**I'm pleased that this post made the Best Posts of the Week List for the Week of July 18, 2009.My children often chastise me looking at the racial undertones to situations. They often say "Ah Mamma! It ain't like that anymore. Everything ain't about race." I try to take heed to their admonishments, thinking that maybe - just maybe they're right. But in doing this, I am more times than not, concerned that their view of the world is through the rose colored opportunities of which they have been able to take advantage.
After all, they did not have to wait until they were in the fourth grade before they got an invitation to a classmates birthday party. Their classmates did not wait for nearly 3 weeks to talk to them when the began school. They never experienced having to sit in the back of a picture show or a bus. And a gathering of their friends have always looked like a session of the United Nations.
So, I have tried my best to believe that maybe - just maybe - the world is in fact changing. That maybe - just maybe - theirs is the generation that will truly live in a post racial society; and that mine and the generations before me need to get a grip and let the young folks "do their thing". And then, I learn - like so many other sojourners - that nothing has really changed.
The most current Philadelphia story is proof that nothing has changed - and in fact - it may even be worse. But, for these 65 Black and Hispanic children who were barred from the Valley Swim Club in Huntingdon Valley, Pennsylvania, my heart just aches. Aches, not so much because they were barred, but because these are the children who witnessed a historical moment a few months ago to which they told old cynics like me: "See, I told you. It ain't like it use to be when you were a kid". These are the children for whom Jim Crow, segregation, and race wars and riots are things for which they had no frame of reference. It was - until a few weeks ago - for them part of a history lesson rather than their current events.
My heart aches for the children who must experience and relive the horrors of racism simply because of the color of their skin. My heart aches for the children, who because of the color of their skin, must feel the pains of discrimination. My heart aches for the children for whom the dream is still deferred. My heart aches because I simply things have not changed and I find myself asking "What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black?".
What shall I tell my children who are black?
Of what it means to be a captive in this dark skin?
What shall I tell my dear one, fruit of my womb?
Of how beautiful they are when everywhere they turn
They are faced with abhorrence of everything that is black.
The night is black and so is the boogeyman.
Villains are black with black hearts.
A black cow gives no milk. A black hen lays no eggs.
Storm clouds, black, black is evil
And evil is black and devil's food is black...
What shall I tell my dear ones raised in a white world
A place where white has been made to represent
All that is good and pure and fine and decent,
where clouds are white and dolls, and heaven
Surely is a white, white place with angels
Robed in white, and cotton candy and ice cream
And milk and ruffled Sunday dresses
And dream houses and long sleek Cadillacs
And Angel's food is white... all, all... white.
What can I say therefore, when my child
Comes home in tears because a playmate
Has called him black, big lipped, flat nosed and nappy headed?
What will he think when I dry his tears and whisper,
"Yes, that's true. But no less beautiful and dear."
How shall I lift up his head, get him to square
His shoulders look his adversaries in the eye,
Confident in the knowledge of his worth.
Serene under his sable skin and proud of his own beauty?
What can I do to give him strength?
That he may come through life's adversities
As a whole human being unwarped and human in a world
Of biased laws and inhuman practices, that he might
Survive. And survive he must! For who knows?
Perhaps this black child here bears the genius
To discover the cure for... cancer
Or to chart the course for exploration of the universe.
So, he must survive for the good of all humanity.
He must and will survive.
I have drunk deeply of late from the fountain
Of my black culture, sat at the knee of and learned
From mother Africa discovered the truth of my heritage.
The truth, so often obscured and omitted.
And I find I have much to say to my black children.
I will lift up their heads in proud blackness
With the story of their fathers and their father’s fathers.
And I shall take them into a way back time
Of kings and queens who ruled the Nile,
And measured the stars and discovered the laws of mathematics.
I will tell them of a black people upon whose backs have been built the wealth of three continents.
I will tell him this and more.
And knowledge of his heritage shall be his weapon and his armor;
It will make him strong enough to win any battle he may face.
And since this story is so often obscured,
I must sacrifice to find it for my children,
Even as I sacrifice to feed, clothe and shelter them.
So this I will do for them if I love them.
None will do it for me.
I must find the truth of heritage for myself and pass it on to them.
In years to come, I believe because I have armed them with the truth,
My children and their children’s children will venerate me.
For it is the truth that will make us free!
~ ~ Margaret Burroughs
Much Obliged...
Very Much Obliged to you for hearing me ~ ~
SjP
Black News Junkie l Technorati l Del.iciou.us l Digg This! l StumbleUpon
After all, they did not have to wait until they were in the fourth grade before they got an invitation to a classmates birthday party. Their classmates did not wait for nearly 3 weeks to talk to them when the began school. They never experienced having to sit in the back of a picture show or a bus. And a gathering of their friends have always looked like a session of the United Nations.
So, I have tried my best to believe that maybe - just maybe - the world is in fact changing. That maybe - just maybe - theirs is the generation that will truly live in a post racial society; and that mine and the generations before me need to get a grip and let the young folks "do their thing". And then, I learn - like so many other sojourners - that nothing has really changed.
The most current Philadelphia story is proof that nothing has changed - and in fact - it may even be worse. But, for these 65 Black and Hispanic children who were barred from the Valley Swim Club in Huntingdon Valley, Pennsylvania, my heart just aches. Aches, not so much because they were barred, but because these are the children who witnessed a historical moment a few months ago to which they told old cynics like me: "See, I told you. It ain't like it use to be when you were a kid". These are the children for whom Jim Crow, segregation, and race wars and riots are things for which they had no frame of reference. It was - until a few weeks ago - for them part of a history lesson rather than their current events.
My heart aches for the children who must experience and relive the horrors of racism simply because of the color of their skin. My heart aches for the children, who because of the color of their skin, must feel the pains of discrimination. My heart aches for the children for whom the dream is still deferred. My heart aches because I simply things have not changed and I find myself asking "What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black?".
What shall I tell my children who are black?
Of what it means to be a captive in this dark skin?
What shall I tell my dear one, fruit of my womb?
Of how beautiful they are when everywhere they turn
They are faced with abhorrence of everything that is black.
The night is black and so is the boogeyman.
Villains are black with black hearts.
A black cow gives no milk. A black hen lays no eggs.
Storm clouds, black, black is evil
And evil is black and devil's food is black...
What shall I tell my dear ones raised in a white world
A place where white has been made to represent
All that is good and pure and fine and decent,
where clouds are white and dolls, and heaven
Surely is a white, white place with angels
Robed in white, and cotton candy and ice cream
And milk and ruffled Sunday dresses
And dream houses and long sleek Cadillacs
And Angel's food is white... all, all... white.
What can I say therefore, when my child
Comes home in tears because a playmate
Has called him black, big lipped, flat nosed and nappy headed?
What will he think when I dry his tears and whisper,
"Yes, that's true. But no less beautiful and dear."
How shall I lift up his head, get him to square
His shoulders look his adversaries in the eye,
Confident in the knowledge of his worth.
Serene under his sable skin and proud of his own beauty?
What can I do to give him strength?
That he may come through life's adversities
As a whole human being unwarped and human in a world
Of biased laws and inhuman practices, that he might
Survive. And survive he must! For who knows?
Perhaps this black child here bears the genius
To discover the cure for... cancer
Or to chart the course for exploration of the universe.
So, he must survive for the good of all humanity.
He must and will survive.
I have drunk deeply of late from the fountain
Of my black culture, sat at the knee of and learned
From mother Africa discovered the truth of my heritage.
The truth, so often obscured and omitted.
And I find I have much to say to my black children.
I will lift up their heads in proud blackness
With the story of their fathers and their father’s fathers.
And I shall take them into a way back time
Of kings and queens who ruled the Nile,
And measured the stars and discovered the laws of mathematics.
I will tell them of a black people upon whose backs have been built the wealth of three continents.
I will tell him this and more.
And knowledge of his heritage shall be his weapon and his armor;
It will make him strong enough to win any battle he may face.
And since this story is so often obscured,
I must sacrifice to find it for my children,
Even as I sacrifice to feed, clothe and shelter them.
So this I will do for them if I love them.
None will do it for me.
I must find the truth of heritage for myself and pass it on to them.
In years to come, I believe because I have armed them with the truth,
My children and their children’s children will venerate me.
For it is the truth that will make us free!
~ ~ Margaret Burroughs
Much Obliged...
Very Much Obliged to you for hearing me ~ ~
SjP
Black News Junkie l Technorati l Del.iciou.us l Digg This! l StumbleUpon
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