Tension and Hope

My heart feels so heavy. This would have been my father's eighty-ninth birthday had not his journey here ended almost nine years ago. Yet, this is not the reason for tonight's  grief. 

The air is heavy with three months of protective actions to prevent the spread of Covid-19. The pandemic is never far from our thoughts especially when we realize the degree to which our routines have been altered. In so many ways, it is similar to the racism that is not novel but intricately woven into the fabric of our nation. 

The senseless murders of young African-Americans is taking a toll on our well-being or at least for those of us who recognize the overtly racist patterns of the past repeating themselves once more. Exposing the myth for a lie, the murders are not confined to the deep south as white supremacy was never confined to the traitorous states that betrayed their national allegiance by seceding. It was given the freedom denied to my ancestors to cross state boundaries by night and by day with no patrol. Consequently, it continues to prosper from sea to shining sea. 

The current climate is a strong reminder of my early childhood. Rather than calling to mind a litany of experiences, my body holds memories of the trauma that produce a tension and a hope. The tension was a direct result of our oppression in an apartheid state juxtaposed against "the land of the free and the home of the brave." Was the land of the free for white Americans? They were privileged to freely exist without suspicion unless they were thought to be our ally. Was the home of the brave for those of us who transitioned from colored to Negro to Black? Certainly it took some degree of bravery to build a a life and a home despite the oppression placed up Black, Indigenous, and People of Color. 

The hope I kindle was first lit on the African continent as my ancestors were kidnapped and forced through the door of no return to the underbelly of a ship as cargo, not passengers. Denied their humanity, their spirit hoped amidst an inexplicable suffering. Those who survived the arduous journey were denied their name and forbidden their native tongue. As they became insignificant pawns in the game of white supremacy, the only remnant of their identity was the capacity to hope. It was this hope that compelled them to breathe against all odds.

A lie will not endure forever. There is no shame in speaking truth. Some say that those who do not remember their history are doomed to repeat it. Centuries after the Middle Passage, tension and hope foster brave new generations to remember. From sea to shining sea, as people from all racial and ethnic backgrounds march, the world begins to hear the truth of dignity denied. The tension is alleviated. The hope is realized.