Spin-off from one of Blondie's posts, where she criticized a black person for writing the following poem:
You tell me Christ was born nearly twenty centuries ago in a little one-horse town called Bethlehem… your artists paint a man as a fair as another New White Hope
Well, you got it all wrong… facts twisted
Let me tell you wise guys something
I’ve got my own ideas… I’ve got a better Christ, a bigger Christ… one you can put your hands on today or tomorrow
My Christ is a Dixie nigge*, black as midnight, black as the roof of a cave’s mouth
My Christ is a black bastard… maybe Joe did tell the neighbors God bigged Mary….but he fooled nobody… they all knew Christ’s father was Mr. Jim, who owns the big plantation… and when Christ started bawling out back in the cabin, Mr. Jim made all three git
You see, I know
Christ studied medicine up North in Chicago then came back to Mississippi a good physician with ideas for getting’ the races together… he lectured in the little rundown school houses awaiting Rosenwald money… he talked of the brotherhood and equality of man and of a Constitution giving everybody a right to vote and some of the nigge* listeners told their white folks… when they found Christ healed a white woman other doctors gave up for dead… the two things together got him in the calaboose
They called him a Communist and a menace to the existing relationship Between Black and White in the South.
Sheriff and judge debated whether to open the hoosegow and tell reporters the mob stormed the jail or let the state lynch him on the gallows
Anyway they got him
Maybe the rope was weak, maybe or maybe Christ was too strong to die… I don’t know
They cut him down and they patched him up… he hid in the swamps until he got well enough to get around again… then he lectured a little more… and faded out. Whether he went to heaven or Harlem or the white folks broke his neck and hid the corpse somewhere is a question they still ask –
See what I mean?
I don’t want any of your stories about somebody running around too long ago to be anything but a highly publicized memory
Your pink priests who whine about Pilate and Judas and Gethsemane I’d like to hog-tie and dump into the stinking cells to write a New Testament around the Scottsboro boys
Subdivide your million dollar temples into liquor stores and high class whore-houses… my nigge* Christ can’t get pass the door anyway
Remember this you wise guys
Your tales about Jesus of Nazareth are a no-go with me
I’ve got a dozen Christs in Dixie all bloody and black….
Whether you agree with the poet or not, what is your opinion about the artistic merit of the way the poem is presented? It is powerful? Memorable?
(Note: I have reluctantly, in line with CafeMom's sensibilities, censored one word in the poem that appears several times, by replacing the terminal letter "r" with an asterix.)