PRISONER EXPRESS

First of all, this day does not come around but every four years, so try and understand what I am saying while it's available. Secondly, I am not calling you "son" because you shine, I am calling you "son" because you're mine. Therefore, in no way should this letter be construed as an apology, what has transpired has simply transpired...it's what we do with the information we have learned that really matters.

The day before yesterday you seemed to have a slight problem with me correcting you on the use of the word "cracker" in reference to that white guy. It's words and behaviors that were carried on from slavery days and really seem to irk me when it comes to the way we relate to one another (as my mother pointed out to me on a number of occasions). In this instant, when she heard me use that word she bade me not to, saying, "Well, when the overseer would have an encounter with an unruly slave, he would threaten him by saying, "I'm gonna go get that crack'a," talking about that ole whip.

There is so much in our behaviors that we unconsciously do that derives from those days. Let me give you another example, pimping. In those days it was prestigious for one of the field hands to have one of the house females to have a crush on him. That way, he would be able to get the scraps off the mastas table, or she may even be able to steal him a warm blanket. That also reminds me of the time that my mother watched me approaching the house and pleaded with me not to walk the way I did. I walked with a dip, my arms swinging as I leaned to my right side. We would refer to that walk as "pimping." She scolded me, saying that was the way that a slave would walk when he was given something the other slaves did not have.

Then I look at the hood and see that shape that it's in, brothers killing brothers. They're so easily manipulated by the powers that be; turning on each other, snitching and setting each other up for busts. Then there's these "home invasions." I know you've heard over and over again how we used to leave our doors open, or sleep out on the porch on hot summer nights. I don't see how we got away from all that, but I do know this for a fact. There was a great fear that was in the hearts of plantation owners that one day the slaves would wake up and rebel. So there was a guy names "Willie Lynch" who would, on the banks of the James River, address a multitude of plantation owners with instructions on making a slave and keeping him a slave for years to come. I am not going to go into detail because it would take away from my point. But in essence, he was pitting the lighter slaves against the darker, distinguishing house hands from field hands. It is an old trick called "divide and conquer." And just as Lynch had predicted, this plan had us enslaved even after 200 some years.

One of the biggest problems that he has left us with is the separation of families. When a man and a woman got together it was for the purpose of breeding only. Once there was some affection shown, or the couple was getting close, the other was sold to another plantation. The children were sold away with no remorse. Even after slavery, I recall in early 1960 when my mother was expecting a social worker from the welfare department to come make her routine visit. She would come and make sure that there was nothing of value in the house, no car, no television, and definitely no husband. I recall the worker coming unexpectedly and my dad having to run out the back door. It was like a game to us, but a serious one. The rules to the game were, don't open the door to white people and don't answer any questions, act dumber than you really are. To lose at this game was costly.

This same mentality was carried off into our schools. See son, there was a time that something as simple as learning to read was a death sentence, or if the plantation owner found that rare compassion, the one trying to lead was sold off to another plantation that was so, so far away that the chances of ever seeing family members again was a mere fantasy. Then it was the label of being called "uppity" that hindered us from reading or trying to learn skills beyond the basic academic. At times when we used words with more than three syllables we were accused of "trying to sound white." It was made to seem as though it were cool not to know, having to rely on Mista' Charlie to instruct us on everything.

Look, I ain't writing in an attempt to make any excuses, nor, as I said, am trying to apologize to you, for me or any other perpetrator of these behaviors. I will leave you with the advice that an old storyteller told me when I was young. There was this old man who would walk up this little winding road, every day. And each day, without fail, two little boys would meet him along this road and try to trick him. One day the little boys found an injured bird on the roadside. The oldest boy picked up the bird saying, "Ah, I got this old man now!" His plan was to cup the poor bird in his hand. He would then ask the old man if the thing in his hand was dead or alive. Now if the old man said that it was alive, he was going to squish it in his hands, killing it. Now, if he said that it was dead, he would open his hand and show the old man that it was alive, freeing the bird.

Soon after finding the injured bird and agreeing to such a clever plan to finally trick this old man, they spotted him coming around a bend in the road. Once he approached the oldest boy asked, "Old man, I have something in my hand, tell me, is it dead or alive." The old man scratched his chin and examined the cupped hand and noticed the feathers between the little boy's fingers.

In an almost teary and trembling voice he said, "Son, what you have in your hands is a life. Now, what you choose to do with it is up to you."