Summer 2020 Archive
Poetry
College Football
By Raihana Haynes-Venerable
“I was drugged at the football house” the white girl
whispered in my communal living space, smell of weed
emanating from the hotboxed bathroom on the side of the kitchen
there are no tears but pain seeps through her pours
in beads of sweat that leak into the couch cushions --
previously stained by unanswered questions, hormones, blackouts.
I remember how he pushed my head down,
palmed my skull like a football
the taste of his cum and my stomach acid
held between my cheeks,
in the bathroom there are no tears
“I was drugged at the football house” she says again
and I wonder if this couch trapped similar secrets.
She was the first to approach me — over ten more
came forward later, we had a meeting
in a classroom where I sit on the floor as women
replay their own personal horror stories
for a room full of people too ashamed to look
in eachothers eyes,
midway through two football players walk in
say, “we want to help” say, “we think its wrong”
say, “what can we do” — I am hesitant to
speak because I am only anger.
The players are Black, I know them well enough
they are freshmen not much power — yet
change is slow, a professor in the room explains
“this has persisted for twenty five years”
the men want us to find solutions to problems
they are more equipped to solve
the women are still mourning what has been stripped
from them, from the women sitting next to them,
from the women outside the room.
I speak with one of the players alone in the
classroom after everyone else has left,
a strong voice indeed, kind mild mannered
Southern Christian man, I am only a few years
his senior but there is no authority here
“druggin’ girls? that’s some white boy shit” he says with a stern seriousness,
he is confident in his conviction
that somehow Black men are immune to misogyny.
When do we stop looking at the few rotten apples
and begin to examine the roots of the whole God damn orchard?
A week later the football team and Project S.A.F.E
chalk the quad with platitudes, a phallic hopscotch sketch,
“solidarity” - “trust” - “survivors” scattered on concrete
so visible, so vocal, a ploy to be witnessed
when I see him, I can feel my stomach churn, seeking an escape,
liquid comes up my esophagus and I taste him in my mouth again.
He smiles, his braids shake as he skips around the quad,
he slaps a teammate on the ass, grabs a piece of chalk and writes
“we are here for you.”
By Raihana Haynes-Venerable
“I was drugged at the football house” the white girl
whispered in my communal living space, smell of weed
emanating from the hotboxed bathroom on the side of the kitchen
there are no tears but pain seeps through her pours
in beads of sweat that leak into the couch cushions --
previously stained by unanswered questions, hormones, blackouts.
I remember how he pushed my head down,
palmed my skull like a football
the taste of his cum and my stomach acid
held between my cheeks,
in the bathroom there are no tears
“I was drugged at the football house” she says again
and I wonder if this couch trapped similar secrets.
She was the first to approach me — over ten more
came forward later, we had a meeting
in a classroom where I sit on the floor as women
replay their own personal horror stories
for a room full of people too ashamed to look
in eachothers eyes,
midway through two football players walk in
say, “we want to help” say, “we think its wrong”
say, “what can we do” — I am hesitant to
speak because I am only anger.
The players are Black, I know them well enough
they are freshmen not much power — yet
change is slow, a professor in the room explains
“this has persisted for twenty five years”
the men want us to find solutions to problems
they are more equipped to solve
the women are still mourning what has been stripped
from them, from the women sitting next to them,
from the women outside the room.
I speak with one of the players alone in the
classroom after everyone else has left,
a strong voice indeed, kind mild mannered
Southern Christian man, I am only a few years
his senior but there is no authority here
“druggin’ girls? that’s some white boy shit” he says with a stern seriousness,
he is confident in his conviction
that somehow Black men are immune to misogyny.
When do we stop looking at the few rotten apples
and begin to examine the roots of the whole God damn orchard?
A week later the football team and Project S.A.F.E
chalk the quad with platitudes, a phallic hopscotch sketch,
“solidarity” - “trust” - “survivors” scattered on concrete
so visible, so vocal, a ploy to be witnessed
when I see him, I can feel my stomach churn, seeking an escape,
liquid comes up my esophagus and I taste him in my mouth again.
He smiles, his braids shake as he skips around the quad,
he slaps a teammate on the ass, grabs a piece of chalk and writes
“we are here for you.”
