If Dr. King stood at the corner of Emmitt Till Road and King Drive, would he see the fruit of the Civil Rights movement’s blood and sacrifice?
To fail to see my color is to fail to truly see “me.”
The warm voice of a British man with a a British accent thick like syrup greets me.
After all these years, I finally realize something: This city, my city, is deaf. And blind.
“Come on, John,” he scolded. “In your dreams… And I suppose you have pictures to prove it?”
I am in the spirit again, finally — the Christmas spirit. For years, it has been on hiatus.
“There was no clothes closet in the house and you didn’t need closets because the most clothes you had were on your back…”
I hung up the telephone that day, knowing that with “church” I was completely done.
It’s always “stop whining” when attempting to whitewash, diminish or else suggest that black folk develop amnesia about discrimination.
That’s the church I was born into. The church I still love even as I long for the church I once knew.
It is clear in my mind that they don’t really care about us. They do not live in our neighborhoods. Nor attend our houses of worship.
Through the snow, the cold and rain. In sickness and in health. Upon the Thursday morning light, they arrive. The men. My brothers.
Why has my dissent to respectfully kneel and not to stand now become America’s line drawn in the sand? It is oppression’s hand. Same old plan.
Our prayers were driven by the realities that not even a truckload of money could ever solve all of our problems.
And yet, we stand proudly, pledging allegiance. Embracing the contradiction amid democracy’s malfeasance.