all photos: flickr cc Dave Pape

Its 3:22 p.m on Monday, November 17th. I live New York City but my mind, my mind is in Ferguson. All day, several times today I’ve scrolled through my news feed waiting for the news. So far…nothing. But the National Guard is on alert and local and nationwide people are preparing for the grand jury’s verdict.

I’m trying to not make Ferguson about me. But it is. #BlackLivesMatter

Since Last Thursday I’ve sat with the feelings behind this post. Chewed the cud like a cow on what I would say if asked. What I would say when the decision comes down. How I’ll tell my teen-aged son that another unarmed black man was shot and killed and no one will go to jail for it. The precedent set says it’s not a crime to kill unarmed black men. Or maybe it is, but try it, you’ll probably get away with it. A lot about this world scares me.

I’m trying not to make Ferguson about me but it is.

So I can’t write the Jesus is love, let’s move on in prayer post. Although that is what I will do. My faith is built on Christ’s finished works on the cross. And grace. Anything going on or not going on is no surprise to Him. Not even this post. But there is room, even grace for my holy righteous anger. Christians can be angry too.

So I’ll write what drums out of my heart. Blow fresh wind on a dream deferred. Beat the hope I need out of a drum. I’ll cry and teach my children to love. I’ll pray.

♥♥♥

I closed the screen last night, the bright white light from my iPad having finally won the battle with my eyes. I took off my glasses, resting my face between my palms. I remembered a feeling I had on the train the other day.

I took a ride on an iron horse in the belly of the beast. The New York City subway to be exact. It’s chauffeured me around the city all my life. From dance class to museum, to school. Uptown, down town, across town but always, always home. Not today. Today it feels like the Amistad.

I found myself and my girls 3 of only 4 people of color on a crowded train in Harlem headed downtown. Gentrification will do that. We hopped on, the doors closed and suddenly, my soul remembered.

His name was Bongo, a percussion specialist and teacher for the Board of Education. In his free time he gave impromptu performances/ history lessons in drum culture. He played and talked and sang a percussive, persuasive beat. A melody drilled in my core since the beginning of time. I couldn’t be still. I can’t. The drums are calling.

The rhythm took over and I imagined the power of the drums. The power of a form of communication…for celebration, mourning and warning. Bongo told us about the silencing of the drum. And I remember the most effective way to vaporize a whole culture is to deny their customs and culture. Their music, their stories.

It begins with a little toe tapping and hip swaying. My chest is ready to pop but first contract…ahhh release. I heard the rhythm in my head and my body saluted the drum. An involuntary salutation of movement and prayer. I give in. It’s visceral, tangible and my daughter looks at my face as she catches a glimpse of the drum in my eyes. She knows I’m dancing.

I’m doing a centuries old dance where I move like a mother who wonders what will become of her daughters, a woman who may have lost her husband….forever. I’m thinking like a woman trying to hold her family together and a woman who’s afraid for her life. How much? How much? What is the price for a human life? How much am I worth? my daughters…my sons? Will this ever change?

The doors open and close as we make our way downtown. I’m spent. My movements were a mournful lamentation and offering – a cry. But a song won’t come.

It’s a difficult subject with no easy answers. Many don’t see the church as part of a movement towards social justice. I do. I’m a daughter born of the peaceful sit-in…but also the riot. I’ll turn the other cheek…only so many times. I bet that’s true of you too. And I’ll be honest I struggle because we live in a country that fought itself to wipe out the vile business of slavery. How do you live the love of the Bible with the side that lost?

I’ve said before fight or flight is real and it’s human. Most men will move to defend themselves when threatened. Women too. That’s what’s suggested of the officer. He shot in defense. But what of Mike? For men of color being pulled over by a police officer is often a life-threatening situation. They grow up knowing this. I can’t say Mike Brown was an innocent man. I can say he was unarmed. And shot 6 times. I can say I don’t believe he deserved to die.

For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
– Psalm 137:3

I will not sing. But I won’t be silent. My weeping has turned to rage. It’s gnashing of teeth and holy hot fire streaming down my face. They’d rather I sing . Sing while they dishonor black life, sing…while they trample human dignity. They ask for a song. I will not sing.

So no more words. Let’s pretend all the differences and drama are done. Today I will not sing… I’ll beat the drum.

This is the rhythm from rivers of blood poured for peace, for justice, for freedom. It’s holy and sanctimonious. Its sunshine and rain, blazing and bloody. It’s loud and it won’t be stopped. And I don’t want this feeling to leave me…this rhythm to disappear like the rainbow I saw last week. It’s fuel and fire. It’s life and longing and hope and tears. It’s my heartbeat. And yours. This is the drum.

Play with me, pray with me now on the djembe, the bada, the conga and the bongo. Batta bop, bop, bata, bop, bop…. Mike…Brown….Batta bop,bop,bata, bop, bop Mike …Brown

The grand jury decision is in. Darren Wilson will not be indicted….but that doesn’t mean a crime wasn’t committed on August 9th.

Hear me now…

I’m trying not to make Ferguson about me
but it is.
I’m trying not to make Ferguson about me
but it is.
Ferguson is about me.
Perhaps Ferguson is about you too.