Somewhere in the good book it promises that He goes ahead to prepare a place for us, the chosen ones. The ones that were promised an inheritance in exchange for the long-suffering of submission, and a genteel that invites easy imposition. Meek and mild, as our Savior is. And just as destitute.
But there must be a place for us here. There must be a space reserved for the magicians who transform every piece of sacrifice and neglect and pain into the global pulse of otherness. There must be a corner reserved for the hands and hearts that supplicate mercy from the emptiness of a conquerer's soul. Why is it that "wherever people of color live, we and the landmarks that embody our presence, unprotected, piece by piece, are being replaced?"
Our haunts are still homes.Our ghettos are still glorious. Our shacks are still a someplace to somebody. I will speak truth to supposedly colorblind eyes of betterment, that somehow see the green in our blues just fine. My eyes will stand witness to the value of the forgotten. My tools will work magic over the tragedies of our loss.
© 2021 Jerrold Mobley. All rights reserved. Contains a quote by Michael Henry Adams from The End of Black Harlem.