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Nosagie Irorere ‘25

My piece centers on the conformity of an African-American woman changing herself to fit western standards. As she is walking down the street and through the neighborhood, she’s being looked upon as an outsider. To stop being looked upon as an outsider, she changes her clothing to fit the standards in the 1950’s.

I slave over your children

as my great-grandmother slaved over yours,

back scarred from lashings and teets sagged. 

Poorly mixed undigested peas and clotted milk

splatter on my white blouse, freshly pressed,

while you rush off to your clean office

in your clean, white world.

While I drown in the cycle of your privilege.

I am empty,

not a word, not a cry allowed —

one tear, and I become the dog

you’ve prepared a place for.

You watch me like a hawk.

Timing my breaks as I wrestle with my coils,

curls tight like the chains once binding my kin.

And I scrub the floors, careful not to corrupt

your pristine white space, your altar of cleanliness.

Your children don’t come to you

with their scrapes, their bruises.

They hobble to me, weak-kneed,

faces smeared with snot and shame.

I gather toys from their chaos —

A discarded cowboy hat,

the ruins of a half-hearted fort,

school papers unsigned, my name a disgrace.

Guardian? You threw a fit

when I dared sign my name,

not Ms. Roper, not nanny,

but your obedient bitch.

My own daughter looks at me with eyes of ice.

I spend more hours soothing your children

than I did my own flesh and blood.

She calls me Ms. Coon,

a bitter joke for a mother lost

tn a life of serving others.

I am a shadow in my own home,

a ghost who cleans your halls,

yearning for acknowledgment,

while my family fades from view.

Every payday, you hand me a check

with a name not my own — again.

A slip of paper with errors,

like when you swore I’d stolen

your china, your clothespin,

your hat, your fur slippers,

and, yes, the knives.

Always the knives,

screams of past betrayals.

I am the mammy of your dreams,

a relic of a past you pretend is gone,

bound by invisible chains,

the legacy of those who bled

with hands and hearts subdued.

In your world, I am just a caretaker,

a figure in the background,

while you sit in your ivory tower,

unaware of the weight of history

that drapes my shoulders like a boulder.

And still, I gather broken dreams

from the remnants of your children’s play,

sweeping up their laughter,

while my own heart-aches in silence.

No, I didn’t steal your knives,

I only sharpened them —

for the day when I will cut through

the chains that bind me

to a life of service and sorrow.

London Franklin ‘26

This piece is a persona poem from the point of view of a Black Caribbean nanny. I chose to write from this perspective to shed light on one of the ways slavery and bigotry continue to affect everyday life, especially those typically unnoticed. I took inspiration heavily from the “Mammy trope” and many multi-media pieces relating to the topic.