DARIUS BROWN
DARIUS BROWN
PSU BLACK STUDIES, WINTER 2024
MATT DISHMAN
A safe place in a world of chaos
That's like a Solar Eclipse they only come around so often
Walk through the double doors
The strong smell of chlorine overwhelms your nostrils
Like the smell of smoke on Granddaddy’s Buick.
Black + Brown boys maneuvering like a fish at sea
Tell whoever told you Black folks can’t swim “Stop lying!”
A ball dribbles in the distance
Sounds like those 12’s kicking from around the corner
Follow the sound like a K9 tracks a scent
Sneakers squeaking back and forth having a conversation
Sound means one of two things
It some hooping or some fighting going on
Laughter becomes audible
The smell of sweat and musk penetrates my sinuses
Like the smell of new chitlings roaming through Granny’s house on NYE
GEO POEM
COUNTY JAIL
A place where generations follow each other a Ivy League school
Sons + fathers finally living as a family under the same roof
Getting his GED while in DOC his daddy sent his son off to school
Getting counted 1-2-3 everyday like some cattle they
Looked at as if they go moo
Cell bars 32° can you feel the chill?
All American in high school
Come to jail got diagnosed now he on pills
Told when you can shower when you can enjoy a meal
Come to prison cause of addiction but treated as if
He had killed
Hardening the souls of emotionless men with hearts of steel
Coping with isolation, abandonment, and the lack of a
Loving feel
COLUMBIA PARK
There are people scattered throughout the park. A big family in matching shirts that read “Family Reunion.” The family looks like a sports team sporting the same logo. Kids running and screaming full of joy and laughter playing hide and seek and tag. There are strangers nearby and their parents aren’t overly stressed cause inside the park the good outweighs the bad. The young boy walking his dog or the homeless brotha pushing his cart is greeted with an invitation, “come and get you a plate” from Mommas, Aunties and Grandmas. You can feel it in the air: love, unity, power. It’s thick like the smoke coming off the coals as they turn from black to gray. I recall playing on the seesaw with my cousins, each of us attempting to jump off fast so whoever was left on would go crashing down to the ground like a human size rock. Whoever was responsible would laugh so hard they would start to cry. Or Snoogie spinning on the merry- go-round, drool flying out our mouth like a dog with his head in the wind. We get off, fall and throw up all the hamburgers, hot dogs, and grape soda we just enjoyed. I haven’t been on a merry-go-round since. Coolers being monitored by the adults, we wonder what’s inside, that curiosity is short lived cause the sight of a football interests us more. Up walks one of our uncles, he is feeling good but smells bad, dancing, Grandma has her R&B soul playing through the speakers, R. Kelly! "Happy people" will forever be in my head. This is the last memory I have of my family being whole.
MATT DISHMAN
Single mothers trying to provide structure for their children in a safe place where their children can go, be comfortable and not be judged, similar to grandma’s house. A place where there is people who look like them but also introduces them to other minority culture. The first soccer game I watched on TV was at Matt Dishman Community Center alongside my Hispanic friend I met while at summer camp at the center. That’s one of many examples of youth exploring other cultures within the center as if community center worked as an atlas teleporting you from region to region. Black people can’t swim was a stereotype that I continuously heard growing up, but when you walked inside the pool at Matt Dishman you’d see an abundance of Black and Brown bodies. Moving around like fish in the water. Being supervised by people who came from our same neighborhoods, who come if we make it out of the pool alive and well; real lifeguards.
Chlorine invading your nostrils similar to what wood does during a campfire. Sneakers squeaking from the excitement of boys and girls whose legs are moving faster than the rest of their bodies. The police, two neighborhood patrolmen placing bets amongst each other which Black or Brown youth will be the first to have those silver bracelets placed on their wrist courtesy of the City of Portland. The family support, I call Families Supporting Families coming to the realization it takes a village to raise a child. Creating that village using the techniques of our ancestors copying their blueprint like we copy Big Momma’s Sweet Potato Pie recipe. Also known as Knott Street Boxing, Matt Dishman Community Center, changing over time just like the people occupying the space. It was instrumental in the growth of generations before mine, has been instrumental in mine, and continues to be instrumental to generations after mine.
NARRATIVE 1
11540 NE Inverness Drive, an address that becomes all too familiar once etched in the mind of generations of Black and Brown Portlanders. We’ll have fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters looking out from the inside reminiscing on the happy times and all the cherished memories that they once shared with their families and friends. Their skin being pressed against the thick shatter-proof glass to get a feel of the Fourth of July warmth, or the cooler December winter chill. Or we’ll have these feathers and mothers, brothers and sisters straining their eyes to see inside as if they were reading a book in the dark, begging God to give them a glimpse of their loved one so that they can rest peacefully that evening knowing he or she is on the inside safe and sound. This will be the start to many people's marathons; some will reach the finish line sooner than others, some may never be fortunate enough to reach the finish line at all. But this will remain the starting point to countless journeys throughout the culture. Talent lives within these walls: artists, musicians, mentors just to name a few; yet we have prized people stored away like their precious possessions collecting dust being kept hidden and out of view. Treated as if their they’re cards were being counted throughout the day to ensure none got away. Welcome to the fight, the fight for your life. | DB