A Lamentation - Day 3

I’m 47 but this tired I feel is 400 years old

Way too many years asserting our humanity

To have it still be disregarded.

Too much information for the willfully obtuse to claim ignorance

Way too many dead for way too many generations for it not to be purposeful.

This is not a happenstance

There is no glitch in the programming

This inequity is by design

This is genocide.

So, do you think I care if property is destroyed?

Why not burn down what we’ve built brick by brick

But have never been able to fully enjoy?

We just want a chance to live into our full humanity

And like Fannie Lou said,

“If we can’t have it, then you ain’t gon’ have it either.

They know what they’ve done to us.”

A Lamentation – Day 2

If I die by the state, don’t let them speak lies of me.

Don’t let them smear my name.

If they dig up obscure truths of me,

Weave them into the beautiful tapestry of my life,

And paint my flaws with the brush of humanity.

Don’t settle for termination.

Don’t acquiesce to a quiet slip into anonymity.

Don’t take an apology rooted in complicity and not contrition.

DO NOT offer forgiveness before there is justice.

Shake the city to its foundation

Rock the nation at its core

Let them feel the rumble of your collective lamentation

Let no mind sleep. Let no heart rest.

My family who loves me, Speak for me.

My sisters in the struggle, mobilize the people.

Those who do justly and walk with God, Put your faith into action.

Those who use their pen as swords, tell them my story.

If I die by the state, I’ll be far from the first

But do not let them diminish its significance.

Every one of our lives matters.

Despite what they say, Our lives matter.

A Lamentation - Day 1

Sleep comes slowly if at all when a heart is pierced.

And what thoughts ramble through a listless mind robbed of rest?

Maybe that is the entire goal,

To rob us of the creativity that has us survive in spite of it all.

To convince us that we are powerless,

as they siphon our power to uphold their devious systems.

Look how grand we are even in the face of oppression.

They can not bear the thought of our grandeur if we were totally free.

More importantly, they can not profit from our genius.

White supremacy is the enemy of progress

How many of the world’s answers are burdened under its boot?

What liberatory advances live weighted down,

In American Ghettos, Caribbean Shanty Towns, African Refugee Camps?

What new worlds sit dormant behind the words “I can’t breathe?”

The problem is not us. It has never been us.

A Daughter's Tribute

 Written for and spoken at the homegoing service of my Mother Esther M. Brown on 3/21/2020

I have written many things for and about my mother Esther Brown over the years, but this was by far the most difficult. How do I encapsulate the way she impacted my life in just a few words. I’ve stopped and started writing 4 different tributes trying to do so. Then I decided to keep it simple and meaningful, the way she would want it.

My mother was my first example of personal style, grace under pressure, and poise. She showed me what faith looked like in practice, teaching me not only the power of prayer but the prudence of faithful action. She encouraged my curiosity and intellectual pursuits. She supported my spirit of adventure and drive even when I know it sometimes scared her. She always allowed me an opinion, even when she didn’t agree with it. And she was the one who taught me to love words. A gift that opened the world to me.

I think the thing about her that shaped me the most as a developing person, was that she allowed me to share what I was learning as I discovered the world, with her, without condescension. In that, she taught me one is never too old to learn or too young to teach; And to value everyone’s contribution. I love her more than I can possibly express or maybe ever showed. There was never a day I doubted her love for me, not one. And every good thing I am today is because she was the one chosen by The Most Beloved to guide me into this human experience called life.

I love you Mommy. It was an honor to be loved by you. And I find such comfort in knowing that you and dad now sit together in the cloud of witnesses rooting us on. May you both rest together in the presence of the Most High until we meet again.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

"I believe that we're more than the worst thing we've ever done. I believe that Grace is power. I believe that Love is Justice. And I believe that we have to judge how we're doing by how we treat the poor, the incarcerated and the condemned." ~Bryan Stevenson

This quote by Bryan Stevenson from his interview on Super Soul Sunday has stuck with me ever since I heard it almost 3 years ago. I find it brought to mind so much more frequently over the last year. To me it embodies the spirit of the teachings of the one known as The Christ, and I find myself striving to align with it more and more. Though American “Christianism” would have folks believe otherwise, Jesus was always on the side of the poor, the disenfranchised and the otherwise marginalized during his time on earth. And one cannot in good conscience claim to be a follower of Christ and negate this most important example he left for us. As Advent approaches, let us who would claim Jesus in this season remember not just his birth, but also his life and the words he recited from the book of Isaiah in the synagogue, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free...”

THIS is the tidings of comfort and Joy the Angels proclaimed! The great and wonderful news that Christ came to be the first born of many siblings who will always work to set the oppressed free! Now THAT’S a carol worthy of singing from the rooftops. If you are one who celebrates Christ this season, I encourage you to reflect on who he really was and strive to show this example of him not just at Christmas but year round.

Contemplating Diaspora

I am contemplating the diaspora today. Contemplating my place in it. Considering how though my heritage is Caribbean, I identify as a Black America and what that means to and for me. I am considering how I feel every sting of the words of derision that some first generation, American born Africans and Caribbean/West Indians lob at Black Americans even though I too am "kinda" first gen myself. I'm feeling the pain of how so many first generation black Americans I know try to distance themselves from the consequences and circumstances of Black Americans while simultaneously attaching themselves to the rich history of black contribution in this country. I am contemplating how the Caribbean heritage of many of our Black American (S)heroes gets shrouded in the narratives of their lives so that some black Americans don't even know that the black American giants they quote and praise have Caribbean/West Indian roots.

I am contemplating how the world gets to adopt African American culture without consequence but some black Africans/Caribbeans/West Indians cry "Appropriation" when Black Americans dare to try to connect to a culture that was stolen from them by slavery and colonization. I am thinking about how slavery affected this country and the Caribbean and how one sustained and informed the other but, there are some in both diasporic iterations that ignore the affects of slavery on the Caribbean as we engage these discussions around reparations. I am thinking about how systemic racism built on the legacy of slavery affects us all and somehow that is not enough to push some of us towards common ground

Like I said, I am contemplating diaspora today and my place in it. Whenever I am in this place, I think of this interview of the great Hugh Masekela. Though he is speaking of continental Africans in this piece, it always strikes a deep chord with me. The last line of this interview for me describes the situation of the diaspora and the African born and raised miles and generations from our continent of origin, especially Black Americans. It speaks to this place that we occupy that has somehow deemed us neither American nor African enough. And though it has been quite a few more than 20 years since our forced estrangement, I feel the sentiment still applies: "20 yrs from now when they ask your children who they are they're gonna say: They say we used to be Africans long ago."

She Knew...

I started getting breasts at nine. I was a full C cup at 12. I’ve had these hips since I was 13. The butt was hereditary. So I’ve had it all my life. But my face was a “baby face” well into my 20’s. And my giggle still that of a school girl. There was no way an ADULT could mistake ME for one. But still my mom made me wear a girdle once I turned 13 and always insisted I wear slips through most of my teen years, because a butt that jiggled and silhouettes of thighs meant you were “fast.” She made sure to introduce me as her “baby” in spaces where there were new or unfamiliar men around so they understood I was a minor. I was NEVER allowed to spend the night at anyone’s house but family, and there were some family I couldn’t even spend the night with. All these oppressive but well meaning attempts to keep lecherous men at bay. The onus was never on us as girls, but how does a mother protect her little girl in a world that doesn’t even value her?

I begrudged some of the more restrictive parts of my upbringing, but the older I get, the more compassion I find for my mother’s decisions. My dad gave me my independent spirit, my belief that I could do anything I wanted in this life, and his very presence on the planet gave me a sense of safety. My mother knew what it was like navigating this world as a black woman and did her best to shield me from its horrors so that I could freely believe the messages my father gave and see only the limitless possibility of being an independent black woman. 

But she was always willing to stretch when my strong will pushed the boundaries of her comfort. She never wanted to hold me back, but she knew too much to be completely comfortable when I dared to operate outside of the oppressive norms. So she yielded to my free spirit by expanding her container each time I pushed at its walls, but she never could completely give up the container, because she knew. 

She knew that this world would never value me as much as she and daddy did. She knew that the messaging I received outside of her container would try to feed me lies about my self worth and undermine all the things they had taught me to believe. She knew, so she did her very best to protect me for as long as she could. Her protection seemed like limits back then. I see the intentional love behind her actions now. She Knew...