"Remembering the Old 8th Ward"
During the month of February, students from Marshall Math Science Academy wrote poems dedicated to the people who once lived in the Old Eighth Ward. The Eighth Ward was a small, thriving community where 36% of Harrisburg’s African-American population once lived in 1910. However in 1917, nearly all of the Eighth Ward residents were displaced from their homes to create space for the new Capitol Park that still stands today. Retracing the streets of the Old Eighth Ward, Marshall students toured Capital Park behind Pennsylvania’s Capital Building, tracking where businesses and homes once were. As part of our tour, each student received a profile of a resident from the Eighth Ward, created through 1910 census data including a resident’s name, occupation, race, age, number of roommates and more, and asked to imagine life during the turn of the century. Through remembering the past, what it might have been like to live in the Old Eighth Ward, Marshall students revived what were buried voices in Harrisburg’s history.
Read Their Poems Below!
For more informationon Harrisburg's Old 8th Ward: http://www.old8thward.com/
What if I grow up to become a book writer?
Would anyone read me because of my skin color?
What if I grow up to become a musician?
Would I even have any fans because of my race?
What if I grow up to become a model?
I may impress my family, but would the whites think I was pretty?
For now, I’m stuck--a 14-year-old maid,
cleaning rooms for white girls whose dreams may come true.
But maybe, just maybe,
If I keep chasing my dreams, I can make them come true.
What if, papa had gotten the job at the plant,
And we wouldn’t have to move from the one place
I’ve ever known.
What if, mama came home early enough to tuck us in at night
Instead of us being greeted by the frost of winter.
What if I could go to school and learn like the white kids
Instead of being labeled a “colored”
Every time.
What if every time my sisters or brothers turn a corner
They wouldn’t be given dirty looks
Or told to do what we’re good at; serving white folk.
But that’s the thing
these are only “what if’s,”
those “hopes” will remain “hopes.”
They won’t ever come true.
I am not a failure
Waking up to the smell of fresh bread from the bakery
I make my way to the school for the kids
I greet my neighbors along the way;
young, old, black, white, Russian, Chinese,
we tell each other “have a good day!”
That afternoon the authorities knock on my door
Saying “Good evening Miss Braton, we are sorry to tell you,
you will be evicted from your house too.”
The time ticks as we try to get through,
And they force us to move,
seven people from one house!
Oh my, oh my, where will we find another?
Oh my, oh my, oh brother!
I’m the weed in the garden
I’m the thumb, not the finger
I want to be like everyone else, but all they see is my skin.
My colored friends look at me and think I’m perfect;
they look at me and just see my money.
I wish everyone was the same color,
then adults wouldn’t treat me special and the colored bad.
I’m the weed in the garden
I’m the thumb, not the finger
My folks tell me I’m no good,
cause I talk to the colored;
they say “They gonna trick you into the bad.”
I don’t believe them though.
I’m the weed in the garden
I’m the thumb, not the finger
I came from New York
thinking it would get better
All I know is it’s not much different here.
Everyday is a struggle, living with 5 other girls.
Fighting over the bathroom, fighting over food,
Rushing out the door to get to the shop on time.
I hurry past the bakery
Hearing the manager yell at the worker
And I check my pace – it makes me sad.
I look down and think
He is not a slave;
You cannot treat him like your dog.
He is not a side walk;
You can’t walk all over him.
I look up at the clouds
in the big blue sky
Hoping it will get better.
Guess I should keep hoping.