The Bridge Poem

I’ve had enough
I’m sick of seeing and touching
Both sides of things
Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody

Nobody
Can talk to anybody
Without me Right?

I explain my mother to my father my father to my little sister
My little sister to my brother my brother to the white feminists
The white feminists to the Black church folks the Black church folks
To the Ex-hippies the ex-hippies to the Black separatists the
Black separatists to the artists the artists to my friends’ parents…

Then
I’ve got the explain myself
To everybody

I do more translating
Than the Gawdamn U.N.

Forget it
I’m sick of it

I’m sick of filling in your gaps

Sick of being your insurance against
The isolation of your self-imposed limitations
Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners
Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches
Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people

Find another connection to the rest of the world
Find something else to make you legitimate
Find some other way to be political and hip

I will not be the bridge to your womanhood
Your manhood
Your human-ness

I’m sick of reminding you not to
Close off too tight for too long

I’m sick of mediating with your worst self
On behalf you your better selves

I am sick
Of having to remind you
To breathe
Before you suffocate
Your own fool self

Forget it
Stretch or drown
Evolve or die

The bridge I must be
Is the bridge to my own power
I must translate
My own fears
Mediate
My own weaknesses

I must be the bridge to nowhere
But my true self
And then
I will be useful

    From: This Bridge Called My Back. Edited by: Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua

El poema del puente

Estoy cansada
Estoy harta de ver y de tocar
los dos lados de las cosas
Harta de ser el puente para todo el mundo

Nadie
puede hablar con nadie
sin mi ayuda ¿no?

Le explico mi mamá a mi papá mi papá a mi hermanita

mi hermanita a mi hermano mi hermano a las feministas blancas

las feministas blancas a la gente negra de la iglesia

la gente negra de la iglesia

a los ex hippies los ex hippies a los separatistas negros

los separatistas negros a los artistas

los artistas a los padres de mis amigos…

Después me tengo que explicar a mí misma
a todo el mundo

Traduzco más
que las Naciones Unidas

Déjenme de joder
Estoy harta

Estoy harta de llenarles los espacios en blanco

Harta de ser su seguro contra
el aislamiento de las limitaciones que ustedes mismos se imponen
Harta de ser la loca en las fiestas
Harta de ser la rara en el almuerzo del domingo
Harta de ser la única amiga negra de 34 personas blancas

Búsquense otra conexión con el resto del mundo
Búsquense a otra que los haga sentirse legítimos
Búsquense otra manera de ser politizados y cool

No pienso ser el puente a su feminidad
a su masculinidad
a su humanidad

Estoy harta de recordarles que no se cierren
mucho por demasiado tiempo

Estoy harta de mediar con la peor versión de ustedes
en nombre de sus mejores versiones 

Estoy harta
de tener que recordarles
que respiren
antes de ahogarse
en su propia estupidez

Olvídense
Amóldense o ahóguense
Evolucionen o muéranse

El puente que tengo que ser
es el puente a mis propias fuerzas
Tengo que traducir
mis propios miedos
Mediar con
mis propias debilidades

Tengo que ser el puente a ninguna parte
salvo a la que soy de verdad
y ahí sí
voy a ser útil

The Tired Poem

Last Letter
From A Typical
Unemployed
Black Professional
Woman

So it’s a gorgeous afternoon in the park
It’s so nice you forget our Attitude
The one your mama taught you
The one that says Don’t-Mess-With-Me
You forget until you hear all this
Whistling and lip smacking
You whip around and say
I ain’t no damn dog
It’s a young guy
His mouth drops open
Excuse me Sister
How you doing
You lie and smile and say
I’m doing good
Everything’s cool Brother

Then five minutes later
Hey you Sweet Devil
Hey Girl come here
You tense sigh calculate
You know the lean boys and bearded men
Are only cousins and lovers and friends
Sometimes when you say Hey
You get a beautiful surprised smile
Or a good talk

And you’ve listened to your uncle when he was drunk
Talking about how he has to scuffle to get by and
How he’d wanted to be an engineer
And you talk to Joko who wants to be a singer and
Buy some clothes and get a house for his mother
The Soc. and Psych. books say you’re domineering
And you’ve been to enough
Sisters-Are-Not-Taking-Care-Of-Business discussions
to know where you went wrong
It’s decided it had to be the day you decided to go to school
Still you remember the last time you said hey
So you keep on walking
What you to good to speak
Don’t nobody want you no way

You go home sit on the front steps listen to
The neighbor boy brag about
How many girls he has pregnant
You ask him if he’s going to take care of the babies
And what if he gets taken to court
And what are the girls going to do
He has pictures of them all
This real cute one was supposed to go to college
dumb broad knew she could get pregnant
I’ll just say it’s not mine
On the back of this picture of a girl in a cap and gown
It says something like
I love you in my own strange way
Thank you

Then you go in the house
Flip through a magazine and there is
An-Ode-To-My-Black-Queen poem
The kind where the Brother
Thanks all of the Sisters Who Endured
Way back when he didn’t have his Shit Together
And you have to wonder where they are now
And you know what happens when you try to resist
All of this Enduring
And you think how this
Thank-you poem is really
No consolation at all
Unless you believe
What the man you met on the train told you
The Black man who worked for the State Department
And had lived in five countries
He said Dear
You were born to suffer
Why don’t you give me your address
and I’ll come visit

So you try to talk to your friend
About the train and the park and everything
And how it all seems somehow connected
And he says
You’re just a Typical Black Professional Woman
Some sisters know how to deal
Right about here
Your end of the conversation phases out
He goes on to say how
Black Professional Women have always had the advantage
You have to stop and think about that one
Maybe you are supposed to be grateful for those sweaty
Beefy-faced white businesmen who try to
Pick you up at lunchtime
And you wonder how many times your friend had
Pennies thrown at him
How many times he’s been felt up in the subway
How many times he’s been cussed out on the street
You wonder how many times he’s been offered
$10 for a piece of himself

$10 for a piece
So you’re waiting for the bus
And you look at this young Black man
Asking if you want to make some money
You look at this young Black man
Asking if you want to make some money
You look at him for a long time
You imagine the little dingy room
It would take twenty minutes or less
You only get $15 for spending all day with thirty kids
Nobody is offering you
Any cash for your poems
You remember again how you have the advantage
How you’re not taking care of business
How this man is somebody’s kid brother or cousin
And could be your own
So you try to explain how $10 wouldn’t pay for
What you’d have to give up
He pushes a handful of sticky crumpled dollars
Into your face and says

Why not
You think I can’t pay
Look at that roll
Don’t tell me you don’t need the money
Cause I know you do
I’ll give you fifteen

You maintain your sense of humor
You remember a joke you heard
Well no matter what
A Black Woman never has to starve,
Just as long as there are
Dirty toilets and…
It isn’t funny
Then you wonder if he would at least
Give you the money
And not beat you up
But you’re very cool and say
No thanks
You tell him he should spend his time
Looking for someone he cares about
Who cares about him
He waves you off
Get outta my face
I don’t have time for that bullshit
You blew it Bitch

Then
(Is it suddenly)
Your voice gets loud
And fills the night street
Your voice gets louder and louder
Your bus comes
The second-shift people file on
The security guards and nurse’s aides
Look at you like you’re crazy
Get on the damn bus
And remember
You blew it
He turns away
Your bus pulls off
There is no one on the street but you

And then
It is
Very Quiet

Going to Canada

In Quebec Canada , Mommy and I climb up to
St. Anne De Bow-Pray on our knees
praying the prayer on the sign on each step.
The alter is a mountain of braces and crutches
thrown away by the healed people.

Daddy lets us stop at the restaurant.
I ask Mommy if they have French food.
Green cheese? The waitress asks.
Green cheese?

The big hotel room is all fringes
patterns, textures, carved tables and chairs.
I think Europe must be like this.
The chambermaid picks up my Tiny Tears doll.
She wears a uniform like in the movies
and asks me questions in French.
I understand exactly what she is saying, but
I’m not sure how to answer.
I look at my mother who smiles and says go on. . .

On our way out of town Dad stops for gas;
one giant, squeaky balloon, free, with a fill-up.
Mommy, can you tell me what to say:
Uh baa-luh-see-vou-play.
The balloon shrivels before the next bathroom stop.
Uh-baa-luh-see-vou-play

Mt. Zion

After funerals, everyone goes berserk:
they sell the rings, hide the policies, dig up
the money jar, stiff the undertaker,
toss the antique child’s rocker, the ceramic
pie plates, and the tintypes of all our Indian
ancestors. They kill the roses, disown in-laws
and second spouses, chain the Doberman
to the mimosa, refuse to reveal the cole slaw
recipe, cuss out the woman preacher, junk
the upright piano, and the glass and cherry bookcase.
They unbolt the door for the copper plumbing crooks,
swipe The Bible, and lose the house to taxes.

I lean on the oak at Mt. Zion , hoard
pencils and Christmas cards, avoid doctors,
take pictures I won’t ever develop

Donna Kate Rushin, conocida como Kate Rushin (Lawnside, New Jersey, EE.UU., 1951). Poeta lesbiana negra. Su poema prefacio, «The Bridge Poem», de la colección de 1981 This Bridge Called My Back, es considerado un icono.

Rushin se crió en Lawnside, Nueva Jersey. Obtuvo una licenciatura en Artes del Oberlin College y una maestría en Bellas Artes de la Universidad de Brown. Fue becaria del Centro de Trabajo de Bellas Artes de Provincetown y becaria de posgrado de la Fundación Cave Canem. En 2021, se convirtió en poeta residente en el Departamento de Inglés del Connecticut College.

Kate Rushin es autora de The Black Back-Ups (Firebrand Books) finalista del Premio Lambda Book. Su poema «The Bridge Poem» aparece en This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, una innovadora antología feminista editada por Cherríe Moraga y Gloria E. Anzaldúa.

Residente de Connecticut, Kate ha impartido clases en el Festival de Poesía Sunken Garden del Museo Hill-Stead, el Festival de Poesía Geraldine Dodge y el Centro de Poesía del Smith College, entre muchos otros lugares, y ha impartido talleres para el Instituto Omega de Estudios Holísticos y la Fundación Cave Canem. Ha sido jurado del Premio de Jóvenes Escritores de la Universidad Estatal de Connecticut-IMPAC, del Concurso de Poesía Estudiantil del Circuito de Poesía de Connecticut y del programa Poetry Out Loud de la NEA/Fundación de Poesía.

Además de producir y presentar “The Women’s Talk Show,” en WRBB-Northeastern University, colaboró ​​en la producción de programas de radio para la Radio Comunitaria de Mujeres de Boston y la emisión de radio del Día Internacional de la Mujer en WMBR-MIT.

Galardonada con el Premio de Poesía Rose Low Rome Memorial y el Premio de Poesía Grolier, su obra ha sido incluida en numerosas antologías y publicada en revistas como Callaloo.

Kate Rushin cree que las palabras realmente importan y, como nos enseña Audre Lorde,«la poesía no es un lujo».

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