Seeing the exhibits and watching the videos nearly brought me to tears. Also knowing inside that not very much has changed in this country for Black Americans yet we persevere.
Tarabu Betserai Kirkland at home in Los Angeles with his mother, Mamie Lang Kirkland, 109, who fled Mississippi at age seven. 2017. (Photo: Kris Graves for the Equal Justice Initiative)
My Grandfather William Junius Palmer with some of his children at Mt. Morris Park aka Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem. Photo taken in the 1920s. My Grandfather left Virginia as a young man. He was part of what is known as The Great Migration. Lynchings were the major catalyst to caused Black Americans to be refugees in their own country. My Dad told me that my Grandfather never discussed his youth or his past.
My Grandfather’s Silence speaks volumes to me over the years.
I recall Dayton, Ohio. The alleyways in back of vacant houses. Recall Ohio with the Heart of the Miami Valley. Dayton, Ohio ~ My mother’s hometown.
My Mom, Mable Elizabeth Palmer
Wright-Patterson Air-force Base where Mable met Edward, Freeing her from strutting Jim-Crow every day torments, misery, agony, murder. Daily degradation, Escape is imminent. Mable was Harlem bound.
Mable Elizabeth Palmer
Tornado swept clean. Where have the Ohio Players gone? Recall Ohio sitting on the porch with Grandma Hattie watching time stand still.
Recall Ohio as a firstborn from New York. I see Dayton, Ohio through the eyes of the Prodigal daughter who never returned.
Stolen voices and lyrics trapped in Memories web. Every so often a melody escapes to be hummed endlessly until it returns to the fold. Missing thoughts and recent reminiscences struggle to be heard through a tangle of intersecting snarling synapses all vying for entrance into my cerebral highway. I beat my head against my hands then someone puts a record on the old Victrola and it all comes back to me. Ella Fitzgerald – “A-Tisket, A-Tasket” (1938)http://youtu.be/fDt5sxizup8
A-tisket, a-tasket A brown and yellow basket I sent a letter to my mommy On the way, I dropped it I dropped it, I dropped it Yes, on the way I dropped it A little girlie picked it up And put it in her pocket She was truckin’ on down the avenue But not a single thing to do She went peck, peck, pecking all around When she spied it on the ground She took it, she took it My little yellow basket And if she doesn’t bring it back I think that I will die A-tisket, a-tasket I lost my yellow basket And if that girlie don’t return it Don’t know what I’ll do Oh dear, I wonder where my basket can be (So do we, so do we, so do we, so do we, so do we) Oh gee, I wish that little girl, I could see (So do we, so do we, so do we, so do we, so do we) Oh, why was I so careless with that basket of mine? That itty bitty basket was a joy of mine A-tisket, a-tasket I lost my yellow basket Won’t someone help me find my basket And make me happy again, again? (Was it green?) No, no, no, no (Was it red?) No, no, no, no (Was it blue?) No, no, no, no Just a little yellow basket A little yellow basket
Skip. Skip. Scratch. Pop. Basket. So do we. Basket. So do we. Girl. Yellow. Mnemosyne Bring it back. Bring it back. Mommy I Lost it. Please forgive me.
The Forest in Winter at Sunset by Theodore Rousseau
While I was composing this I thought about my Aunt Helen who got Alzheimers at age 87. She passed away from a stroke at age 89. I used to help her with shopping and she knew she was losing her short term memory. The Colliding Title, song & painting all symbolize the internal collision within the brain. Anyone with an elderly relative who has Alzheimer will understand this poem. I tried to mimic the persons mind. My Aunts and parents were from the Greatest Generation. Surviving Jim Crow, the Great Depression and WWII. For those who are still here Life’s a Trip to The Make Believe Ballroom. Hats off to them!!
Black in America ~ Kujichagulia — Self–Determination
Obsidian Ebony Sioux Blackfoot Visions
Stephen and I in December 1961.
My family ranges from pale white with blue eyes to Darkest Black. However I really had no idea of my Rainbow family until Aunts passed away and then when my father died in 1995. Then I was confronted with somebody who had white skin and blue eyes saying that they were my cousins. I always knew my Paternal Grandfather had been married twice but it was then that I realized his first wife must have been white. That was probably the real reason he left Petersburg, VA and moved to New York during the early 1900s…
As a child during the 1960s, I remember being called Tar Baby. I remember my mother who was light-skinned but who suffered under Jim Crow in Dayton, Ohio saying, “If You’re white you’re alright. If your Brown stick around. If you’re Black Get Back!” Every day on the playground of a Black school Black kids would taunt me. Tar Baby! African! Monkey! I came home crying every day. My Dad who was Dark-Skinned always told me, “The Blacker the Berry the Sweeter the Juice. If the berry’s too light it has no use.” That would give me comfort.
Defiant precocious DeBorah
However it took decades before I was comfortable in my Black skin. But the pigeon holing by the Black Community, My Community was very evident in the 60s and 70s when I was coming of age. I don’t have what many Black people define as African features. Whatever that means. From a child even until now Black people, white people and other Peoples of Color will ask me if I’m part Native American. The answer to that question is Yes but if they looked closely at the African continent they’d find Black people with all manner of varied facial features. But nobody does. They just assume.
My Speech. My Dad taught me to speak what he called “The King’s English.” Slang was not allowed in our home. As a result Black people say I sound like I’m white or that I speak proper. Excuse me but aren’t we all supposed to speak English instead of Ebonics?! White people say I’m very articulate (unsaid ~ “for a Black person) It’s a No Win situation.
First Dance with My Father
The kinky nappy hair did not help. I was called Brillo pad. There was the evil straightening comb with Dixie Peach and Ultra Sheen (hair grease). My Mom telling me to bend my head so she could get to my “Kitchen.” My hair was so thick, teeth broke out of combs my mother attempted on my Kinapps. Then came 1972 when my Dad decided that I was going to get an Afro. Watu Wasuri Use Afro Sheen. Then I was Beautiful. Angela Davis Black Panther Party Soul Train Beautiful. In the 80s I surrendered to Jheri Curl Juice. Since then I’ve been pig-tailed, relaxed, braided, loc’ed and now with my not so thick Menopausal hair I’ve returned home to my Afro. Not as Fierce. Somewhat wiry and thanks to L’Oreal always colored various shades of red.
The new stigma for me now, Ageism. Being a Black Woman over 50 who thanks to that once hated Dark Skin now is grateful because Black Don’t Crack!
1961- A Very Good YearLittle MeMMC 2002 GraduationVictory Salute at Seven Bell Fitness Gym
My father’s family has attempted to demonize my mother but though she was a woman troubled by the many demons schizophrenia forces into residence inside your head she loved us more than she loved herself.
Despite some of the trauma I went through as a child over all I had a good childhood. Funny how when you get older you put things in perspective plus some of the illnesses your parents have visited your doorstep.
Mable Elizabeth Palmer — DeBorah Ann Palmer
How do you quash a lie that seems to gain new life and resurrect with every generation? The Past, we often seek to bury it but only succeed in hiding it but like the undead its gnarled dirt encrusted six fingered rips off the death shroud, tears off the lid of the casket and pushes through layers of earth to reveal itself.
Out of the smiling photos of the 50s and 60s I’m a mini-me of my Dad with his full toothy grin and that twinkle in his eye always reading to play a practical joke or mimic the scary monster from Chiller Theater but I’m internally composed of my mother’s keen powers of observation and dry humor that served her well in dealing with challenging situations.
Betrayed by the playmates of my youth Condemned to an endless purgatory search for love, acceptance & belonging.
Wandering A Wasteland Of sorrow and disappointments, seeking and desiring a bond that never truly existed.
We who have been cast out from the tribe abandoned only to know longing but never fulfillment. Trapped by lies and falsehoods that should have long been discarded. Caught in an emotional web of deceit hoping for escape, a kind of salvation, a type of redemption. Oh where is my savior who will rescue and mend my broken soul. Locks shorn, sitting in sackcloth and ashes I await the delivering Angel of Death.
My Mom passed away in August 1998 but with all the 2012 drama I’ve felt closer to her than ever before. I believe she is speaking through me charging me to tell her story. Her spirit and mine are one flesh, our souls are reconciled one to another, the veil of death lifted for a time such as this. The small town girl born in Davy, WV, raised in Jim Crow, Dayton, Ohio who marries the big city boy (my Dad Edward Palmer) from Harlem, USA. The battle began when a small town country girl vs the sophistication of the Harlem Niggrati or what we now call Ghetto Fabulous. She was the cornerstone rejected and misunderstood by her husband’s family.
Way back then they was not knowing that cells have genetic memory. The in-laws tried to make the simple girl from Dayton, Ohio into a pariah after the birth of their disabled son but the reality of the discourse was not to be. I’m here to cease the motion of 15 years of lies, fable, tall tales and innuendos. I exist to give validation to the voice that was never heard. The child Stephen fertilized with essence seed from without the boundaries had come to save us. His is the seed of many generations back, the DNA that coalesces make believes with reality. His earthly soul is subject to the confines of this life’s limitations but Stephen’s spirit soars with the Angels whose quest is to serve the Lord.
Mable was held in a panorama spun by coveted lovers, who were harlots through celibacy making death a closer journey to Heaven.
With this confession my Mother’s Soul residing within me is at rest. She rages no more, her anguish has been extinguished.
My mother and I share broken lives, shattered in similar places we cut ourselves on shards of pain, our fractured lives seeking to mend.
Now I attempt to retrieve the scattered pieces, seeking to restore the jigsaw puzzle of Isis, long in disarray, bent and twisted from misuse, abuse and false accusations. Fraying the edges making impossible even imperfect fits.
Sitting across from her flesh & blood ghost, linking hands we grant each other absolution long sought from others outside our circle but only possible for us, from us.
In retrospect I have become her, a woman of strength, fortitude, courage, virtue and character; strong willed and loyal to a point.
My mother taught us basic human decency, a trait sorely lacking in many children and adults.
After I graduated from college at age 43, actually even before that I battled depression. I’ve been hooked on all types of anti-depressants, pain killers and have an off and on dalliance with drink. By the way doctors and therapists knowingly make drug addicts out of their patients. I stopped taking all my anti-depressant medicines in 2007. As you know medical science has since proved those medications turn you into a zombie and cause depression/suicidal thoughts. I’d rather be depressed and a functioning human being than a suicidal zombie.
Now I not only understand but know what my mother felt. Even though my Mom had been gone for years I’m closer to her than ever before, because I’m more like her. In a way I am her and me at the same time.
In the ensuing years since that incident I too have battled depression. I have attempted suicide several times as recently as earlier this year. The demons are forever with me. However they are held at bay through faith in God, prayer and my brother Stephen.
Stephen has become my earthly salvation, my reason for being. How can I leave my beautiful brother alone on this earth knowing that for him the earth, moon, stars and sun revolve around me? Whenever he sees me his whole face lights up. When the workers at his residence or his teachers at his day treatment program ask him Stevie who’s that? He proudly answers my sister. One day I was feeling really down, depressed and discouraged and Stephen’s group home called to tell me they were coming by for me to sign some paperwork. I met the van outside and before the worker could place the papers into my hands Stephen leapt out the van and gave me a big hug! I was pleasantly surprised because people with autism are not really physically expressive. Stephen hugs but usually gingerly. This time he gave it his all. Somehow he must have known or God told him that I needed that hug.
To any of the doctors who might be reading this today and originally diagnosed Stephen back in 1963, Stephen has a job which he loves, enjoys living in his group home, participates in many social activities, has had girlfriends, etc… Yes Stephen has broken barriers. The barriers of doubt and labels from the medical community and from society.
My Mom Mable Elizabeth Palmer finally received the medication she needed in 1995 after my Dad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. My father Edward Palmer passed away on May 13, 1995. Mom and I were left with each other. The medicine cleared her mind so we could really get to know one another. I asked her why. She said I was overwhelmed. I understood. By then I was an adult woman in my 30s. My mother and I made peace with each other and became good friends. Alas this paradise of togetherness only lasted three years. Cancer claimed Mommy August 2, 1998 sending my life into a tailspin from which I’m just now beginning to recover.
Tarabu Betserai Kirkland at home in Los Angeles with his mother, Mamie Lang Kirkland, 109, who fled Mississippi at age seven. 2017. (Photo: Kris Graves for the Equal Justice Initiative)
Dindga McCannon (American, born 1947). Revolutionary Sister, 1971. Mixed media construction on wood
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 