Assimilation

My mother has no idea

where I went during temple.

There was a secret door behind the small chapel;

it led to Blockbuster—

I ate Sour Patch Watermelons during all eighteen

of my classmates' Bar Mitzvahs.

Nobody could find me.

I hard armpits that grew payos before my face could.

I pulled them out; Scotch-taped them to my cheeks,

never showed anyone the pictures.

I wore it on my chest;

a star tucked into an undershirt

in a middle school locker room.

I kicked my way through the hallways,

saved allowance for an entire year

to buy my first pair: Air Force One mid-tops.

I walked through the holy sanctuary

like a duck;

my shoelaces were anchors.

I had friends who knew who I was

Jewish, just

wanted to know I was black first.

I tucked my yarmulke into my suit pocket

every Saturday

before my friends gave me daps

on my walk home.

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Integration

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My grandfather treated his Jamaica

like an accent

he taught my father to not use,

tucked his shirt in each morning—

his corporate uniform a pristine onyx,

not a wrinkle until he was back in his own bedroom.

My grandfather came to this country

a pumice stone, slapped the island

off of my father's tongue.

He polished my father until the neighourhood

could see its reflection in his black shining skin;

smoothed every aperture, filled each pore.

My grandfather never went back over the water.

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"Assimilation" and "Integration" are two poems from Samuels collection of work  Yarmulkes & Fitted Caps.