Explication of "On Being Told I Don't Speak Like a Black Person" by Allison Joseph

Most of what happens in regards to good art--especially writing--happens on a subconscious level. Because of this, I often hesitate to go line-by-line through a poem and explain what I think is happening because it kind of kills the magic of the piece. On the other hand, it's a great way to learn the magician's tricks so we can utilize them ourselves.  So let's take a look at the following poem by my friend and former teacher, Allison Joseph: 

On Being Told I Don't Speak like a Black Person (p. 95)

Emphasize the “h,” you hignorant ass,
was what my mother was told
when colonial-minded teachers
slapped her open palm with a ruler
in that Jamaican school room.
trained in England, they tried
to force their pupils to speak
like Eliza Doolittle after
her transformation, fancying themselves
British as Henry Higgins,
despite dark, sun-ripened skin.
Mother never lost her accent,
though, the music of her voice
charming everyone, an infectious lilt
I can imitate, not duplicate.
No one in the States told her
to eliminate the accent,
my high school friends adoring
the way her voice would lift
when she called me to the phone--

A-ll-i-son, it’s friend Cathy.
Why don’t you sound like her?
they’d ask. I didn’t sound
like anyone or anything,
no grating New York nasality,
no fastidious British mannerisms
like the ones my father affected
when he wanted to sell someone
something. And I didn’t sound
like a Black American,
college acquaintances observed,
sure they knew what a black person
was supposed to sound like.
Was I supposed to sound lazy,
dropping syllables here and there
not finishing words but
slurring the final letter 

so that each sentence joined 

the next, sliding past the listener?
Were certain words off limits,
too erudite for someone whose skin

came with a natural tan?
I asked them what they meant

and they stuttered, blushed,
said you know, Black English,
applying a term from that

semester's text. Does everyone

in your family speak alike, 

I'd ask, and they'd say don't

take this the wrong way,

nothing personal.

Now I realize there’s nothing
more personal than speech,
that I don’t have to defend
how I speak, how any person,
black, white, chooses to speak.
Let us speak. Let us talk
with the sounds of our mothers
and fathers still reverberating
in our minds, wherever our mothers
or fathers come from:
Arkansas, Belize, Alabama,
Brazil, Aruba, Arizona.
Let us simply speak
to one another,
listen and prize the inflections,
differences, never assuming
how any person will sound
until his mouth opens, until her

mouth opens, greetings welcome
in any language. 

OK, first, the obvious things: it's a poem addressing race, sure, but it's also addressing tension with family and friends, as well as the struggle to define--and defend--one's identity.  That's pretty weighty subject matter.  However, Joseph starts with a genius move: that is, she tells a joke.  Emphasize the “h,” you hignorant ass is kind of funny; it's also a bit different from the tone of the title.  So right off the bat, Joseph takes a risk with a high pay off: the title draws us in, the first line grabs our attention, and if we snicker, we quickly realize what she's talking about and probably feel guilty, thus we pay closer attention.

Also, take a look at how the line breaks flush out the double meaning of "ruler" in these lines:

when colonial-minded teachers
slapped her open palm with a ruler
in that Jamaican school room.

A few more great tricks.  Take a look at:

 Was I supposed to sound lazy,
dropping syllables here and there
not finishing words but
slurring the final letter
so that each sentence joined
the next, sliding past the listener?

See the comma after there?  No?  Well, that's because there isn't one.  Technically, though, there should be.  So leaving it off (whether Allison did this consciously or subconsciously) could fulfill a couple functions.  First, it adds a little tension by leaving off a bit of punctuation, thus speeding up those lines. Second, leaving off that comma could be seen as "lazy," thus it's mirroring--thus, defying--the insult of the previous line.  

Another thing.  After that, we have:

Were certain words off limits,
too erudite for someone whose skin

came with a natural tan?

See how erudite seems to be an example of a word that is "off limits," yet the poet's use of it resonates with subtle defiance?

Next, take a look at these lines:

no fastidious British mannerisms
like the ones my father affected
when he wanted to sell someone
something. And I didn’t sound
like a Black American,

Note that mid-clause break in line 3, which interrupts the flow of the sentence (another risk) but invokes the image of slavery, and all the horror and anxiety that comes with that word, while simultaneously putting a twist on it; the line refers to the poet's father.  Now, take a look at the next line; see how it ends on sound, not didn't? Obviously, the latter would have further emphasized the poet's distance from her father; however, perhaps subconsciously, Joseph decided not to do that (maybe for fear that it would over-emphasize that familial distance?).

One more line break to point out:

I'd ask, and they'd say don't

Technically, this line occurs when the friends are telling Joseph not to take offense at their fairly offensive questions; by breaking on don't, though, Joseph flushes out the ignorance/insecurity in their attitude, creating the image of their group immediately responding to her reasonable response by ordering her to keep quiet.

In her poetry, Allison Joseph demonstrates both fierceness and humor.  Her work (like Allison herself) resonates with intelligence, guts, and friendliness.  I encourage everyone to check out more of her work!