No Strange Fruit After Strange Fruit

After Strange Fruit Old Mrs. Betty Brown sat me down today, Made me listen to an old singer named Billie Holiday. As we listened, I observed the tears swelling in her eyes. “Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze” she looked away at nothing “My Daddy was one of them on that poplar tree.” She added with a bitter tongue and the weight of the world, “Not a betta’ man deserved it none.” She closed her eyes and rocked slowly to the beat She must have travelled back in time. Back to the pain The memories she tried to hide away. “I’ll never forget the smell of fresh magnolia and his burning flesh.” We listened to it over a dozen times, until every word Had been felt like a knife against bone, till it galvanized my soul till the essence of that day was mine to hold too. I could see their twisted mouths and bulging eyes I could see every detail. Every strange fruit hanging. Some Hanging high, some hanging low, some never even ripened, And some plucked by the crows, I agree it was a strange and bitter crop that grows. Old Mrs. Betty Brown sat me down today, “Come, see the scars on my back, or the ones in my heart, then tell me things have changed. I’ve seen this hate before, aint nothin’ changed.” She swayed gently in her chair and didn’t speak again, But her silence was the loudest sound never said in my head.