Perhaps Tomorrow - The Reason for the Season
by
Michelle Roberts, Publisher
So sad how fear, anger and hatred has shaped us. All we children of the second half of the 50s, we who were forever changed by the turmoil around us. Our childhoods were pervaded, marred, even stolen by a violence we were old enough to understand, to feel, but were too young to effect in any meaningful way. I think the single greatest influence on whom I’ve been, who I am and will be, is all the death.
I hid under my school desk, practicing for the coming Russian attack, and Byron De La Beckwith murdered Medgar, in front of his home, in front of his children.
Hope lived, and Dr. King marched on Washington, some 200,000 strong. That was the summer the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church exploded, on a Sunday morning, and four little girls, like me, died, alone, in a bathroom. That one terrified me, and I cried for Denise McNair, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley a long time, still do sometimes. My parents couldn’t explain they couldn’t comfort me; they were in shock; they didn’t understand themselves. I’d only just begun to feel safe again when Camelot was assassinated in Deley Plaza.
Things grew relatively quite for almost a year. I grew up in Denver, somehow it was sheltered from most of the chaos, and therefore, in many ways, so was I. Life had returned to, or at least taken on a new normal. Hope’s flame was brightening again; The Freedom riders were on the road, my brother among them, and Malcolm was there, proud, smart and articulate, to lead. The morning seemed near to dawn. And dawn it did, covered again in blood. James Cheney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner had been tortured and assassinated by members of the Ku Klux Klan. I was so scared, so confused; my big brother was down there somewhere. Its odd looking back now, but it seems the last of my innocence and trust died with them. Childhood perished, my childhood perished on a dark Mississippi road in August of 1964. I wasn’t yet eight.
Malcolm bleed to death on the stage of the Audubon Ballroom; I didn’t cry; I couldn’t. My heart was stone, and my tear ducts were over-drawn.
From then on, it was a blurred onslaught. “Bloody Sunday”, Bull Connor, fire hoses, dogs and Vietnam. The cities burned, the Panthers armed and fed. Grandma insisted “colored”; mom cajoled “negro”, my brother and James Brown shouted, “I’m black and I’m proud.” Hair was natural, fists were raised high. I read “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, and realized that pain, fear and hope didn’t have a damn thing to do with the color of somebody’s skin.
“By any means necessary” became the battle cry, and the cities burned. LBJ signed Executive Order 11246 enforcing affirmative action, and the cities burned. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was cut down on a balcony; Jesse told his first opportunistic lie, and the cities burned. The country groaned a collective prayer. God heard and there was Bobby. Once more we dared to hope, and then…, then I cried. In so many ways, I’ve never stopped; suffering, injustice and mean-spiritedness make my eyes water most every time. I cry a lot.
The year I was 12 Fred Hampton, and Mark Clark were the sleeping victims of a “justifiable police” action by the Chicago police department and the FBI.
Looking back, for as far as I can see, there’s a river of blood; it swells beneath my feet and roars full head into the foreseeable future. I still remember that a tree will push its way through hardened cement for the warmth of the sun and hope of growth, and I wonder why can’t we?
My husband said, “The player’s have changed, but the song is still the same.” What about you; have you looked at your heart lately; when are you going to change the tune? What about me? What about we? There are serious issues to be dealt with in this country, and concrete reasons to be wary, but how many Americans must bleed and die before we finally understand that hate and anger cannot conquer hate and anger, only perpetuate it? It’s too late for me and so many more; our childhood memories are made. But perhaps, together, we can stem the putrid red flow. One day, one of our children will write: “It was the unending hatred and death that shaped me. I remember Columbine, and I saw the towers fall. My big sister went to Iraq, and most of her never came back.”
Hanukkah started two days ago. Yule and Winter Solstice were the twenty-first; there is 1 day ‘til Christmas and 2 days ‘til Kwanzaa. My point is that in less than a week, the whole world will be celebrating the hope and promise of renewal; all will feast and be filled with joy at the coming of the son/sun. Perhaps this coming holy season we can determine to manifest whom/what we celebrate; agree to treat each other with respect? Perhaps we can agree to focus on seeking our sameness and even to reasons to agree? Give a child you’ll never meet a special gift this year; change the world, one I at a time. “Deep in my heart, I do believe…” Just Sayin
