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(Thinking of Lorraine Hansberry)

We must say it all, and as clearly
Trying to bury us.
As we can.
For, even before we are dead, Were we black? Were we women? Were we gay? Were we the wrong shade of black? Were we yellow? Did we, God forbid, love the wrong person, country? Or politics? Were we Agnes Smedley or John Brown? But, most of all, did we write exactly what we saw, As clearly as we could? Were we unsophisticated Enough to cry and scream? Well, then, they will fill our eyes, Our ears, our noses and our mouths With the mud Of oblivion.
They will chew up Our fingers in the night.
They will pick Their teeth with our pens.
They will sabotage Both our children And our art.
Because when we show what we see, They will discern the inevitable: We do not worship them.
We do not worship them.
We do not worship what they have made.
We do not trust them.
We do not believe what they say.
We do not love their efficiency.
Or their power plants.
We do not love their factories.
Or their smog.
We do not love their television programs.
Or their radioactive leaks.
We find their papers boring.
We do not worship their cars.
We do not worship their blondes.
We do not worship their penises.
We do not think much Of their Renaissance We are indifferent to England.
We have grave doubts about their brains.
In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance Or sing Share the intelligence and thus the fate Of all our people In this land.
We are not different from them, Neither above nor below, Outside nor inside.
We are the same.
And we do not worship them.
We do not worship them.
We do not worship their movies.
We do not worship their songs.
We do not think their newscasts Cast the news.
We do not admire their president.
We know why the White House is white.
We do not find their children irresistible; We do not agree they should inherit the earth.
But lately you have begun to help them Bury us.
You who said: King was just a womanizer; Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry, A traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer, merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer: reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor; Agnes Smedley, a spy.
I look into your eyes; You are throwing in the dirt.
You, standing in the grave With me.
Stop it! Each one must pull one.
Look, I, temporarily on the rim Of the grave, Have grasped my mother's hand My father's leg.
There is the hand of Robeson Langston's thigh Zora's arm and hair Your grandfather's lifted chin And lynched woman's elbow What you've tried to forget Of your grandmother's frown.
Each one, pull one back into the sun We who have stood over So many graves Know that no matter what they do All of us must live Or none.

Poem by Alice Walker
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