Perspective: A Morning Muse

This morning I decided to reach out to a close colleague and friend just to wish them a Happy Friday! She did not answer but when video called me back, she was holding a vase with beautiful peonies. She shared that she picked them from her garden and decided to take some to work. Walking to work is a part of her morning ritual. I call it a ritual and not routine because she is intentional in this practice method of reflection and grounding herself before she has to deal with the busyness/ business of her day. She showed me her path to work and the quaint beautiful buildings she passed. There was so much joy and contentment in her eyes. Before I could reframe or sensor what I was thinking I said to her, "It must be nice to have that kind of experience. I never feel that sense of safety or freedom." Tears began to drop with each word that fell from my lips. African American writer and scholar, Langston Hughes in his 1872 poem "Sympathy " shared the daily sense of isolation and pain of Black people in these United States. I have known that poem since elementary school. Whenever I am confronted or forced to acknowledge the very different lived experiences and worlds between myself and my white peers, this poem becomes my recitation. Two friends who adore each other similar desires for freedom, reflection and mobility and one gets to fully embrace and be present in the moment and the other, must count the cost to exercise what would appear a right to walk the streets without fear of danger.

As we remained fixed upon each other's gaze, I shared with her that before I leave the house every morning, I have to think about what I may encounter outside my doors. If I were to take a walk in a small town in the US and began to pick flowers, would I be stopped and asked if I "belong" there? Would someone decide my existence is a threat and exercise their "right" to protect themselves and shoot me? If a car were to drive past, would a passenger or driver scream a racial epithet? I know for some it is impossible to believe that people have to live such a circumspect and methodical existence. I wish I was exaggerating but I have been the victim of racial hatred spewed at me on my own property. I have been asked by neighbors as we share an elevator ride in our beautiful high rise complex, "Who are you working for today?" I have been warned in the twenty first century that there are still certain predominantly white neighbors I must exit before nightfall. "I know why he beats his wings."

Hughes' poem is called, "Sympathy" and not empathy. In doing a quick synonym check of both words I noticed there is one word provided for empathy and not sympathy. The word is identification. I am the beneficiary of Langston Hughes work, but I not the targeted audience.? Otherwise, the title of the poem would have been "Empathy". Hughes was writing to his white counterparts attempting to give them a glimpse of what it feels like to have the capacity and right to soar but not the opportunity. He expressed what it feels like to exists in a world yet unable to fully participate. ? He cries out for the white counterparts of his time to allow Black people to be free post emancipation without restriction or constriction. On this day, I made myself vulnerable and transparent to my friend what it feels like to be a Black woman on this day. When I choose to indulge in moments of joy, I know the moment is fleeting. When I attempt to just be, I must be conscious of everything happening around me. When I laugh, cry, hope, dream, persevere, I do so with bruises, aches and injuries from beating my wings but never managing to really fly let alone soar. I share this message today not for sympathy (pun intended) but for action. I share this so someone today can think about all of their daily rituals and routines taken for granted. I share this so someone with the cultural capital and power to make a change will feel compelled and provoked to broker their privileges so that I too may be able to pick flowers, smile and enjoy daily routines without fear of harm or danger.

I guarantee you, there are Black colleagues, neighbors, friends and or family members that have that shared in this same type of existence. The pain of looking out at a world where you feel like you do not belong and you know there are people who would love to see your life snuffed out because you are Black. My friend and I spent another ten minutes on the video call staring into each other's eyes. She had a pain unexplainable all over her face. I know she felt sad and had sympathy for my pain and the realization that what I shared was not hyperbole. She thanked me for sharing and prayed that I find joy somehow in a ritual today. I told her I do and I will. But on this morning, I just wanted someone to see and feel what I go through every single day, the moment I open my eyes. There isn't enough money, education, pedigree to keep me safe in the United States. When I find joy in the little things I tuck them close to me afraid to share in case someone decides I do not deserve this level of happiness.?

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

???????????When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-

???????????When he beats his bars and he would be free;

???????????It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-

I know why the caged bird sings! (Hughes: 1872)