The legacy of family, firmly planted, lives by virtue of the pride in stories told
a willingness to speak the truth, with little regard for shame.
Triumphs, failures, hardships answer only to the conditions of persons, places or things.
No predator sits stealthy upon a ledge waiting to pounce and seize the pain of your trek through impenetrable mounds of snow, recurring moments of doubt or gripping pangs of hunger.
no one hides you from you
what you say and what is said about you stands!
You have the privilege to know.
for some of us our legacy is merely a word on a page no more real than the distorted 8 millimeter image of sasquatch lumbering through a Pacific Northwest meadow
for too long we have relied on the clever pivots of historical Spin Doctors turning, distorting and inventing
telling us who we are, where we have been and what we have or have not done
We have also suffered from self-inflicted wounds!
open sores, still festering,
unwilling, out of respect, to break the silence of our elders
our failing to challenge them to delve into the past,
to recall a time when memories were fresh and the truth was at best a faint light flickering in deceitful shadows
when asked, some glared their eyes speaking “them old slavery days are to be forgotten”
those who spoke consistently said,
“the best way to know where you are going, is to look ahead”
“History is for the privileged.”
for my generation it’s the thousands permutations of being; dismissed, neglected that wears you down
I would like to tell you about my Great Grandfather’s twin sisters,
16 years old, moon light complexions, flowing curly reddish hair,
escaping from boundage swimming across the river, north to freedom
you will never know our story
our legacy will remain an uncomfortable annoyance, largely unspoken
silenced to preserve the mystique of the American legacy of overcoming
“History is for the privileged.”
11 October 2016
G.M.B.