Swing Low
I was mulling over this issue of historic grief and oppression and how I deal with this issue in my life. I thought about whether to go to a plantation or a slave port and who should be with me. I imagined myself and my cousin going on either of these trips and I realized how important it is to me that someone be able to empathize with me. I need someone to identify with me and be able to understand the pain that I feel and how I have internalized the oppression that my ancestors were victims of.
Flashes of my family’s history, Roots by Alex Haley, a downtown slave market in Fayetteville. Right in the middle of the square, right in the middle of the city, my people were displayed and examined, next to the sheep, and cows, and hogs; next to the other imports and exports. How? Why? Did no one standing there and just yell out, “STOP THIS! THESE ARE PEOPLE NOT ANIMALS! THESE ARE HUMAN BEINGS! YOU MUST STOP THIS!” In a “Christian” Nation, did someone not say, “THIS IS AN AFRONT TO GOD! THIS IS A SIN!”
Is no one saying it now? Is no one reminding the country how hypocritical it is?
In a matter of three or four generations my people have gone from slaves to presidential candidates. And yet is so appropriate that even when an African American becomes a presidential candidate his ancestors were NOT a part of the system of Perpetual Inherited American slavery. His ancestors were not IN-voluntary immigrants. His ancestors came here of their own will and never worked the fields of cotton, of rice, of tobacco.
This is not to slander anyone, I am glad we have an African American presidential candidate. It is just a terrible reminder that the brands of slavery that my ancestors received have yet to be removed. The decedents of slaves in this country, with few exceptions, are still second class citizens. Now that we are fed up; now that we will take it no more; now that we will no longer do manual labor or serve food to the masses for little to no pay; now that we would rather sell drugs to our own people then work for the scraps from Master’s table; now we are of no use to this country; now they ship us to big buildings of concrete and steel, with iron bars. To hold us, and for us to work for nothing. They force us to work and feed us scraps; they don’t allow us to own anything. They have a commissary where we are forced to pay for are needs with the tiny earnings we receive. We stay indebted and receive no real education. They ship us in like packages, they rip us from our families and severe the ties between fathers and children. But what am I describing.
What has changed? What year is it? “08” A leap year where Middle Eastern powers fight with Western powers for oil rights. An election year where a Democrat appreciated for his incredible speaking prowess and ideals about the power of the people is pitted against a conservative Republican who served in Southeast Asia. A year where the Olympic Games divert Americans from the strife and civil unrest taking place at home and abroad. A year where Bosnia and Herzegovina struggle about annexation and independence. But what year is this 1908 or 2008? What has changed?
My slavery is still real. I need someone to understand that this is just another cycle. This is just another version of the same story. “History is just one big remix”.[1] How many opportunities will God give us to change? How long will he let injustice prevail? How patient can God be before he brings down the fire this time?
Where does this journey end for me? For those who I love? If I am going to share my life with someone, with anyone, they must see what I see. They must understand this perspective. They must know where we came from and where we are going. They must know how far we have come and how we have not moved at all. I need my wife to know this. To know me, you must know this. You must see the concrete and the bars of the old slave port and know that it is now the County Jail; a downtown slave market, in every city. I am not free. For a Black Man in American in 08, freedom comes at death. “Swing low sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low.”
[1] Friend, C. A. (1994). A Conversation with Homies at the Lunch Table. Unpublished Speech. University of Pennsylvania.
Flashes of my family’s history, Roots by Alex Haley, a downtown slave market in Fayetteville. Right in the middle of the square, right in the middle of the city, my people were displayed and examined, next to the sheep, and cows, and hogs; next to the other imports and exports. How? Why? Did no one standing there and just yell out, “STOP THIS! THESE ARE PEOPLE NOT ANIMALS! THESE ARE HUMAN BEINGS! YOU MUST STOP THIS!” In a “Christian” Nation, did someone not say, “THIS IS AN AFRONT TO GOD! THIS IS A SIN!”
Is no one saying it now? Is no one reminding the country how hypocritical it is?
In a matter of three or four generations my people have gone from slaves to presidential candidates. And yet is so appropriate that even when an African American becomes a presidential candidate his ancestors were NOT a part of the system of Perpetual Inherited American slavery. His ancestors were not IN-voluntary immigrants. His ancestors came here of their own will and never worked the fields of cotton, of rice, of tobacco.
This is not to slander anyone, I am glad we have an African American presidential candidate. It is just a terrible reminder that the brands of slavery that my ancestors received have yet to be removed. The decedents of slaves in this country, with few exceptions, are still second class citizens. Now that we are fed up; now that we will take it no more; now that we will no longer do manual labor or serve food to the masses for little to no pay; now that we would rather sell drugs to our own people then work for the scraps from Master’s table; now we are of no use to this country; now they ship us to big buildings of concrete and steel, with iron bars. To hold us, and for us to work for nothing. They force us to work and feed us scraps; they don’t allow us to own anything. They have a commissary where we are forced to pay for are needs with the tiny earnings we receive. We stay indebted and receive no real education. They ship us in like packages, they rip us from our families and severe the ties between fathers and children. But what am I describing.
What has changed? What year is it? “08” A leap year where Middle Eastern powers fight with Western powers for oil rights. An election year where a Democrat appreciated for his incredible speaking prowess and ideals about the power of the people is pitted against a conservative Republican who served in Southeast Asia. A year where the Olympic Games divert Americans from the strife and civil unrest taking place at home and abroad. A year where Bosnia and Herzegovina struggle about annexation and independence. But what year is this 1908 or 2008? What has changed?
My slavery is still real. I need someone to understand that this is just another cycle. This is just another version of the same story. “History is just one big remix”.[1] How many opportunities will God give us to change? How long will he let injustice prevail? How patient can God be before he brings down the fire this time?
Where does this journey end for me? For those who I love? If I am going to share my life with someone, with anyone, they must see what I see. They must understand this perspective. They must know where we came from and where we are going. They must know how far we have come and how we have not moved at all. I need my wife to know this. To know me, you must know this. You must see the concrete and the bars of the old slave port and know that it is now the County Jail; a downtown slave market, in every city. I am not free. For a Black Man in American in 08, freedom comes at death. “Swing low sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low.”
[1] Friend, C. A. (1994). A Conversation with Homies at the Lunch Table. Unpublished Speech. University of Pennsylvania.
posted by Dr. C.A. Friend @ 9:25 AM
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