BY JUSTINE SHULTZ
Trigger Warning for Traumatic Content: Please note that this poem addresses difficult topics related to civil war, including violence, murder, and r*pe.
I remember her getting a student's name wrong.
The student called her out on it.
Then I remember thinking:
Oh boy...
She got up, wrote her entire name,
her entire African, Liberian, true, original name
across the front chalk board.
Pronounce that!
She projected at the student
who obviously was unprepared
for such correction.
She is a sturdy woman.
The kind of woman you can lean on
in tough times.
Not because she will baby you
or pamper you,
but because she will tell you the truth.
She's seen war
that tore her country apart.
She knows of rape,
killing,
mass murder,
executions in churches.
She's seen Hell
on Earth.
She is a strong African woman,
unafraid to tell it like it is,
because it is so.
Her poetry brings emotions
so real,
you'd be ashamed not to feel.
I remember visiting her
during a class,
a class that my brother was in,
and she announced to the whole class:
My baby!
Then:
Why do you have such an ugly brother?
She's seen ugly,
so she should know.
She's seen the devil's face
in the faces of young boys
raping girls
and killing the elderly.
She moves me to be a better writer,
not for anyone else,
but for me.
I remember her coming to class
in her traditional or native garb
and thinking
Whoa.
She is not concerned about whether or not
someone will enjoy what she is wearing
or have something to say about it.
She'll wear what she wants to wear
because she can wear it
and forget you even exist.
She is who she is
because of what she has gone through,
and what she has done to get to where
she wants to be.