My Ancestors Woes
I fell asleep last night and my ancestor came to me in a dream and told me about something called hope.
He told me about his journey, he said that he was carried away from it, a powerful word because theirs strength in hope.
He said I sailed across the ocean in chains. Thinking of my children’s children I spoke words of wisdom before I came, now I speak words that aren’t my own, I speak a language that my people never spoke.
I look over to my neighbor and he looks to me for hope and all I can do is look away and just row. This endless exercise has me fit, skin and bones. My sisters are gone, on another boat maybe Ill see them again I hope.
I shed these tears internally because my brother sits in front of me, still holding on to what we call hope. My back is strong I carry this weighted world as if it’s weightless, this wooden globe this mayflower like vessel and steel around my neck that drags along.
The beautiful smell of my own has all but disappeared, and what I smell now is not mine, but of my neighbors neighbor and my neighbors neighbors waste, a fowl smelling cologne.
I picture home and it seems like a faded memory, we sit here bloodlines of kings and queens round up like sheep. This long voyage sits in our thrones as forgotten heritage, lost tribes and foreign words switched places in our dome.
Our minds are diluted and polluted into thinking that it’s our skin tone, and not the ways of this new home. I think of hope as a poisonous elixir that my neighbors have evoked. Hope has had my wife victimized and raped in front of me on its path of deadly woes.
My children’s children have been murdered in the streets, hanged by nooses tied from ropes. My grandchildren’s children, have all been in cotton fields on plantations beaten by my “masta” for not meeting the days quote.
They demoralize my kin breaking him in, this black buck is this “masters” Grand Joke. My children’s great grand children fought in wars for “freedom” something that my children’s children could never know.
They died for forty acres and a mule, for something called, hope. My children’s great grandchildren were introduced to Jim Crow, laws and color lines of segregation, so they created their own. A flourishing civilization of “black Wall Street” Tulsa Oklahoma a place they could rest their heads in peace, a small token of hope.
Like a thief in the night the fires rose, genocide took my people’s souls 3,000 of my kin folk died in a night where bombs dropped from the air and exploded, hope. My grandchildren’s great grandchildren, walked in lines next to their brothers and sisters ready to fight for rights that were suppose to be for every man and woman. Born rights not given to man by laws on a piece of paper that tells me something that I already know.
I am a free man and I’ve always been it was the white man who didn’t know. So they Set bombs in Montgomery Alabama at 16th street that killed those 4 little girls, murderers in the cold. The blood of my people run in this countries roads.
My people set foot on soil that wasn’t our own just to march down Calvary Road, freedom movements that brought my people something called hope. Again my great grandchildren’s grandchildren saw the rope, murderous groups ku klux klan emerged in blues and whites flashing lights and water hoses, Standing between the lines of freedom extracting our leaders wire taps jail cells and loop holes of the lawless. Assassinations on my brothers selling Hope.
Malcolm X and Dr. King saw doors closed. Just to be opened again by The Black Panthers who sought to fight for it. Stokely Carmichael, Eldrige Cleaver, Bobby Seale, Angela Davis and Huey Newton all gone in a time where our people needed them the most.
Federal government set forth plans to kill my people with the drugs they drove. An exchange from selling hope to selling dope. Giving my people cocaine and a heroine overdose. Giving my people this false sense of a high a high on hope, and when they made enough money killing their own they locked them up in isolated holes with rules and regulations of drugs sold.
I’ve often wondered where they all came from. They call us Niggers and thugs painting pictures to scare those who don’t know into thinking that what my people have been through was so long ago. But my people built this country and gave this country hope.
Not to see our children of today shot down in the middle of the road with their hands in the air still clinching on the graces of man but to to be lifted back into our heritage of kings and queens and love our skin tone. To love our own, to stand together and not be divided on these old country roads but to rise up holding one another’s hands strong. Looking into my neighbors eyes not looking away and not letting these lies tear down what we call hope.