Barry Jenkins, Meet D. W. Griffith, and: Portrait of a Lynched Boy

Abstract

Barry Jenkins, Meet D. W. Griffith, and: Portrait of a Lynched Boy Murleve Roberts (bio) Barry Jenkins, Meet D. W. Griffith after Tyehimba Jess I am a man, I am a man, Yet and as the Loved One, as the Chosen One of God, I can never drop the phrase at that. I am bruised. I am black; But as the righteous do, I have risen: I am a man, reborn to spread Word, to spread Truth, a Black man, “Stained by the wretched mark of Cain,” Not that I’m unjustly proud of my achievements. as you would like to say. I am but passionate, But I refuse to drip with blood; and my passion is worth your millions— My life is dyed with love, my Passion is worth your Dreams. with a prism of kisses crowning my skin, And I’m sweet on the Cinema, on the screen with a summer of promise sewn to my soul, on what I have made Great, towering over you and your smallness— with Love, I love the power and the place; overwhelming love for my life I love the excitement, the entertainment; and her life I love the game of loss and gain; and their life I love the way and everything we’ve lost— I can express the Right thing: Every love story reigning marigold and rouge, how I right the human race in Every forget-me-not searing, sea breeze dream— how others follow, As a person supported by those, Dreams, how I have inspired. I’m uprooted and bolstered at once. And I love not giving up. Pioneering both my thriving and My Plight— though it’s hard—it can be crippling: It’s easy to hate you, the way things disappear, the way I disappear, sand between But I dye myself with Love. the webs of your fingers, I slip my thinking hands into my pockets which have never tried to hold on. and I tie myself with humility and blank pages, Still, I must remember, I have been successful. the blank pages I Blacken til they’re Red with awards, til they’re Me, a master of each subtle art— me, humbled again with the thinking in my hands and the hopes that I love knowing, in my heart, I have been successful. So if you forget me, it’s enough if you remember To bury me. My ideas: Bury me in negatives, the faces I made gentle in the shadow-stained theatre, Bury me in my life’s work the tears I wrung to cello-sweet sonatas, Never forget what I have left for you, the Masculinity I softened into the acceptance of Life. You Hollywood Dream. If you forget me, Black and white pages Remember to wipe away my ink tears That’s us: Black and White. and tell me, I see you’re angry, In moonlight, you look Blue. but that’s us. In moonlight, your tears do, too. Remember to Let me sleep, peaceful, with my Father. Let me sleep knowing I’ve undone one knot. [End Page 336] Portrait of a Lynched Boy The thin, cotton shirt slips down his shoulder,Baring ebony-sheet skin, thick and knottedLike the tan, jute rope tight around his neck.I can see the line engraved to the left of his spine,A seam sewn by a sloping bodyRun out of air.But on blackness, blue and bruised don’t show.Instead, he looks asleep:Thick-lashed eyes and Tuscan-red lipsCalmly suspended in the center of space. The cold, autumn air brushes my cheeks,Tries to muss my hair,And succeeds in shifting his limp body,Spinning him just slightly,Making him jive and twist and dance—Neck relaxed against its prison,Feet pointed for pirouette,Hands empty and innocentLike a baby born to a white wedlock:A thing that they value. His name has faded like the indigo denim at his knee,Fallen and crumpled andLost in the leaves between us,And the buzz slipping past my ear is a reminder:It was flies that led me. [End Page 337] Murleve Roberts Murleve Roberts is a writer from...