I wrote this poem last September. A week ago, when George Floyd was murdered, I recalled the poem and the documentary.
The Day After Watching James Baldwin’s ‘I Am Not Your Negro’
This morning after opening the sliding glass door
I hear a cat somewhere in the hedges
scream in a way that stops my heart.
It is still dark when I hear it again
and for the second time my pulse is arrested
and I think to get a flashlight and rush out to the hedge.
But instead I slide the glass door closed and return to my coffee.
What else can I do?
It’s dark and I don’t have all the facts.
Now that I think of it, I’m sure it came from my neighbours yard.
There’s an issue of jurisdiction here, surly.
And who’s to say, perhaps the cat needed to be moved along.
For that matter, I’m not even sure it was a cat.
In any case, it’s hardly my responsibility.
Look, it’s getting light now and nothing here
on my side of the fence
is out of place.
Last night I watched the documentary again (on Amazon Prime). It’s the story of James Baldwin (1924-1987), black, gay, a playwright, novelist, poet, activist, friend of Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Dr. King, all murdered.
Early in the film there is a picture of 15-year-old Dorothy Counts, who in 1957 in Charlotte NC, walked into an all-white school while beside her the next generation of white hate, spit, jeered, taunted, while adults, parents, stood by. It was this picture that moved Baldwin, living in Paris, to go back to America and to Harlem.
There was unutterable pride, tension and anguish in that girl’s face as she approached the halls of learning, with history jeering at her back, it made me furious. It filled me with both hatred and pity. And it made me ashamed. Some one of us should have been there with her.
From where I live, insulated, white, gated by privilege, it all feels so far away, and yet, it feels like an indictment. Where, I ask myself, in this picture, would I have stood?
Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it has been faced.
Whenever I’ve failed to confront the mundane, everyday racism around me, I’ve helped create a context of tolerance for acts as horrific as the murder of George Floyd, or here in my own country, Eisha Hudson or Regis Korchinski-Paquet.
History is not the past. It is the present. We carry our history with us. We are our history. If we pretend otherwise we literally are criminals.
When I’m silent, I help launch the first slave ship; when I turn away, I help build the first residential school.
The sad part is that most people who say they care don’t really care. What they care about is their safety and their profits.
All the western nations are caught in a lie, the lie of their pretended humanism.
I was not a member of any Christian congregation because I knew they had heard but not lived by the commandment ‘love one another as I love you.’
Thank you, Stephen. My daughter rarely shares her personal struggles with anyone, let alone the world. Last night she shared something intimate on FB and IG and I hope you don’t mind but I’m sharing it here because your post feels so very personal. We live on Salt Spring, my son lives in Victoria and even in that very polite city he and his black friends have experienced overt racism. Here’s her post:
“My brother is black, my father is black, most of my friends are black. Growing up in Jamaica I was always called “white girl”, but the second I moved to Canada, I realized I was definitely not a white girl, and so I embraced my blackness. Last week, I finally built the courage to read all the news and watch the videos of George Floyd, and I cried the whole day. I went to visit my brother @n8images at work, and we cried together. “Danya, that could have been dad”.. “I know Nathan, it also could have been you”. My heart is aching for the black community right now, but it’s so uplifting to see how we’re all coming together and fighting the fight. We need justice for George Floyd, we need justice for all the lives taken for no reason, we need more allies, we need our voices to be heard. People love black culture, but hate black people, and that needs to stop! #blacklivesmatter #nojusticenopeace?? Photo of and by my phenomenally black brother, @n8images ?? “
Corrine, thank you so much for sharing your daughter’s powerful post, and plea. I despair for our western world, yet when I read about this kind of passion and desire for justice I have hope. Thank you and I thank your daughter!
Thank you for your words and those of Baldwin. You are right, silence is complicity. We all need to be having this conversation.
Thank you Teryl. You’re right of course, a conversation long overdue, and ongoing.
In 1957, I was 10 and only a year in America having immigrated from Germany with my family. The year Dorothy Counts showed her strength and tenacity!
I grew up in a bible reading, church going home. I remember hearing racist remarks around me. And I remember asking Father who the black people’s God was, since He seemed to be different than the God of all creation that I heard preached. It did not go well. (Children were to be seen not heard.)
They were more than thankful to receive Christ’s Grace and it seems they went on to not pay attention to His Message of Justice for All of Creation that He proclaimed and lived. In fact they felt rather superior!!!
I remember in high school, walking from class to class with a fellow black student enjoying fun camaraderie and in the back of my head fearing what if I am found out. I loved the country I had the privilege of grewing up in.
I understand now why I was so triggered when I saw the photo opt of the president showing off his Bible. I had hoped instead for a unifying word for his beautiful, diverse country he has the privilege of leading; instead ready to bring out the guns.
The Eulogy Rev. Sharpton shared at the memorial was powerful! I could not stop weeping as he ended, with All attending and watching, standing in silence for the last 8 min. 46 sec. of George Floyd’s life. Every life matters.
Yes, may the dialogue never end. May the challenging changes continue.
Thank you Erika! Thank you, through an account of your own history, for adding insight, sensitivity, honesty, hope and resolve to the conversation.
Thank you Steve for your thoughtful and challenging words. I do hope and pray that this time we will change, justice will flow, and healing will occur.
Thank you Sue. I’m with you.