Majestic

We are majestic from the beginning.

We are not the history we were given, but the history that is real.

A history of warriors and kings.

It is only since Maafa that we have been less, that we have been second class.

We are not second class.

We are not less than any other people, nor are we brute beasts,

Good only to be trained to bow and scrape; fetch and carry.

A concept of focus in our history.

We remember Maafa, the kidnapping, enslavement and subsequent abuse of our American and European forefathers.

I tell you that we are more than what Maafa let us be.

We are more than what American history has allowed us to be.

We are strength.

We are wisdom and intelligence.

We are beauty.

We are invincible; it is only fear that can stop us.

It is our very history that cripples us.

The assertion that our race is our hindrance, rather than our advantage.

To be black is to be brilliant and strong.

To be black is to be compassionate and merciful.

It is also to be ruthless and cunning.

It is, in effect, to be human,

A humanity placed in doubt by years of oppression.

It is a crime that this noblest of people should be subjugated and stripped of identity.

I don’t want the identity that would be given to me by former slave owners.

I don’t claim the identity bequeathed unto me by the very people who enslaved my forefathers.

I am not the heir of slavery, but of greatness.

I am the daughter of Askia, a great King who ruled and thrived.

A man of vision and conquest who did not take no for an answer.

History tells me I am the descendant of John, a slave born to a slave on plantation in the South.

This history would tell me that he was industrious and worked hard, earning a place of trust with his master.

This history would encourage me to find a place of trust with my economic master.

To work hard, bow and scrape until I am a trusted counsel to my lord.

I do not concede to this history.

Perhaps that was John’s fate, after his father was stolen as Jeer.

I look beyond John, I look to the center rings of the mighty Jackalberry that is my history.

I look to the day of planting of my lineage and I find greatness.

I look to the rings yet forming and I see promise.

I look to my people and I find hope that conquers despair.

I see a future that shines like the midday sun on an African horizon.

From panther to President.

Disenfranchised battlefield beasts to Commander in Chief.

I see more than what is there, I see what could be.

I see what should be there.

There is respect that has been earned, wages as yet unpaid.

Dynasty’s not restored.

I urge that we take lessons from Martin and Malcolm, but build anew.

Today is not as tomorrow nor as yesterday.

There were men greater still in our history.

Look beyond this continent to the savannah and take charge.

Not to forget Maafa of our past, but to view it as a small part, not the central theme.

Allow hate to be the wind beneath our wings, offering opportunity to be bigger and soar higher,

Not the excuse to be less than.

Allow it to be the motivating factor, to remind the world that we are not slaves still.

We are Kings and Queens.

Our children Prince and Princess.

We are what we were before the slave ships were ever built.

We are as the center ring of our historical tree.

Not a Georgia Oak, but a tree planted and began thousands of miles away.

A tree that thrives in the harshest of circumstance.

A tree that offers refuge and hope.

Sustenance and survival.

We are more.

I can’t say that enough.

We are more than American history.

We are more than a twelfth of a year.

We are more than our eyes can behold.

We are so much more than now,

Greater even than tomorrow.

We are majestic.

(C) Pamela Shropshire 2012