I sometimes smell smoke. The sweet smoke of lives and livelihoods as they dissipate down the stark and tired hallways of history. Something like the smokes of Rosewood Florida, where 6 or more Black people were murdered in 1923.
I sometimes see fires burning and the ghosts of lives not realized emerge from these fires. The ghost of daddy’s little girls and dolls not played with scream at me to not let them forget. My ears ring from the reverb of bombs not seen, but louder still are the voices of four little girls, in a church, in Birmingham, Alabama in 1963.
I sometimes feel the pain of families that have vanished for no reason other than for the fact that they were families. The pride of lives built from the ashy, dryness of hate and spite sprout to meet the heavens and the heavens they met. Noontime clocks rang tea time and Black hands held tea cups on a Black street called Wall. Not to be outdone white hands held weapons and the power of privilege could not look into Black eyes as equal. Tulsa, Oklahoma 68 Black people killed.
I sometimes hear doors slamming and see iron bars that trap Black souls that are only suspects. In this land of the free, freedom is relative and no kin me. I am a Black man and I am guilty until proven more guilty. This new slavery hasn’t caught me yet, but I grow tired and my stride grows weak. In Amerika, they have locked up right now more than two million people and most look like me.
I feel sorry for the people of Columbine and the people of Virginia Tech. I want to hurt for the people of Aurora and the children of Sandy Hook will be okay.
I would send my heart out to all the people who have lost in this time, but my heart already went out and it never returned.
December 25, 2012
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