Last of a three-part series
Re “Why I Love Being Black, Part 2”
[img]583|left|||no_popup[/img]In any tribute to Dr. King, we also celebrate the African American culture – a new culture, conceived in pain, delivered into turmoil and baptized in a sea of deprivation.
We celebrate a culture only now in the spring of its development, yet a culture that has managed to combine the wisdom, strength and spirituality of its African origins with the sophistication, knowledge and creative intellect of its new- found home.
One week after King Day, let us gaze upon the mountain top, inspired by the knowledge that our reach no longer exceeds our grasp. Let us dedicate our lives to leaving the world better than we found it. While we take a furtive look back, let it not be in anger but with a resolve, a sense of pride at what we have overcome. During this time, let us take one moment to thank God that Martin, this humble and spiritual black man, was allowed to walk among us.
Finally, let us take a moment to listen to our hearts as they murmur, free at last, every man, woman and child. Free at last, from the sandy beaches of California to the shores of Maine. Free at last from America’s shores to the tiniest village in Zimbabwe.
Thank God Almighty we are free at last.
“Awaken My Child and Behold”
I now stand firm. My dedication to the power of knowledge is the platform upon which my podium rests. I stand firm, strong and now free, free of anger, free of self-delusion, free of the folly of empty vanity, and free of the pernicious bane of meaningless pride without substance.
I now stand free to look upon the eyes of other men, reflecting dignity over sorrow, accomplishment over pain; I stand with a burning passion, fueled by the very flame that forged ancestral shackles, with a deep sense of pride, and a pride that flows deep.
I now stand erect. The steel that once degraded my father, that chained him in bondage to this bitter earth, now reinforces my character, making me more rather than less; and the blood and sweat that once drenched his brow and oozed from the yoke around his neck, now rage with resolve and a sense of purpose, and tremble with passion within my burning breast.
I now stand as a new being, neither simply African, nor simply American, but a hybrid forced to transcend the sum of my parts; no longer simply African, since being torn away from the African motherland to suffer and toil in the fields of America, and more than simply American after being forced to be more than simply American, Just to survive within the bowels of this prosperous land.
Thus, I stand now armed, armed with the wisdom of deprivation, the courage of my conviction and a deep conviction of my courage; fortified with the confidence of a survivor, the empowerment of knowledge and a ravishing hunger for greatness.
I now stand as the product of love, struggle and sacrifice, a witness to man's inhumanity to man, and a monument to the hopes and dreams of a million slaves. I stand embraced by my creator, as God now smiles upon my people.
Yes, I now stand firm, firm black and free.
“Thank you, Lord. I knew a change was a comin'. That boy talk wit enough schoolin' to live in town someday – if they ever let 'em.
“What? . . . President! . . . of the United States! . . . Georgia, too?
“Oh, my God! How long I been dead?”
Eric L. Wattree is a writer, poet and musician, born in Los Angeles. A columnist for the Los Angeles Sentinel, the Black Star News, a staff writer for Veterans Today, he is a contributing writer to Your Black World, the Huffington Post, ePluribus Media and other online sites and publications. He also is the author of “A Message From the Hood.” Mr. Wattree may be contacted at wattree.blogspot.com or Ewattree@Gmail.com
