, wondering.
I know you have them.
Who forces castigation upon my people?

That’s why I wear my T-shirt,
That says proudly: “I am an Arab.”
Just as you would wear your flag,
Between your breasts.
Why should I be ashamed of who I am,
Because of the actions of a few?

I am an Arab, and that, is who…
I will always be.