For Genarlow Wilson, Shaquanda Cotton, Marcus Dixon and others: What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black

For the last two days I've had the privilege of participating in a retreat. It was job-related, very enlightening, informative and exhausting. My brain is somewhat fried from information overload and I will share some of the wonderful ideas, thoughts, movements, etc. that I took away from the activity.

The poem below was recited by one of the speakers and I'll definitely introduce you to her very soon. But, in light of all that is happening to Genarlow Wilson and happened to Shaquanda Cotton, Marcus Dixon and many others, this poem is very fitting...

What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black What shall I tell my children who are black Of what it means to be a captive in this dark skin? What shall I tell my dear one, fruit of my womb, of how beautiful they are when everywhere they turn they are faced with abhorrence of everything that is black. The night is black and so is the boogyman. Villains are black with black hearts. A black cow gives no milk. A black hen lays no eggs. Storm clouds, black, black is evil and evil is black and devil's food is black... What shall I tell my dear ones raised in a white world A place where white has been made to represent all that is good and pure and fine and decent, where clouds are white and dolls, and heaven surely is a white, white place with angels robed in white, and cotton candy and ice cream and milk and ruffled Sunday dresses and dream houses and long sleek cadillacs and Angel's food is white... all, all... white. What can I say therefore, when my child Comes home in tears because a playmate Has called him black, big lipped, flatnosed and nappy headed? What will he think when I dry his tears and whisper, "Yes, that's true. But no less beautiful and dear." How shall I lift up his head, get him to square his shoulders, look his adversaries in the eye, confident in the knowledge of his worth. Serene under his sable skin and proud of his own beauty? What can I do to give him strength That he may come through life's adversities As a whole human being unwarped and human in a world Of biased laws and inhuman practices, that he might Survive. And survive he must! For who knows? Perhaps this black child here bears the genius To discover the cure for... cancer Or to chart the course for exploration of the universe. So, he must survive for the the good of all humanity. He must and will survive. I have drunk deeply of late from the fountain of my black culture, sat at the knee of and learned from mother Africa, discovered the truth of my heritage. The truth, so often obscured and omitted. And I find I have much to say to my black children. I will lift up their heads in proud blackness with the story of their fathers and their father's fathers. And I shall take them into a way back time of kings and queens who ruled the Nile, and measured the stars and discovered the laws of mathematics. I will tell them of a black people upon whose backs have been built the wealth of three continents. I will tell him this and more. And knowledge of his heritage shall be his weapon and his armor; It will make him strong enough to win any battle he may face. And since this story is so often obscured, I must sacrifice to find it for my children, even as I sacrifice to feed, clothe and shelter them. So this I will do for them if I love them. None will do it for me. I must find the truth of heritage for myself and pass it on to them. In years to come, I believe because I have armed them with the truth, my children and their children's children will venerate me. For it is the truth that will make us free!

By Dr Margaret Burroughs (http://www.thehistorymakers.com/biography/biography.asp?bioindex=39&category=artMakers), the founder of the DuSable Museum of African American History and Art in Chicago, IL, the first Black museum in the United States