For those of us who live at the shoreline standing upon the constant edges of decision crucial and alone for those of us who cannot indulge the passing dreams of choice who love in doorways coming and going in the hours between dawns looking inward and outward at once before and after seeking a now that can breed futures like bread in our children’s mouths so their dreams will not reflect the death of ours; For those of us who were imprinted with fear like a faint line in the center of our foreheads learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk for by this weapon this illusion of some safety to be found the heavy-footed hoped to silence us For all of us this instant and this triumph We were never meant to survive. And when the sun rises we are afraid it might not remain when the sun sets we are afraid it might not rise in the morning when our stomachs are full we are afraid of indigestion when our stomachs are empty we are afraid we may never eat again when we are loved we are afraid love will vanish when we are alone we are afraid love will never return and when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are silent we are still afraid So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive.

my father is a retired magician which accounts for my irregular behavior everythin comes outta magic hats or bottles wit no bottoms & parakeets are as easy to get as a couple a rabbits or 3 fifty cent pieces/ 1958 my daddy retired from magic & took up another trade cuz this friend of mine from the 3rd grade asked to be made white on the spot what cd any self-respectin colored american magician do wit such a outlandish request/ cept put all them razzamatazz hocus pocus zippity-do-dah thingamajigs away cuz colored chirren believin in magic waz becomin politically dangerous for the race & waznt nobody gonna be made white on the spot just from a clap of my daddy’s hands & the reason i’m so peculiar’s cuz i been studyin up on my daddy’s technique & everythin i do is magic these days & it’s very colored very now you see it/ now you dont mess wit me i come from a family of retired sorcerers/ active houngans & pennyante fortune tellers wit 41 million spirits critturs & celestial bodies on our side i’ll listen to yr problems help wit yr career yr lover yr wanderin spouse make yr grandma’s stay in heaven more gratifyin ease yr mother thru menopause & show yr son how to clean his room YES YES YES 3 wishes is all you get scarlet ribbons for yr hair benwa balls via hong kong a miniature of machu picchu all things are possible but aint no colored magician in her right mind gonna make you white i mean this is blk magic you lookin at & i’m fixin you up good/ fixin you up good n colored & you gonna be colored all yr life/ & you gonna love it/ bein colored/ all yr life/ colored & love it love it/ bein colored Spell #7 from Upnorth-Outwest Geechee Jibara Quik Magic Trance Manual for Technologically Stressed Third World People

well I wanted to braid my hair bathe and bedeck myself so fine so fully aforethought for your pleasure see: I wanted to travel and read and runaround fantastic into war and peace: I wanted to surf dive fly climb conquer and be conquered THEN I wanted to pickup the phone and find you asking me if I might possibly be alone some night (so I could answer cool as the jewels I would wear on bareskin for you digmedaddy delectation:) “WHEN you comin ova?” But I had to remember to write down margarine on the list and shoepolish and a can of sliced pineapple in casea company and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa’s gaining weight and don’ nobody groove on that much girl and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before the laundry hit the water which I had to kinda keep an eye on because if the big hose jumps the sink again that Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs and brain me with a mop don’ smell too nice even though she hang it headfirst out the winda and I had to check on William, like to burn hisself to death with fever boy so thin be callin all day “Momma! Sing to me?” “Ma! Am I gone die?” and me not wake enough to sit beside him longer than to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/ his shirt and feed him orange juice before I fall out of sleep and Sweet My Jesus ain but one can left and we not thru the afternoon and now you (temporarily) shownup with a thing you says’ a poem and you call it “Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?” guilty po’ mouth about duty beauties of my headrag boozeup doozies about never mind cause love is blind well I can’t use it and the very next bodacious Blackman call me queen because my life ain shit because (in any case) he ain been here to share it with me (dish for dish and do for do and dream for dream) I’m gone scream him out my house because what I wanted was to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my self so fully be- cause what I wanted was your love not pity because what I wanted was your love your love

Ugliest little boy that everyone ever saw. That is what everyone said. Even to his mother it was apparent— when the blue-aproned nurse came into the northeast end of the maternity ward bearing his squeals and plump bottom looped up in a scant receiving blanket, bending, to pass the bundle carefully into the waiting mother-hands—that this was no cute little ugliness, no sly baby waywardness that was going to inch away as would baby fat, baby curl, and baby spot-rash. The pendulous lip, the branching ears, the eyes so wide and wild, the vague unvibrant brown of the skin, and, most disturbing, the great head. These components of That Look bespoke the sure fibre. The deep grain. His father could not bear the sight of him. His mother high-piled her pretty dyed hair and put him among her hairpins and sweethearts, dance slippers, torn paper roses. He was not less than these, he was not more. As the little Lincoln grew, uglily upward and out, he began to understand that something was wrong. His little ways of trying to please his father, the bringing of matches, the jumping aside at warning sound of oh-so-large and rushing stride, the smile that gave and gave and gave—Unsuccessful! Even Christmases and Easters were spoiled. He would be sitting at the family feasting table, really delighting in the displays of mashed potatoes and the rich golden fat-crust of the ham or the festive fowl, when he would look up and find somebody feeling indignant about him. What a pity what a pity. No love for one so loving. The little Lincoln loved Everybody. Ants. The changing caterpillar. His much-missing mother. His kindergarten teacher. His kindergarten teacher—whose concern for him was composed of one part sympathy and two parts repulsion. The others ran up with their little drawings. He ran up with his. She tried to be as pleasant with him as with others, but it was difficult. For she was all pretty! all daintiness, all tiny vanilla, with blue eyes and fluffy sun-hair. One afternoon she saw him in the hall looking bleak against the wall. It was strange because the bell had long since rung and no other child was in sight. Pity flooded her. She buttoned her gloves and suggested cheerfully that she walk him home. She started out bravely, holding him by the hand. But she had not walked far before she regretted it. The little monkey. Must everyone look? And clutching her hand like that. . . . Literally pinching it. . . . At seven, the little Lincoln loved the brother and sister who moved next door. Handsome. Well- dressed. Charitable, often, to him. They enjoyed him because he was resourceful, made up games, told stories. But when their More Acceptable friends came they turned their handsome backs on him. He hated himself for his feeling of well-being when with them despite— Everything. He spent much time looking at himself in mirrors. What could be done? But there was no shrinking his head. There was no binding his ears. “Don’t touch me!” cried the little fairy-like being in the playground. Her name was Nerissa. The many children were playing tag, but when he caught her, she recoiled, jerked free and ran. It was like all the rainbow that ever was, going off forever, all, all the sparklings in the sunset west. One day, while he was yet seven, a thing happened. In the down-town movies with his mother a white man in the seat beside him whispered loudly to a companion, and pointed at the little Linc. “THERE! That’s the kind I’ve been wanting to show you! One of the best examples of the specie. Not like those diluted Negroes you see so much of on the streets these days, but the real thing. Black, ugly, and odd. You can see the savagery. The blunt blankness. That is the real thing.” His mother—her hair had never looked so red around the dark brown velvet of her face—jumped up, shrieked “Go to—” She did not finish. She yanked to his feet the little Lincoln, who was sitting there staring in fascination at his assessor. At the author of his new idea. All the way home he was happy. Of course, he had not liked the word “ugly.” But, after all, should he not be used to that by now? What had struck him, among words and meanings he could little understand, was the phrase “the real thing.” He didn’t know quite why, but he liked that. He liked that very much. When he was hurt, too much stared at— too much left alone—he thought about that. He told himself “After all, I’m the real thing.” It comforted him.

Venerable black women You of yesterday, you of today. Black mothers of tomorrow yet to be These lines are homage to you, for you. Magnificent black women The poets and singers have been remiss Have sung too few poems and songs of you And the image makers have not recorded your beauty. Sheba, Nefertiti, Zaiditu, Cleopatra. Black women, Mothers of humanity, Mother original Your black children here salute you. You, bartered, sold, insulted, raped and defiled, Debased and debauched for four centuries. Strong women, Gannet, Tubman and Truth. Weary black women Your breasts gaunt from nurturing theirs first And later sustaining yours, caring for theirs At the same instance providing for yours also. Women forgotten, Mandy, Melindy, Cindy, and Lisa. Gentle black women While being hated, yet teaching love Being scorned, yet teaching respect Being humiliated and teaching Compassion. Humble women, Bessie, Mattie, Lucey, Ann and Willie Mae. Resourceful black women, with tact Managing to make do, alter clothing, Stretch meals, Making room, Prodding, Bolstering Nudging us on, Protecting, teaching survival. Laney, Bethune, Keckley, Terrel and Brown. Militant black women, defending yours with fury Standing firm, picketing and demonstrating Kneeling in, sitting in and wading in Standing, walking, marching and boycotting. Parks, Wells, Pleasant and Louvestre. Discerning black women, women of genius Setting your children a proper example Teaching that each generation must do its part To improve life for those coming after. Nannie, Gaines, Burroughs, Maggie Walker. Courageous black women, brave and fearless Seeking to make a home among the unfriendly Sending your children off to school To pass unscathed through walls of hate. Lucy, Bates, Richardson, and Hamer. Angry black women and understanding Aware of efforts to stunt your men Yet urging them manhood again. Diana, Gloria, Thelma, Ethel, Eva and Marion. Heroic black women, women of glory Not turning back, never giving up Equalling, surpassing the stature Of any race of women, anywhere, any time. Billie, Ella, Dinah, Sis-Sirretta, Mahalia. Black women of genius, brilliant women Walking through the hateful valleys In dignity, strength and such serene composure That even your enemies tremble insecure. Hansberry, Talbert, Bonds and Baker. Magnificent black women, hopeful women Believing that trouble doesn't last always Knowing this truth, that those who are slaves today May well be the masters tomorrow, even sooner. Sisters with all women, black women Your sufferings echo those of all the oppressed. Join together all of you in a universal cry For Peace and the good life for all. The world listens.

Speak the truth to the people Talk sense to the people Free them with honesty Free the people with Love and Courage for their Being Spare them the fantasy Fantasy enslaves A slave is enslaved Can be enslaved by unwisdom Can be re-enslaved while in flight from the enemy Can be enslaved by his brother whom he loves His brother whom he trusts whom he loves His brother whom he trusts His brother with the loud voice And the unwisdom Speak the truth to the people It is not necessary to green the heart Only to identify the enemy It is not necessary to blow the mind Only to free the mind To identify the enemy is to free the mind A free mind has no need to scream A free mind is ready for other things To BUILD black schools To BUILD black children To BUILD black minds To BUILD black love To BUILD black impregnability To BUILD a strong black nation To BUILD Speak the truth to the people Spare them the opium of devil-hate They need no trips on honky-chants. Move them instead to a BLACK ONENESS. A black strength which will defend its own Needing no cacophony of screams for activation A black strength which will attack the laws exposes the lies, disassembles the structure and ravages the very foundation of evil. Speak the truth to the people To identify the enemy is to free the mind Free the mind of the people Speak to the mind of the people Speak Truth

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an unseen power; For my people lending their strength to the years, to the gone years and the now years and the maybe years, washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching dragging along never gaining never reaping never knowing and never understanding; For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss Choomby and company; For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn to know the reasons why and the answers to and the people who and the places where and the days when, in memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we were black and poor and small and different and nobody cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood; For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and play and drink their wine and religion and success, to marry their playmates and bear children and then die of consumption and anemia and lynching; For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy people filling the cabarets and taverns and other people’s pockets and needing bread and shoes and milk and land and money and something—something all our own; For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures who tower over us omnisciently and laugh; For my people blundering and groping and floundering in the dark of churches and schools and clubs and societies, associations and councils and committees and conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches, preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by false prophet and holy believer; For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding, trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people, all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless generations; Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second generation full of courage issue forth; let a people loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now rise and take control.

My baby sister lamented "we can't just let the dressing die with Grandma Somebody need to ask for the recipe" Grandma said "Ain't no recipe but you can watch me" That's the only way I ever learned anything that stuck Ain't no measuring cups or tablespoons gon' guarantee you done sumthin' right You gotta watch You gotta watch and pray I done lost count of how many times I followed every direction only to whip up somethin' I wouldn't feed a stray dog You gotta watch You gotta watch somebody with soul You gotta watch somebody that know what they doin' Watch somebody that ain't read no book ain't wrote no book and still do it better than most Watch somebody that ain't precious 'bout her secrets Somebody that ain't got no secrets Watch somebody that ain't worried 'bout no competition That aint keepin' nothin' from you Watch somebody that give you all the ingredients and know you still ain't gon do it like them Ain't nothin' ever tasted the same made by different hands Ain't no recipe gon' erase your touch Ain't no recipe gon' bring nobody back The tradition ain't the flavor Never has been The tradition is the watching The watching The passing The giving The receiving The letting go Releasing to hands that can still hold tight The holding tight The trusting The trusting The learning to trust your own senses The smelling The tasting The knowing that you watched close That you spent time That you learned right but it still ain't gon' taste quite like grandma's And it never was s'pose to Everyone who loves you wants you to be yourself Everyone who loves you would rather be a legend than a ghost that keeps sayin' you can't do nothin' right Child Don't you know all your Mommas was so proud the moment you decided to learn how to feed yourself How to keep yourself alive