They considered you a throw away, a mishap, a mistake, an ironic story in your parents little black book of drunken nights and broken condoms. Every time you inhaled, they seemed to apologize to the trees for your taking of oxygen. They wanted you small and tucked away, they wanted you like them. You weren't built like them though. You'd had a lot more cuts and scrapes and bruises and rust--- almost none of it self inflicted yet the good Christians refused to show compassion. You were a product of your circumstances, yet they made you an unfortunate result of your choices; but I loved you anyway. I loved you when you told me who you'd hurt and just how you did it. I loved you when you didn't know how to love yourself. I loved you when you were so vile that you didn't deserve to be loved. When you proved them right. When you made the wrong choices. When you ruined your life and mine. I loved you through a cell, I loved you over the phone and over distances less traveled. I loved you when you didn't want me to. I loved you more than I loved myself and that may be my biggest regret. But in you I saw hope and vitality and youth and love and even when you were selfish and even when you were surly and unkind I saw the good in you. You taught me to love. You showed me that I deserved love. You released butterflies in my stomach. You gave me my first kiss. You gave me my last kiss. Your lips were pillow soft and your hands were rough and calloused but they felt like hard earned love. I remember tracing your scars with my fingers hearing the story behind each of them wishing I could take away the hurt and the pain and the environment that created them all but knowing without it you wouldn't be you. Maybe I was selfish too. Maybe you were rebellion. You were too old and too fast but I know the love was real. Sometimes I feel like I dreamt it. Like you never really existed but then I remember the day we laid you to rest how your mother screamed that could not be imagined. The pastor said that day that you were an angel sent down from heaven and now that your duty was done you were going to ascend to be with your father. I pray that is where you are now. I pray that He saw the good in you too. I pray that your family has found peace. I pray that I may one day find peace. I am grateful to have known you blessed to have loved you. Even though our time was cut short I know that even in the afterlife our love reigns supreme. That there are angels writing poems about our forbidden affair. Folklore being shared about the star crossed lovers who found mercy in each other. I will never let them forget you. They have buried your body but not your memory. I will continue to utter your name with a sad smile playing on my lips. I won't ever forget you. Your memory will walk among us. You will be honored like a fallen soldier. I love and miss you so much. Everyday I wish you were here and that I could share these things with you. I cannot wish to go back in time because things were perfect in the snapshot of history that we are able to call ours. I hope that you remember it as fondly as I do. I hope that you remember me.
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I have had quite a turn around academically within my first two weeks of classes at my HBCU. First, I changed my major to African American Studies which is clearly where my real passion lies. Also, I have decided that the only television I will be watching for the rest of this calendar year will be educational in some form or fashion. To start this journey, I went to the documentary section of Netflix and stumbled upon Bob Marley's biographical documentary. The film was brilliant and followed his entire life. It detailed his personal life and followed his career as he rose to stardom leading to his untimely death. The movie was engaging in almost every facet but the part that interested me most, and is the motivation behind this post particularly is something that the movie said perplexed Marley himself. The question was posed by the film's interviewer to one of Marley's band members. "Is there any one group that you feel like you didn't reach?" Without hesitation, he responded "African Americans." Black Americans as a whole never rode the Bob Marley wave, and this shocked me. The movie commented on how his American concerts were filled with nearly all white crowds every time. This peculiar fact perplexed me and this is an open letter from me to a man that created his own genre of music spreading love and positivity world wide.
Dear Bob Marley, On behalf of Black America I would first like to apologize. I am sorry for our ignorance, our lack of recognition to genius and brilliance, but I would also like to explain. You rose to prominence at a time in African American history where were satiated. The mid 70's were the height of your career, 10 years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The 1970's were the first time that the term "affirmative action" had been used in it's current capacity, to "level the playing field" for African Americans. Graduate programs went out of their way in search for Black applicants, in fact, The University of California at Davis dedicated 16% of its medical school admission spots to minority applicants. More and more jobs were becoming integrated, and many neighborhoods and communities continued efforts to integrate public school systems. Mainstream media at the time furthered the alleged progress as Blacks were becoming seen more on television, being featured in shows and commercials. I believe that during this time many Blacks were satisfied with how far they'd come and you sung words of freedom and liberty that White America had convinced us we'd already attained. Your music looked to uplift and unite Blacks in your own homeland while we were trying to fall into the folds of White American culture, and blend into the background of the tapestry that White America had created. While you preached power we were attempting to mold ourselves into who they wanted us to become. We were square pegs attempting to play contortionists to the round holes of their perceptions of who we should be. We'd finally gained the acceptance we'd been longing for since our voyages across the Atlantic. We simply could not support a rabble rouser at that time, and for that I am truly sorry. In our minds, our cowardice would've behooved us, made us more likable, less threatening, less Black. In 2016 we've learned that contrary to our beliefs, America may not be so star spangled awesome. Today, as our young Black men and women are being shot down and killed in the streets, we know that we may no longer sit idly by and watch it. Your music is now an anthem to a movement that unfortunately you are not here to behold. Your music was an original Black Lives Matter campaign, every song woven with love and unity. Your music has and will continue to inspire African American artists in a number of genres who strive to create music that matters and inspires. Reggae perpetuated love and unity, something we need more than ever in this day and age and for that we are forever indebted. Thank you for your art, your work, and your love. Annie Moore If you read my last post, you know that I work at a small, Christian summer camp. The other day, I was asked to help lead worship. Worship is something done nightly before bed, we gather around a fire and sing songs and then hear a message that incorporates the theme of the day. I said I would gladly help out and I heard someone behind me chuckle. Jokingly, one of the higher-ups (the chuckler) said "yes Annie, show us how to do worship your way" and laughed like it was the most outlandish thing he'd ever said. Now, we'd talked in the past casually about how at my home church we sung some of the same songs but had our own variations. But, he said it as a joke. The thought of me and all my blackness standing in front of the group and teaching them some of my music in the way that I know to worship was so ridiculous, so ludicrous that it was something to be mocked and ridiculed. The fact that I worship God using the beats of my African ancestors' drum is not worthy of being shared. The way that I clap my hands and stomp my feet in reverence of my God is not good enough. My praise, of negro spirituals and hymns of passion is not something that he can easily relate to because 150 years ago his people were not objects to be owned. You see, a thing as dark as slavery is something that only a praise dance and a hymn sung from the depths of the diaphragm of the African diaspora can see you through. Music is in my blood. In my culture we express our sorrows and triumphs through song. We put our thoughts and feelings to music as we were once told not to read or write so we belted out lyrics inspired by our love of the motherland and our hopes to one day see freedom. Today, I still have those hopes. During the civil rights movement we marched to the beat of our own drum as we peacefully protested injustices. How dare he? Act as if my praise was not good enough, something to be laughed at. I will shout and sing from the rooftops about how good my God has been any and every way that I know how, and just because the melody and tune of my praise may not fit the Eurocentric standards of worship does not mean God does not hear my cries. I will not make my self smaller or less loud in worship to make you feel more comfortable. I will not clap off beat and lose the rhythm in the sway of my body as I give glory to the Most High to fit in with the white way, I mean the right way. I will praise God the way my mother praises God and her mother before that and Harriet Tubman and Martin Luther King, and while I'm at it, I'll be sure not to belittle others for the way that they worship. One day, when the Glory comes, it will be ours, it will be ours.
Last week, my boss' mom was in the office. She is a breeder of poodles. She had a new midnight black, short-haired, female pup who apparently was going through her second adolescent "fear impact" period. We all greeted the young dog in excitement and crowded around her. I am one of two African American employees at my job, the other was not around. The older woman, my boss' mother, hollered across the room at me "can you pet her?" I'm not normally that comfortable around dogs I don't know so I guess she sensed my hesitation. In the spirit of encouragement she said "she's never met a black person before, I want to see how she reacts." With those words I think I experienced a "fear impact" period. I was put into a cage to fist fight my equal counterpart to the death like my Mandingo ancestors. I was chained and told to get on all fours, my knuckles beating against gravel like the monkey I was. I was Henrietta Lacks, my rights taken away, petted and prodded for the love of science and experimentation. This may seem dramatic and in the depths of my own psyche, I thought I may have been over reacting so I stayed silent and petted the head of the damn dog and when I did, and when the dog responded positively, she stood, in shock. She beamed a bright smile full of whitish teeth and said "she likes you! She likes you! She's so happy to have finally met someone her color!!" I work at a Christian summer camp, as a lifeguard on a lake, so yes, I have gotten tan. The sun has called the ghosts of ex slaves and former queens and kings to sit atop my skin and make my mahogany richer, and darker, and fuller, more robust. My skin glows. But, this dog, was as dark as the cargo deck of a slave ship at night, as dark as the deepest depths of the ocean that ship traveled across as dark as the forest those same slaves would run through at midnight for hundreds and thousands of miles in hope of freedom. And yet again, I thought, I was being compared to an animal. The likes of me. A purebred poodle puppy, well wasn't I lucky? That was my purpose wasn't it? I was put on earth to make a dog more comfortable? My skin was so dark so that an animal could feel kinship to me? Again I thought, "maybe I'm overreacting" but I then thought about the times when I've had people that I called my friends ask me to "talk ghetto," or to show them the latest hip hop dance move. Then I thought of how she expected the dog to be afraid of me, and realized that she may have some merit behind her thought process; because we know that Trayvon Martin's killer was afraid of him and Eric Garner's of him and Rekia Boyd's of her. Emmett Till's murderers were afraid that at only 14 years old his dark mahogany skin and charming black man smile would take their woman and then maybe their lives so he was made equal to animals-- lynched and then fed to expecting gators, because you see, In the antebellum south, gators had filling diets. Took in more calories than 100 negroes combined-- they ate black children. Although Emmett Till's death was not in the antebellum south, it was in what was supposed to be The United States of America-- home of the free, because of the brave. So I then realized maybe her surprise was valid. The fact that her dog saw me as just another human being was both shocking and amazing, the fact that she did not cower in fright was a world wonder. Don't tell me that all lives matter. My life doesn't matter in this country, in this society I am fighting for the right to exist every single day without being compared to a dog. Everyday young black men fight to survive period. They fight to get home when pulled over by cops who are made to feel uncomfortable and unsafe because of their blackness, the color of their skin is where all the danger lies. I don't think we get around to addressing the content of their character until the memorial service. My ancestors were 3/5 of people and generations after them boycotted buses and sat at lunch counters and now we march. Do not silence my cry or belittle my struggle because my purebred, short-haired, dark as night cousin and I are not having it. I am more than kin to a dog, I come from the strongest group of people on the planet and I will continue the struggle, I will continue to fight for us. Black Lives do Matter, and we will show you just how much.
Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. pioneered the Civil Rights Movement for Blacks in America from about 1954 until his untimely death in 1968. Martin Luther King Jr. has gone down in history as one of the world’s greatest leaders, preachers, teachers, and orators. He has given some of the most moving speeches in American history. He is also known for his great written works, many in the form of sermons. Among these, is his infamous Letter from Birmingham Jail, written on April 16, 1963. 1963 was a busy year in American history, Martin Luther King Jr. gave his famous “I Have a Dream” speech during the height of the civil rights movement, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and as a country, we witnessed the beginnings of Beatlemania. These are just some of the events that make 1963 one of the most memorable years in U.S. history. Martin Luther King Jr. was jailed 30 times throughout the civil rights movement. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Letter from Birmingham Jail, originally written on scraps of newspaper, was written as a response to a group of clergymen. A group of eight clergymen from Alabama wrote Dr. King while he was incarcerated in Birmingham, essentially requesting that he delay civil rights demonstrations in Birmingham. He responded with one of the most moving messages in history, and his words, changed the course of history forever. Written within the four cement walls of a cell, on a scrap of newspaper, Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail is one of the most dynamic pieces of literature ever, and is still read and analyzed in schools today. Through his use of eloquent language, a forthright tone, and lyrical syntax he expressed the plight of the 1960’s negro in hopes of exemplifying why he could not wait for justice, why the fight had to move forward. After the clergymen write Dr. King essentially asking him to leave Birmingham, and to not stir up trouble in their territory, Dr. King responds by telling them why he’s there. He says that he is in Birmingham because that’s where injustice is. He then writes one of his most infamous lines, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” He expresses that he cannot sit idly by in Atlanta while his people are being oppressed in Birmingham. He also writes that “Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.” He is saying, that contrary to common belief, America is his home, and he is here because he has the right to be here. He refers to the fact that the injustice in Birmingham left the Negro community with no alternative but to fight back. He goes on to list more reasons why Birmingham is his current focus, he discusses how Birmingham had the highest concentration unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches. He then writes about how he tried to negotiate, and he was left with broken promises. This past Thanksgiving, Black Friday sales dropped by over 11%, and this could be attributed to many different nationwide economic factors, but most speculate that it is the result of African Americans boycotting the shopping extravaganza after the acquittal of Officer Darren Wilson.Officer Wilson shot and killed black teen, Michael Brown in Ferguson Missouri August of 2014. These tactics originated with Dr. King, as a form of peaceful protest. Dr. King goes on to say that he has to create tension and discomfort in order to spark change and growth. Dr. King proposes that maybe it is easier for those who are not suffering to say “wait”. Dr. King then uses vivid language and description to paint a picture in the clergymen’s mind’s eye of what blacks have gone through in this country. As African Americans, then and now, it is very meet, right, and in our bounden duty that we should at all times and in all places disobey unjust laws. Dr. King disobeyed the laws because they were unjust, unfair, and morally wrong in the sight of not only those with a conscience but God as well. Dr. King lets them know that his actions are not extreme, but necessary. Dr. King makes a bold move when he challenges the church to step up and play its part in ending segregation or face God and answer why they didn’t. He says that he is “profoundly troubled” by that fact that his fellow clergymen commended the Birmingham police force on keeping peaceful Negro protestors in order. He says that he is inclined to believe that they would revoke that commendation if they saw how the vicious police dogs tore at the flesh of innocent Negros. How dogs who see no color no race, religion, or socio economic status were trained and to attack innocent civilians, peacefully protesting based on the color of their skin. One day, in my first hour honors philosophy class, we were discussing the origination of human rights, and my teacher had us do an exercise in which we were asked to choose the human rights that we absolutely could not live without. Many of my peers chose the right to education, or the right to a fair trial. I go to school in Birmingham, Michigan. The Birmingham Public Schools District is one of the most highly acclaimed in the country, it is in a very affluent area, and it is 80% White. I consider myself blessed to be able to go to a school with a diverse racial demographic. However in class, we had to go around and say the right that we simply could not live without, and I said something different than everyone else in my class; I said that I could not live without the right to cultural, ethnic, and religious traditions. Dr. King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail is riddled with biblical allusions, Dr. King relied on the Lord’s guiding hand to direct his path. Rev. King’s favorite song was a hymn called “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” written by black gospel singer Tommy Dorsey after the consecutive deaths of his wife and new born baby boy. The chorus is “Precious Lord, take my hand lead me on, let me stand. I am tired, I am weak, I am lone. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand precious Lord, and lead me home.” Some consider this the theme song of the civil rights movement. This is why I value my right to my religious, cultural, and ethnic traditions, because as African Americans, our religion, and music and dance are the cuts that we bleed through. I don’t think that anyone else in the class chose that right as the one that they valued most because their ancestors had not been enslaved for over 400 years and stripped of everything but their beliefs, and music, and traditions. 30% of African slaves brought to the Americas did not survive the middle passage. Of those that did many died upon landing because their bodies were not equipped with the immunities to infection and diseases that were in America at the time. As a young African American woman I know that I come from the strongest most resilient people on the planet. They were stripped of everything and when they finally were freed they had no rights. We used our religious traditions and music and dance to get through some of history’s darkest times. Recently, the movie Selma was released in theaters, which chronicles Dr. King’s three month campaign for equal voting rights in Selma, Alabama. The story addresses the constant struggles and violent opposition that Dr. King and his associates faced when fighting for equal rights. Glory, the theme song of the movie by John Legend and Commons has a lyric that says “Now the war is not over, victory isn't won, but we'll fight on to the finish, and when it's all done; We'll cry glory, oh glory.” We have not come out of the darkness. We have made great strides, but we have not won, it is not finished. Dr. King started this fight and we must finish it. My ancestors were not brutally beaten and killed, stripped from their homes and families in vain. I will carry the torch, I will march on in place of our fallen soldiers. When we truly reach victory, when equality for all no matter the race, religion, gender, class, sexual orientation, or income is reached, I will cry glory, glory, glory halleluiah! Watch us walk, watch us move, watch us overcome. Listen to our voices, watch our sway. The resilience. The innovation. The raw, unfiltered and untouched soul. How is it that you can disrespect my ethnicity when we've influenced nearly every facet of white America. From our music, to our style of dress. Not to mention your basic imitation of our sense of cool; walk, talk, dress, mannerisms. We enrich your very existence, all the while contributing to the gross national product through our achievements in corporate America. It's these conceits that comfort me when I am faced with the ignorant, cowardly, bitter and bigoted, who have no talent, no guts, and no originality. People, who desecrate things they don't understand when the truth is - you should say thank-you. |