You Call Us: My Tribute to John Lewis
Who will trouble the waters now;
who will uphold the moral arc of the universe?
Who will swing it towards justice
in our political environment?
Who will speak Truth to Power;
Truth to Justice,
your accent dripping
with the thickness of southern molasses,
the platelets of Black blood clotting
in southern cotton fields,
on the bridge of Alabama.
Black sweat and blood pooling
in the rice paddies of South Carolina,
inside the urban factories of northern cities,
and on the streets of St. Louis and Tulsa
that once witnessed Black pogroms,
and most recently in the burning streets of Minneapolis
where Black people, and others, protest police brutality?
Who will remind us
that the very same police violence,
which fractured your skull,
though separated by generations and time,
is the same historic and ever-present,
white supremacist police action
that asphyxiated George Floyd — knee on neck,
and riddled the bodies of Black women,
like Sandra Bland, Breonna Taylor, and Atitiana Jefferson,
with bullets brimming with hatred.
And let us not forget
the oh so many suspicious Black deaths
while in police custody.
But John Lewis,
you are still with us.
Your stoic and passionate commitment
reminds us,
“because of you, we are.”
And therefore, we hear your voice.
It whispers in the wind,
when we march.
We hear you
when we protest injustice,
wherever it rears its ugly head.
We hear you,
every time we cast a ballot to vote.
And we must hear you,
scolding and scornful,
rebuking us,
troubling our conscience,
if we do not vote;
if we follow the complacent road of inaction;
if we allow ourselves to be complicit
in racial hatred and anti-blackness;
if we are complicit in tolerating oppression
of anyone anywhere for
or any kind of “isms.”
Your body is still now.
True. Death is your final sanctuary.
But rest assured,
your strong voice
forever calls to us
from the past,
from the grave,
from your deeds and words,
from the political positions you took,
popular and unpopular,
yet always guided by righteous principles.
Your voice resounds;
it calls to us
whenever
we need inspiration.
It reminds us
that change is possible
and real democracy
is with our grasp.
We must
reach higher,
like you.
Always towards the stars.
Always towards the impossible dream
of freedom.
We come from the people
who could fly,
We come from people
who troubled the waters,
and chose death over enslavement,
who chose survival in the face of brutality.
We are their descendants.
You are their descendant.
Today we honor you
and practice your dance
of “good trouble.”
And to be sure,
we will pass these steps on
for generations to come.
(7/30/2020)
© 2020 Irma McClaurin
