My People Born on Water
Beloveds,
I keep thinking about the stories we don’t know about those people who made it out or through or at least to the next generation. I want to know them. Feel them. Squeeze and study them. Right now I am caught up in my thesis project and every time I read a new witness, I keep thinking about my people; not just Black people, but the particular Black people who birthed my lineage. It’s Black History Month and we celebrate who we know. I want to learn from those people, pinned to the wall of history, waiting for someone to unearth their witness. I find myself as Jimmy Baldwin—and Zora Neale Hurston and Audre Lorde — once did, standing in and above history, screaming out in search of discovery— to unearthing the stories dirt rests over. My desire— longing— to unearth those people is really starting to haunt me. I literally can’t stop thinking of them; closing my eyes and seeing them; opening my ears and hearing them. I want to know my people. Woke up in the middle of the night and wrote about: My People Born on Water.
I want to time travel back to when I began, where my present was crafted. I want to know who was the first to resist, pray— to scream and shout. I want to see the face of the stolen one— the last one who witnessed our motherland. Who in my lineage was chosen—no, stolen— to be abroad the vessel where we created ourselves a people? Who were they before the white man appeared? What tribe claimed them? What were the marriage traditions; what about births?deaths? I'm glad they held on, but I don't know if I could. Cramped in the belly of the beast, disconnected, disenchanted, scared of these ghost-like people. I want to hear what songs they pulled together— which hums, skipped beats, war cries told them they would be ok. I want to know if my cousins decided the ocean was better? I wonder if any of my people knew any of the people who chose freedom in the Atlantic oceans embrace. I want to know my people.
I want to know where their feet first planted and dug into the earth. Was it in the Caribbean or Virginia? Maybe, Florida or Louisiana? Who first stood and smelled America's stink? How long did they hold their breath? Where did we first inhale as captives on foreign land? Was their exhale deep, long, loud? Which one of my people decided to commit our motherland to memory? Who was going to lead resistance? Who scoped the new terrain? Who decided, then and there, our people would persist? Who said: “ I ain’t ever gonna forget my homeland?”
How much did they sell my first for? Where we expensive? "niggers for sale," but what came after it? I know they were strong, tall, made to handle, but did they get bought their worth? No. Someone—someone cruel— first purchased my people. I wonder what their eyes saw as they traveled to prison— in perpetuity. Did they have to walk? Or was the master decent— though no one who owns another is decent— enough to let them ride? What was their reaction when they first saw the fields their hands would toil? What were the last words of their native tongue? Was it a prayer? Protection? Both? A curse? All? None? Was it a hum, maybe?
I want to go back to hug them on their first night. I wonder what the first day was like: did they toil or see their shack first? What about the first week? First month? How long did it take for them to break? Did they? I wouldn't blame them, but because I'm here, I don't believe they broke. Who was the first of us to reach the field towards the first piece of Tobacco? Sugar cane? Cotton? Which one first cursed the overseer and told him hell was a crowded place? Speaking of— who first found Jesus? Who found the Holy Ghost? Who heard the preacher first say Salvation is ours, too? Or did we keep the old faith? Which ancestors did we call? If any! I want to know who we believed would deliver us again; which thing beyond the clouds let my people know they would never break or be their nigger or mule or furniture or demon or... Who was the first sold away? Did they know they were loved? Were they loved? They were loved. I know it. Why didn't they burn down the masters' house? I bet they tried.
I want to know who first jumped the broom and birthed all of this. Maybe the newlyweds didn't flinch; maybe they leaped? Or begrudgingly lifted. Whatever they did started all of this, and I want to see them. Who was the first to refuse to lower eyes to white people? Who first talked back? What did they say? Who had the first baby, and what was the newborn smell? Boy or girl? What did they feel like? Look like? How many rolls filled the first baby's frame? Who was the first to have their sex taken by force, and how can I comfort them? Who first sung: "steal away steal away steal away: I don't have long to stay my God has called me by thunder." Who first died? Who first concentrated this land with our clay? I want to write their obituary, our first, who died. Our first, who became one with this ground, I want to tell them: thank you. Someone had to do it— first.
I want to know who made our first Sunday meal? I wonder who first tried to run? How far did they get? Did she come back? What for? Not at all? No! Which one knew we were free and had to test it out? Somebody tried; I can close my eyes and almost feel their chest-pounding and their ears ringing with hounds barks. Who first hid in trees and swamps? Did they see the North Star? Did they see me too? Who first heard of emancipation? Who danced and told the master to wipe his own ass? Who sang? Who cooked? Who had the first sip of water as a freeman? First shit on their own time? Who shoutout praise unto God? Who got scared? Who always knew? Where did they go? Or did they stay? Did they rejoice, or did they cry?
I want to know my people. How long did the first one stand in line registering to vote? Who did they choose in those Alabama elections? Was it a family affair like it is today? I bet it was, but who did it first? What guided his process, and can I please have a word? Did he know he was a steward of democracy? The real, living testament to democracy— people who govern themselves. Did they sharecrop? How bad was it? What did they do in the downtime? Was there any? How many bails did my people pick for themselves? Enough to eventually build all of this: something which perseveres.
I must find out about these people who passed something on so profound it can never be uprooted. Their song carried me into the world and it’s their prayers and covering, which keep me here. Something unique was passed from them through each generation arriving here with me. It's heavy; it cost a great deal— it can't be exchanged or refused. This thing persists regardless of who runs the country or the weapons it uses to root us out. It will lose, we will win. My people were born on water. They created all of this; my people did. When my kids get asked: "who are your people?" They will say a mighty people. People born in between this land and the one before. Folk who persisted— transformed, reveled in their own majesty, and knew they were to be free. Those people. Yep.
Here’s what’s going on? (!)
What I’m reading:
The Prophets, Robert Jones Jr.
The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson
Four Hundred Souls, edited by Ibram X. Kendi & Keisha N. Blain
This is great! So beautifully written! You should check this out! They are looking for Black queer writers!
https://www.blackandgay.com//forum/general-discussions/call-for-submissions