“ I am the dream and
the hope of the slave,”
That line
from the Maya Angelou poem, Still I Rise- has haunted me since the first time I
heard it. It stirred within me so many emotions, and allowed me to picture a
time when if I were alive, I would have been a slave myself. Very possibly a
house slave, because of my lighter complexion. Subject to the whims of an
owner, never having anything that was mine, and suffering all of the
indignities and horrors people of that time suffered. Thinking on it makes my
throat constrict, tears well up in my eyes, and a burning feeling in my chest.
Have I
earned this? Have I earned this life? 165 years since the end of the Civil War,
The Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964, so many milestones along the way, and
here I am 30 years old myself, plagued I’m not doing enough. I’m not smart
enough, outgoing or out spoken enough. Maybe I could be stronger, more thoughtful, and even
nicer. As if I am the representation of an entire people.
I am not a
representation of an entire people, I am an example. Living my life as best I
can honors those who came before me. I think they would be proud of all that has
come to pass since they moved onto a better place. As a people, we have become
woven into the fabric of this great nation. Our influence is seen everywhere,
in sports, music, fashion, film. So many have contributed to education, civil
rights, world politics, and more. In just my lifetime alone, I have seen so
much growth.
Yet, we are
still plagued by racism. Not in the way those before us suffered from it. There
are no longer blatant lynch mobs who have free reign to string up anyone they
see fit. We no longer have to suffer the indignity of sitting at the back of
the bus, using the “Blacks Only” entrance, having no representation, because
blacks weren’t elected to any office. Or suffer what those before them suffered-
rape, murder, torture, separation from all they knew, to be sold to whomever
wanted to buy them.
Some who
would read this will try to tell me I know nothing of suffering, in comparison.
How dare I hark back to a past most would like to forget? I do it to remind
myself, and others, there is still work to be done. To turn a blind eye to all
that can and needs to be said and done contributes to the problem itself.
You think
racism is dead? Have you ever had someone call you a Nigger to your face? Have
you had someone refuse to serve you, lock the car door when you pass, cross the
street to be away from you? Have you had someone shake your hand, then wipe it,
oh so casually- and pull a face of disgust? I live in this day and age, and all
of these things have happened to me. For those who would say, “Oh you’re just
being sensitive”, “No such thing has happened to you,” “You’re probably
imagining all of that”- your ignorance does you no service. There are plenty
who can tell similar stories to mine, and suffered far worse than I have.
You might
want to attack me again- you’re mixed, where the hell do you get off, “claiming”
black? I do this because no one looks at me and says, “Damn, that white girl
has a great tan”. I honor my white roots just as much as my black ones. I claim
both, because I can. My face, my skin tells of progress made, a world where my
mother and father could fall in love and have children like my brother and me.
There was a time when a courtship like theirs was illegal.
Racism is
real. Time and time again it is brought to my attention we have so much more to
do to be truly equal, to be free of the shackles of ignorance and
misunderstanding, of fear and injustice. It is our duty as people to eradicate
this world of such hateful thoughts, gestures, and crimes. I know I owe it to
my ancestors, to my relatives who came before me to continue the work they did.
To dream of a world where no one sees my color, they just see me.
I remember when
I was much younger my father taught me the laws of the land, to know my rights,
and to speak up when I felt I was being picked on or singled out. When I asked
him why he did this, he told me it was because we would be subjected to
injustices others hopefully would never have to endure. Because of our skin, we
would face racial profiling, and false accusation. We would need to be able to
stand tall, face our accusers and speak eloquently of the laws we knew we were
not breaking. My father is an educated man, who knew what I would face would
differ from what he had experienced, yet knew I would still feel as he felt-
wronged for no real reason at all.
When my
father asked my grandfather for my mother’s hand in marriage, my grandfather asked
if his future grandchildren- my brother and I, would be okay. He himself was a
Peace Officer and knew what we would face, what my father and mother would have
to face together. My father said we would be, and he was right. My grandfather also
knew to blindly believe those who are sworn to protect and serve are not always
good people. We can hope that most are, but there will always be those who
abuse the power given to them.
These
examples I give, do they not paint a vivid picture of human experience? Can you
put yourself in my place, and understand when I watch the news, and see story
after story of a black person dying, the circumstances around it murky at best,
when I see the exoneration of black men falsely accused and imprisoned for the majority
of their lives finally freed, how many young black men are in prison for offenses others would not be serving time for, when I see the way these stories are covered, the
vitriol spouted by people who could care less for those who do not look or act
like them- I become so angry. Another
part of me becomes afraid. Who will
speak for the dead? Who will speak for the falsely accused? Will you?
One more
example before I end what I have to say here is a clip from the film, A Time to
Kill. The film is about a black man on trial in the South for killing two white
men who raped and tried to murder his daughter. The closing argument to this very
day gives me chills. The defending attorney tells the story in detail of what
happened to this little girl, from the rape, to the torture, the failed
hanging, and then her body being dumped in a river. Then he says, “Now imagine
she’s white”. His saying that matters because what happened to this little
girl, and then the treatment of her father in the south would have been very
different if this was a case of a little white girl, and a white father seeking
justice. You may not agree, but in truth there are far too many examples that
speak otherwise. You can see the clip here-
We must
stand up for those who can no longer speak. We must strive to be a better
stronger people, and nation. We must choose to take the more difficult path,
because there is a difference between what is right and what is easy. I say we
because this is not a black problem, or a white problem. It is so much more
than that. I have to believe that if I ever have children, it will be better
for them. That they will not have the same fears as I do.
Especially because, “I
am the dream and the hope of the slave,”
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history with
your bitter, twisted lies, you may trod me in the very dirt But still, like
dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are
you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells pumping in my
living room.
Just like moons and like suns, with
the certainty of tides, just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and
lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful
cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t
you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my
own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words, you
may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still,
like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you? Does it
come as a surprise that I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my
thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame I
rise. Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise. I’m a black ocean, leaping
and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear, I
rise. Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear, I rise. Bringing the gifts that
my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
