We are living in a season of grief. We are living in a season of mass bereavements – from Covid19 or other causes – where we are limited in our expressions of mourning. We are also facing grief for injustices done. Sadness is an appropriate response. Anger is an understandable response. In my own sorrow I turned to poetry. This is the book I plucked from the shelf.
Before I tell you about the poem that I turned to, I want to speak as some one who grew up as a white person in a small town that had one black family and two mixed race families. In 1968 I was eleven and the land of my birth was being shriven with unrest caused by civil rights withheld and a foreign conflict that many did not sanction. Protests that turned ugly were on the 6:30 news most summer evenings. (We religiously watched NBC’s The Huntley Brinkley Report in our household.) That raised my consciousness, as well as the assasinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Senator Robert Kennedy. What I had to help educate myself and build empathy was good reading matter.
My elementary school publicised a subscription book club where you could buy cheap paperbacks every month. I spent a lot of my weekly allowance with that Book Club. As a book worm tween I was able to buy and read books like Booker T. Washington’s Up from Slavery and a biography of Mary MacLeod Bethune. Because I was also hungry for biographies of women (which were thin on the ground in the 1960s), I understood on some unconscious level the desire of having someone who looks like you reflected in the world. In those days we had a new phrase “role models.” I might not have had the same skin colour as Bethune, but golly she was a Mighty Woman! What reading did for me was educate me about lives that were different from mine, but were interesting and powerfully inspiring. It also gave me context for what was happening contemporaneously. Reading forged a connection that transcended social, racial, religious, and gender differences. It also exercised my empathy muscle and prepared me for reading The Diary of Anne Frank. By puberty I was well informed at just how low humans could go in terms of harming fellow human beings.
So, readers, please give your children books that will give them context to help them understand the why of what it happening at this moment. It will help them in so many ways.
Now, to the poem that helped me write the Sunday Weekly poem and also to navigate my sadness with this moment in our history. The poem is Alice Walker’s “Torture” that runs through a litany of “when they torture your…” loved ones with the response “Plant a Tree.” The final verse runs thus:
When they begin to torture
and cut down the forest
they have made
start another.Alice Walker “Torture” from Horses Make a Landscape More Beautiful
Let Us Breathe All the millions cut down robbing the biozone of CO2... All the millions burned in a Holocaust where we learned nothing. Enough is enough. Plant a tree for George Floyd. Then plant another and another. Plant a tree for the strange fruit hanging for 400 years from innocent trees. Plant a tree in memory. We too soon forget. But, enough is enough. Plant a tree for the named and the nameless. Plant a tree for all those who could not breathe. Plant a tree of all of us who still cannot breathe. Plant a green lung to ventilate the planet. Let us breathe. Let us breathe. Plant a tree. Copyright © Bee Smith 2020. All rights reserved.