Welcome to the Street Prophets Coffee Hour, where politics meets up with religion, art, science, and life. Come in, have a cuppa, and join us.
A couple of weeks ago, our own Denise Oliver-Velez asked us where we learn Black history. My response was that I am reading old issues of the Black press, usually The Call newspaper published in Kansas City. It originated in 1919 but archived issues only go back to 1932, and it’s still in publication. I’ve been reading every issue available at newspapers (dot) com. (This is not an inexpensive subscription, so it may be beyond the reach of many of us.) I admit that I skip most of the sports reporting, but not all. I grew up in the Kansas City area and at least once my step-father took me to a baseball game to see the Monarchs. It’s interesting, seeing the news reports intended for an adult audience, and comparing them to my childhood memories.
But sports aren’t the stories that are making the most impression on me. Even though I know the outcome, I find that reading the stories about the Scottsboro case written as it was happening gives me the feeling of the tension around that story, as though I’m experiencing it in real time. And reading about it in the Black press shows up the injustices of the system, without the attempts to justify or gloss over the badly slanted proceedings.
The Call had a special section where they would occasionally post a poem or two, often by a reader, sometimes children or youth. Many were the usual over-rhythmic writings of the amateur. But two in particular, written in the midst of the re-trial of the Scottsboro defendants (most of whom were indeed still boys) and as a reaction to the proceedings, showed a great deal of writerly talent. This is what I found entirely by chance:
Dark Boy
America, the Beautiful
Land of the Brave and the Free:
I thought I heard Scottsboro cry,
“My God, they’re lynching me!”
It can’t be true, your poor, dark boy,
This is the Land of Grace.
“Ah, yes, but that depends upon
The color of your face.”
Be still, dark boy, hanged on a cross
He died for you and me.
“I know, I know, but yet and still
That does not set me free.”
Poor dark boy, so young, so dark,
Why did you do this crime?
“ ‘I’m innocent,’ shall be my plea
Until the end of time.
Why should I lay my hands on trash,
White skin and stringy hair
When there are women in my race
Far more sweet and fair?”
Poor dark boy, I hear your cry,
I know your words are true.
Poor dark boy, dear dark boy,
My whole heart bleeds for you.
Peggy
I know nothing further about the identity of this poet, only her first name.
The second poem is by a Black college student.
Afraid Am I
Afraid am I to walk the streets,
My heart in rapid measure beats.
No earth more fair—no skies more clear
Than in this Southland that I fear.
Afraid am I. They say I’m free.
Shall I be slave eternally?
Must I still bow my weary head
And swallow insults ’till I’m dead?
Afraid am I. My skin is black,.
My hair is kinky, morals lack
The high integrity of the white,
They say, and I’m afraid to fight.
Yes, I’m afraid. Most any day
The sun may rise, and people say,
“If he were innocent we don’t care,
Our honor’s safe. His trial was fair.”
Afraid am I almost to claim
My right to Heaven. In Jesus’ name
I’ll still abide. All men He made.
Did he not say, “Be not afraid”?
Elzy Wright
Elzy Wright (1908-1984) was identified in the publication, and I was able to learn a good deal about him. At the time this poem was published he was a student at Talladega College in Alabama, where he was an athlete as well as scholar. I can’t print his obituary here as it’s still in copyright, but he achieved many “firsts” during his lifetime, often in government service jobs. When he died, February 27, 1984, he left a number of unpublished novels and poems.
Street Prophets is an open thread.
