by Joe Amaral
Six minutes until game time
and the anthem is about to begin.
I’m afraid to kneel for inequality
in front of 11,000 drunk people
holding their hands half-heartedly
over hearts awaiting the start of
a collegiate soccer game where voice
rather than tangible action counts.
I want to avoid the hostile sneers of fans
awake in fake patriotism, ignorant to
police brutality. My kids follow the lead
of the crowd and stand. I ditch my family,
climbing concrete steps into the breeze-
way, my back to the flag, ducking into
a bathroom. The blood and soil floor is
piss-stained. I sort of kneel, listening as
the reverberation of a bad singer gravels
something antiquated and fragilely austere.
I feel for those going through the motions
dead-eyed. They know dutiful conformity
is an empty gesture unspoken. But a fist
in the air, a knee on the ground, now that
is no small token.
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| The large, bold woodcut image of a supplicant male slave in chains appears on the 1837 broadside publication of John Greenleaf Whittier's antislavery poem, "Our Countrymen in Chains." The design was originally adopted as the seal of the Society for the Abolition of Slavery in England in the 1780s, and appeared on several medallions for the society made by Josiah Wedgwood as early as 1787. —Library of Congress |
Six minutes until game time
and the anthem is about to begin.
I’m afraid to kneel for inequality
in front of 11,000 drunk people
holding their hands half-heartedly
over hearts awaiting the start of
a collegiate soccer game where voice
rather than tangible action counts.
I want to avoid the hostile sneers of fans
awake in fake patriotism, ignorant to
police brutality. My kids follow the lead
of the crowd and stand. I ditch my family,
climbing concrete steps into the breeze-
way, my back to the flag, ducking into
a bathroom. The blood and soil floor is
piss-stained. I sort of kneel, listening as
the reverberation of a bad singer gravels
something antiquated and fragilely austere.
I feel for those going through the motions
dead-eyed. They know dutiful conformity
is an empty gesture unspoken. But a fist
in the air, a knee on the ground, now that
is no small token.
Joe Amaral works 48-hour shifts as a paramedic on the central coast of California. He has two young daughters, Zelia and Rui, and his wife Marina is a surgical nurse. They love spelunking outdoors, camping, traveling and hosting foreign exchange students. His writing has appeared worldwide in awesome places like 3Elements Review, Arcadia Magazine, Crow Hollow 19, The Good Men Project, The Rise Up Review and Writers of the Portuguese Diaspora. Joe won the 2014 Ingrid Reti Literary Award.
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