When Did You Feel It? On the Movement of Black Motherhood
Happy Black History Month!
I am so thrilled to share one of my favorite long-form poems from my book IN A HIGH PLACE: Black Motherhood and a Woman Rising entitled, MOVING MOTHERHOOD.
For more than a few years we’ve seen Black mothers across the country stand in front of cameras, march in crowds, give interviews pouring out their heartache and pain as their children were taken from them at the hands of the police. I have had this stirring in my heart, after writing the poem about Trayvon Martin (on page 52), to write a poem about Black motherhood within the movement; A movement they didn’t ask to be a part of and would prefer to have never been launched into the spotlight under these circumstances.
Black people are a group of people who rarely use the phrase “that would never happen to me” because we see one another from a collective experience. We exemplify the scripture in Romans 12:15 that says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn.” I’ve thought about this scripture often, especially over the last two years, as we’ve experienced our own variations of loss. While I never watched the video of George Floyd’s murder, hearing how [some non-POC] people were moved to action and reflection after hearing him use his final breath to call out to his mother, I began to wonder why did it take that moment for some people to feel the pain we’ve been expressing since slavery. It was equally intriguing to ponder as it was frustrating to witness this sudden moment of clarity.
Motherhood moves us.
Whether you have children or not, we all have mothers or mother figures who have shaped our experiences and our identity. We have stood in our roles as Aunts, Sisters, God Mothers to children we adore deeply and their existence moves us.
While writing this piece I had one question that served as the foundation for the piece and it was,
When did you feel it?
From that one question, I began thinking about Black mothers in all art forms. Black mothers have taught us lessons and allowed us to hear their hearts, feel their pain, and embrace their joy as they love us beyond this earth. From the Black mothers on tv, those who are authors, singers, and those who have lost their babies at the hands of police brutality there’s threading in our stories as we see ourselves in the heartbeat of another woman.
Art should move us in some way. Make us feel what we’ve tried to bury. Help us see what we’ve chosen to cover our eyes and avoid. May you use this year to feel in a deeper way and find beauty in the stories Black mothers are sharing all over the world. It is in the stories of other women that we find solace in knowing we aren’t alone in this journey.
Perhaps it was when Nona waved an earring in Quincy’s face reminding him about
having fast-ass girls in her house. Or perhaps when Claire had to rebuke The
Wretched and a night of Big Fun. Or maybe we felt it when Vy sent her son to live
with his Aunty and Uncle in Bel Air. Maybe it was when Harriette Winslow
reminded us that we are leadHERs, organizeHERs, mediatHERs, managing the
next generation of world changers.
Did you feel it when Florida waved a bat at a group of thugs saying, don’t touch
him or I’ll break every bone in your body? What about when she gave in to her
grief at the death of her husband and cried Damn Damn Damn!
Because ours is a journey of protecting––navigating the unknown while knowing it
all. It’s a journey of fear searching for faith. Recognizing that faith is the assurance
of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen.
Ours is a spiritual journey. Being and getting aligned to fulfill our call. Recognizing
the mantle we carry, the light we exude, the power we hold in hands used to
celebrate, declare, wave and embrace. It’s a beauty in the story. Sun-kissed skin
from the lips of the Son.
Even in grief, our hearts sing hallelujah.
It’s in Maya’s Letters to my Daughter. In Toni’s journey Home–Searching for tears
to weep for her son. It’s in Aretha’s Little Prayer. It’s in Roberta’s first glance. It’s in
Imani Perry’s Letter to my Son. As we breathe life into places burned and
wounded by the world. It’s in the reminiscing in Mother to Son. In Lauryn’s tribute
to Zion, in Erykah’s Orange Moon, and in the Jahraymecofasola rhythm in Jill’s
heart as she searches...
As we all search...
But did you hear it when Sybrina Fulton declared her run for public office? Her
pain meeting a determination to be the change in her community. Did you hear it
when Lesly McSpadden refused to be silenced? When she tore open and revealed
her bare heart as we cried in her arms in disappointment and rage. Or maybe you
heard it when Tamika Palmer had to wait over one hundred days for her
daughter’s murderers to be arrested. Crying on her shoulder as we imagined our
own sisters and daughters. Perhaps the picture became clearer when you heard it
in Samaria Rice’s determination when she said we need to tell a different story as
gazebos of death became a monument of art––giving us a more open view.
But what a deafening sound it was when we all heard the cry, Mama,
on a street unfamiliar,
from a man unknown,
from a knee undeniable—
a reflection of the system,
a reflection of the oppression,
a reflection of the books closed,
a reflection of the songs silenced,
a reflection of the movement paused
and yet Mama couldn’t come...
References:
Nona- Love and Basketball Movie
Claire- The Cosby Show series
Vy- The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air series
Harriette- Family Matters series
Florida- Good Times series
Maya Angelou- Letters To My Daughter
Toni Morrison- Home
Aretha Franklin- Say A Little Prayer song
Roberta Flack- The First Time I Saw Your Face song
Imani Perry- Breathe: A Letter To My Sons
Lauryn Hill- Zion song
Erykah Badu- Orange Moon song
Jill Scott- Jahraymecofasola song
Sybrina Fulton- Mother of Trayvon Martin
Lesly McSpadden- Mother of Michael Brown
Tamika Palmer- Mother of Breonna Taylor
Samaria Rice- Mother of Tamir Rice
mama- George Floyd