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Fumbling Toward Grace

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I am Ashamed…

I am Ashamed…

Last updated on: January 28, 2017 at 5:45 pm by Sarah Babbs

I am Ashamed… 2017-01-28T17:45:06-04:00 Sarah Babbs

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

today, to be an American, for America is a place do not recognize, a language I no longer seem to speak. I won’t pretend I can speak to the refugee or immigrant experience; I can’t. But Warsan Shire can, so I will let her. I dare you to read every word.

Home

Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless

home is the mouth of a shark.

you only run for the border

when you see the whole city

running as well.

your neighbours running faster

than you, the boy you went to school with who

kissed you dizzy behind

the old tin factory is

holding a gun bigger than his body,

you only leave home

when home won’t let you stay.

no one would leave home unless home

chased you, fire under feet,

hot blood in your belly.

it’s not something you ever

thought about

doing, and so when you did

–

you carried the anthem under your breath,

waiting until the airport toilet

to tear up the passport and swallow,

each mouthful of paper making it clear that

you would not be going back.

you have to understand,

no one puts their children in a boat

unless the water is safer than the land.

who would choose to spend days

and nights in the stomach of a truck

unless the miles travelled

meant something more than journey.

no one would choose to crawl under fences,

be beaten until your shadow leaves you,

raped, then drowned, forced to the bottom of

the boat because you are darker, be sold,

starved, shot at the border like a sick animal,

be pitied, lose your name, lose your family,

make a refugee camp a home for a year or two or ten,

stripped and searched, find prison everywhere

and if you survive

and you are

greeted on the other side

with

go home blacks, refugees

dirty immigrants, asylum seekers

sucking our country dry of milk,

dark, with their hands out

smell strange, savage

–

look what they’ve done to their own countries,

what will they do to ours?

the dirty looks in the street

softer than a limb torn off,

the indignity of everyday life

more tender than fourteen men who

look like your father, between

your legs, insults easier to swallow

than rubble, than your child’s body

in pieces

–

for now, forget about pride

your survival is more important.

i want to go home,

but home is the mouth of a shark

home is the barrel of the gun

and no one would leave home

unless home chased you to the shore

unless home tells you to

leave what you could not behind,

even if it was human.

no one leaves home until home

is a damp voice in your ear saying

leave, run now, i don’t know what

i’ve become.

And this place, this America? This is a people who know no shame, and could use some. These people who call themselves Christian while robbing me of my religious liberty, the liberty to practice my faith and offer welcome to the stranger. The promise of America is not this house of horrors, this walking, breathing, lumbering Frankenstein patched together from bigotry, fear and greed. I’d like to bury my head in the sand, distract myself from the aching knot of sadness, shame, and fear growing within me. But I can’t — I won’t. Because my human family members are suffering and isolated, and some of them are trapped in a place where home is the mouth of a shark. I refuse to turn away. I will resist and offer my small voice, the only one I have.

NEW YORK, NY – (Photo by John Moore/Getty Images)

The New Colossus

By Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

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