THERON HALL
THERON HALL
PSU BLACK STUDIES, WINTER 2024
GEOPOEM FINAL FROM GRANDMA’S HOUSE NARRATIVE
Legs swinging off the side of grandma's porch
Small figure with a huge hope
"Boy come back inside. He ain't coming" yells grandma.
Ï'll just wait a few more minutes. He'll be here" responds small figure.
Car drive down 17th ave
Small figure's heart starts racing in excitement
Car passes by… it ain't him
Legs march to grandma's door… door opens.
Grandma hugs small figure.
"He ain't coming. I hate him, granny" says small figure.
"I know… But I want you to know that granny loves
You and will always be here"...
Granny died.
Small figure is alone again
Legs swinging off the side of a prison bunk.
DONALD E LONG HAIKU
Teenagers taught hate
Systems teaching hopelessness
Hope and hate don't mix
DONALD E LONG
Looking at the doors in the photo makes me shiver. There’s something cold about this building. I don’t remember much, but I remember not remembering why I was walking out of them. I remember waking up in this building dozens of times. I don’t remember falling asleep in it. I remember trying to make sense of the charges the district attorney charged me with … assault, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest … I don’t remember committing them. I remember the disappointed look on my mother’s face, as I faced her. I don’t remember a single word she said. I remember the shame I felt. I don’t remember my mother showing shame after all the times she disappointed me. I remember the tree branches hovering over the opaque lights waving and dismissing me goodbye in a gesture that said “you’ll be black little black boy. You stand no chance in white america” ... I don’t remember the drive back home.
I remember waking up in my room. I don’t remember going to sleep. I remember the building being wet. I remember thinking “Donald E Long is crying.” I don’t remember if I cried that day. I remember seeing the shadow of the school to prison pipeline. I don’t ever remember thinking, as I walked out the front doors of Donald E Long, that I would end up in prison for murder and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.
I’m starting to remember why I forgot in the first place … these doors are cold-blooded future killers.
KNOTT STREET BOXING
I see what was possible. Fighting in a boxing ring instead of courtrooms or prison courtyards. I have always been a fighter but I haven’t always fought for the best reasons. Although violence takes place in the boxing ring, to me, the ring is not a symbol of violence. The ring is an emblem of love, hope, healing, and pride. It is a space of vulnerability. It is a place for opportunity.
Matt Dishman (AKA Knott Street Boxing) was a symbol of hope for me. I remember walking in the gym and smelling a mixture of blood, sweat, and disinfectant. I remember feeling excited as I wrapped my hands to the music of slapping gloves on bags. I remember moving slowly to the speed bag, intent on losing myself in the peace and safety of the space. I didn’t feel at peace or safe outside of Matt Dishman. When I left, gangs, drugs, and violence awaited me. Pain and harm is always lurking.
The ring is a vehicle of resistance to the status quo of conforming to statistics that suggest that black youth will end up in prison for murder to be murdered by age 18. It is a platform to know love and healing. To find self love in the exploration of one's talents. To heal by expressing one’s feelings in healthy ways.
I hope kids see this photo and connect with the message: that my story is their story and their story is my story and our story is the story of greatness, resilience, and the refusal to stay down and out whenever the odds knock us down in the rigged ring of life in America.
I wasn’t the first black kid who walked into Knott Street boxing wanting to learn how to fight for the right reasons. And I wasn’t the last. The space fosters generational hope just as much as the generational trauma that was passed down to the little boy who walked through its doors looking for a safe place to find peace and opportunity.
For 21 years, I have found myself buried in a concrete ring for fighting with no valuable benefits. I missed the opportunity to use my skills in a way that would have improved the quality of my life rather than devaluing it.
Matt Dishman is a place of connection. I believe our stories can end in a ring that doesn't wring out our humanity.
GRANDMA’S HOUSE NARRATIVE
I remember grampy's big blue truck parking in front of grandma's house, grandma getting out, gaining her composure and grabbing the wooden rail before marching the seven concrete stairs to take her first rest. Grandma had a bad hip. It took her 20 minutes to climb 13 Stairs. Her march up the stairs was at the completion of 10 hours on her feet at the nursing home she has worked at for as far as I can remember. When you mix a bad hip and hurting feet, you get a grumpy old woman. Grandma's journey up the stairs was the highlight of my day. Grandma would yell at us kids on the porch to get the door as she would make her way up the last six stairs. Some days she would cuss us out but no day did we feel unloved or unsafe when she made it to the porch and hugged us.
The house in the photo is the house grandma died in. It is the house I remember laughing and crying in. It is the house every member in my family called home. Looking at the photo I feel sadness and pride. I am sad because I will make no more memories in this house due to gentrification. After grandma died, Grampy could no longer live in the house. He sold it.
The photo is a testament to why it is so important to resist allowing nefarious policies to uproot families and communities. Gentrification is a tool of physical, emotional, mental and spiritual violence. Gentrification fails to foster a sense of safety. It's an idea birthed from hate. Where there is hate there is harm. My family has not healed to this day. But I feel pride because whenever I look at my photo of grandma’s house, no matter the hate I face in white America, her house was always full of black love. | TH