I didn't cry last night. I was too in shock and mesmerized by the sight of Jesse Jackson crying and the sound of John Lewis's choked up voice to allow myself to.
But I cried now. For Ossie Davis not being here. For Dr. King. For Bobby Kennedy and for the thousands of other folks long dead who worked so hard for this day.
I was blessed to have a Native American father who fought the cancer of racism in his own quiet way. He took me at age twelve to the march on Washington. He raised us to believe all people were brothers. I wish he could have been here today. He would have been so proud of America.
Thanks, brother. I was perhaps over-vehement with Freddie last night after they called it for Obama, explaining how the duration of my life encompasses almost exactly the arc from Rosa Parks to Barack, and how deeply it affected me my whole life through. How the events of last night were a culmination, a purgation, of something that has lasted literally my entire lifetime, and which has eaten at my soul in some form or other the whole time.
He was a little taken aback at my passion -- but he gave me a particularly enthusiastic terrorist fist-bump this morning on the way to the schoolbus. God, I love that kid.
You know, I welled up a little during the acceptance speech, but mostly out of relief, and a little bit out of confusion over what it was I was feeling. But the thing that finally turned the waterworks on full-force for me, was the pic here second from the bottom, of him leading his two daughters by the hand out onto that stage in Chicago. You see, I've got daughters, and well, shit... here I go again...
I carry the name of my Grandfather, a wobblie and union organizer who died the year I was born.
He marched with Mother Jones and endured beatings and terror from Pinkertons and other assorted goons.
He raised my Father and his 6 siblings to have aspiration and love in their lives.
In the early teens of the last century, he stood on the podium at a union meeting in our town and faced down the local Klan organizer, telling him "Sir, we are all black down in the mine."
This story and dozens more like it have sustained my progressive belief all my life. It is the reason I made public political action part of the daily business of my bookshop.
Tell Freddie he carries a PROUD and powerful name. We are the peaceful chieftans, the leaders from the heart.
5 comments:
Thanks for posting this. Wish Ossie Davis were here today.
God, Neddie. Thank you....
I didn't cry last night. I was too in shock and mesmerized by the sight of Jesse Jackson crying and the sound of John Lewis's choked up voice to allow myself to.
But I cried now. For Ossie Davis not being here. For Dr. King. For Bobby Kennedy and for the thousands of other folks long dead who worked so hard for this day.
I was blessed to have a Native American father who fought the cancer of racism in his own quiet way. He took me at age twelve to the march on Washington. He raised us to believe all people were brothers. I wish he could have been here today. He would have been so proud of America.
Handdrummer...
Thanks, brother. I was perhaps over-vehement with Freddie last night after they called it for Obama, explaining how the duration of my life encompasses almost exactly the arc from Rosa Parks to Barack, and how deeply it affected me my whole life through. How the events of last night were a culmination, a purgation, of something that has lasted literally my entire lifetime, and which has eaten at my soul in some form or other the whole time.
He was a little taken aback at my passion -- but he gave me a particularly enthusiastic terrorist fist-bump this morning on the way to the schoolbus. God, I love that kid.
You know, I welled up a little during the acceptance speech, but mostly out of relief, and a little bit out of confusion over what it was I was feeling. But the thing that finally turned the waterworks on full-force for me, was the pic here second from the bottom, of him leading his two daughters by the hand out onto that stage in Chicago. You see, I've got daughters, and well, shit... here I go again...
I am a Fred as well.
I carry the name of my Grandfather, a wobblie and union organizer who died the year I was born.
He marched with Mother Jones and endured beatings and terror from Pinkertons and other assorted goons.
He raised my Father and his 6 siblings to have aspiration and love in their lives.
In the early teens of the last century, he stood on the podium at a union meeting in our town and faced down the local Klan organizer, telling him "Sir, we are all black down in the mine."
This story and dozens more like it have sustained my progressive belief all my life. It is the reason I made public political action part of the daily business of my bookshop.
Tell Freddie he carries a PROUD and powerful name. We are the peaceful chieftans, the leaders from the heart.
Blessings to him and you.
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