Paris Porché Richardson (she/her) is an artist who aims to express truth and integrity through creation. Born and raised in Chicago, IL, she considers herself a city girl artist. She is an artist who aims to express truth and integrity through creation. As an artist with a deep emphasis on advocacy and activism, she hopes to contribute to the creation of more equitable and inclusive artistic spaces. She values intention, innovation, and justice.
Contentment is the poor man’s song
I don’t mind the days with no sun,
for they are the days of stillness
I don’t mind the days with sun,
for they are the days of deed
I don’t mind when the rose bush dwindles,
for that means the cycle begins
I don’t mind when the rose bush buds,
for that means the cycle is fruitful`
I don’t mind when the blackbird nests,
for that means prosperity shall follow
I don’t mind when five crows caw,
for that means healing must come soon
Culture
I was born into a secret society of head nods on sidewalks and dabs in hallways
Baked mac and cheese and grandma’s dressing
Kinks so soft and skin so glow
My culture is threaded hands and muddy feet
Echoes of laughter and smiles of beams
Pinching cheeks and childhood shenanigans
Rejoiceful songs and praise dances stomping for the ancestors
My culture is learned behavior
Modifications and perpetual anticipation
Forced smirks and suppression
Sacrificing my well being for your comfort
My culture is knowing when not to speak with my hands
Fear of being perceived
My culture is holding my breath because I never know when it’ll be my last
My culture is freezing in the face of danger because running ain’t done me no
good
My culture is muffled screams and swallowed tears
Lost dreams and awakened fears
My culture is perfection because there ain’t no time to make corrections
My culture is thoughts and prayers and hashtags
My culture is three days in news and eclipsed by the new iPhoneMy culture is hushed cries of mothers and parallel bars caging fathers.
My culture is to better days and fulfillment
Hoping this wasn’t all for nothing
That this means something
This did something.
My culture is being invisible while being radiant
My culture, well, my culture is a secret society.
Accent
This is an excerpt from a conversation I had at work.
“Are you a Student?”
“Yes, I am”
“I can tell because you have such a lovely accent.”
What I wanted to say was that I hope she falls down a flight of stairs. Don’t break
anything but I definitely want to see some bruises.
What I actually did, nothing. I stood there speechless and baffled. Pushing the pit
in my throat down because my black anger would mean nothing to her white
oblivion.
And in case you haven’t noticed, yes, this is a poem about race. But it isn’t your
average race poem. No one called me a nigger or told me to go back to where I
came from. See I thought I should spice it up for y’all, make it more palatable. I
mean after all that is kinda my brand. The palatable black girl I mean. I’m black
enough to make my white friends feel as though they are ending racism one
conversation at a time. But not too black because then old white ladies wouldn’t
be able to compliment me on my “accent”.
I wonder if she knows that my accent is the accumulation of years of
acculturation. From the moment I was able to talk I was trying to find a way to
blend in, not be the odd one out. Because I just wanted to be right. Or let’s just be
honest, white.
I wonder if she knows that for years I was a double agent. When I was at school,
my tongue stroked my hard palate with every syllable I said. I was constantly
changing my rhetoric. Beating myself up if I couldn’t say ask instead of ast. But by
the time I came home, my tongue was exhausted from forcing this foreign
language to come out so it would stay in this permanent stopover until it forgot
what home was.
I wonder if she knows that my respectability politics stripped my identity until I
sweated beads of self hate every time I had to talk in front of people. I lost my
voice, my sound, my rhythm.
I wonder if she knows that the celebration of my assimilation makes me feel like
dirt. Like an Uncle Tom winning a Nobel Peace Prize for turning his back on his
people. I don’t want to be the reason for her feeling as though slang equates to
ghetto or miseducation because the only miseducation here is her sitting in her
ignorance and me allowing it.
But I’m glad she liked my “accent”
LADY
lady has no desire to bring fury, yet scorned she is
poked and prodded, silence is forced upon her
lady is caged
gazing beyond the bars, lady ponders the return of day
supposedly stupified, lady does what she knows
lady sings the blues
what if lady doesn’t want to sing the blues?
tongue lashing against gums, it is not her
it is not her hue
lady is more
lady speaks of tawny shades
concealed skies spewing mulberry and perse
lady conjures viridescent light
illuminating promises, and forgotten dreams
lady paints bronze lions roaring
shaking the manes in the face of the wicked
lady has seven faces
she wears them accordingly
lady has infinite hands
for the spectacles around the corner
lady has one voice
