On 8 Mile by Steve Johnson
On 8 Mile
People drive by in their sedans and minivans,
segregated and separated,
listening to the symphony of disruption that they consider to be their lives,
inescapably tethered to it by their blue tooth headsets.
They zoom by curbside cemetaries without blinking.
They look over into the cars next to them and see their own reflection,
So they see no one
0n 8 Mile
Teenagers walk home from school.
Laughing and talking without a care in the world.
The world knows that the odds are against them,
Their brown skin housing a history that has only begun to be revealed to them
Like a memory that they’ve always known and felt, but have somehow forgotten.
On 8 Mile
People beaten blue-black bask at bus stops, sometimes striding in Blues rhythm,
hiding hope in their pockets because like Gil Scott it’s been Winter in America since they dismounted the slave ships,
So the hope they hide is the flame that keeps them warm in this blizzard even when they forget it’s there.
On 8 Mile
Some of the people holding cardboard signs may be on some of your favorite Motown songs.
On 8 Mile
There are spots of coney islands and liquor stores, like spots on a dalmation.
On 8 Mile
Corey took me to the end of the earth, where 8 mile ended, past the street lights where in endless black I watched where lake saint Claire coughed up the moon
On 8 Mile
Dream cruisers sit in lawn chairs watching vitinage camaro’s fly by like they’re equipped with wings.
They see a lone Delorean on the street and wonder if John has returned with Michael J Fox in passenger seat, in the back seat Christopher Lloyd over-exaggerating in a lab coat
On 8 Mile
While in the seventh grade my heart was racing as I took Adrien into the alley behind her back yard,
I asked her to close her eyes… when she did, I sheepishly planted a kiss on her cheek and experienced heaven at the age of eleven
On 8 Mile
Right now someone is standing at an overpass on 75
watching cars frantically weave in and out of traffic,
rushing because of being trapped in their reality of life being drastic.
They take a deep breath and remember Black Bottom.
On 8 Mile
My grandfather hopped a trolley down Woodward to Northern High school where my grandmother cruised past her classmate Smokey Robinson to him, to take his hand, to create a family, this future
On 8 Mile
In the 1950s my late uncle Clyde ventured into pool halls that he was too young to enter
and listened to stories from men who took to the streets to survive,
doing whatever they could to stay afloat
because sinking does more than make you sea sick,
they saw themselves holding up future generations of their families like Atlas,
above the flood, it’s only a natural disaster in the ghetto
On 8 Mile
Inside Baker’s Lounge fingertips dance over ebony and ivory keys while a voice is crying out.
We call it entertainment,
when we vicariously sit and witness
the victory of the spirit over the limitations of our own humanity
On 8 Mile
There’s a wall that still stands today
that used to separate whites from blacks.
My own eyes have washed over it.
Since before 1967 we’ve erected this wall in our minds
cemented on the bedrock of our fears…
the future that we’re living into imprisoned for years,
a wall more fierce than berlin because you continue to carry it,
Suburban families refuse to return because of the fear of theft and violence, and
Urban people don’t venture past the township for fear of sirens, and bruises from the badge and baton
On 8 Mile
On a Saturday afternoon, men, women, and children gather in representation of a movement that breaks the stereotypes of fear, apathy, violence, and neglect.
They are breaking bread and breaking the cycle,
shaking hands and dancing and reuniting.
Because the past is not “just the way it is”
Because history is not our story
Because we have built pyramids and the model T
So we make a declaration right now to build our future here together
Because shifting the collective mindset of an entire region is a monumental task worthy of the people next to you right now.
Because we realize there’s truly nothing that separates us…
no black, no white, no republicans, no democrats, and no independents
And Because
it has been much too long
I guess we should build a bridge…
On 8 Mile.
Steve Johnson is an educator and entrepreneur born and raised in Detroit. He has been a published poet since his late teens and has experience in video/film production. During his college years at Wayne State University, he coupled his passion for the arts with his devotion for helping people and began a journey in entrepreneurship. He currently has a company that promotes Urban Ballroom dancing on an international scale and is building others.