Willie’s Kids

The man limps ever onward.

 Hands clutched to his breast.

Deep in the treasure chamber of his heart, his dream is stored.

 But his skeletons are tethered to him as he travels.

 Sure this is no formidable quandary for the free man.

 But the man, though he be manly, is not free.

 He is black.

 The black American man bears a unique pressure, in that, he is no longer allowed the grace to transform. To become other than what he was. Historically, this was not the case. The definition of the black man was completely hinged upon whether he could change himself or not. Whether he would embrace the arduous task of reaching so deeply into his true identity that he became something new altogether.

The women depended on this transformation.
The children depended on this transformation.
The community depended on this transformation.

When a black man transformed from his induced state into his true state of strength, honor, and nobility, it was a celebration. His past sins were the painful memory, glad to be rid of, not the ghostly shackles, forever binding.

And yet, the black man was no saint. The extensive programming of the white supremacist narratives uncovered the beastly nature inside of him as they intended. They viciously corrupted any hollows of light they could detect inside of him. Turned him loose on his own people. Created an internal conflict based on their external prototype; how do you live when the one you need is the one causing you pain?

 It is imperative to note- they never wanted black people to be human. They wanted the women compliant in order to foster unhealthy independence from the black man and to organically pass on the damage of their “breaking” process through her into her children. And as to the black man…

The only thing they wanted him to become was an animal. An animal they could reign in and put to work, but an animal nonetheless.

 And despite his best efforts, the black man in some ways succumbed. He developed a naturally feral edge to his ego. Crafted an elephant graveyard under the shadow on his horizon. An internal place full of the simmering rage scent of death, where he could take refuge from the pain his unrealized hopes were inflicting upon him. The black man began to justify all the disjointing ideas the white rulers were planting in the minds of the women and children.

And so a new sickness took hold.

These mighty black people became psycho-emotionally dependent upon the very ones who stole their inter-communal agency away to begin with.

But that doesn’t change the truth.

That doesn’t change the fact that the black man has the echoes of transformation unrealized thundering deep in his bones.

It does not change the necessity of the celebration.

And so now the black American man finds himself in more advanced times. More complicated times. He looks about him as the very landscape his bloody sweat equity purchased, warps into essence unrecognizable. As the inhabitants adopt new rules. Black people are trying to become white people. White people openly stealing the styles, practices, and inventions of black people. Men are adored for their biological alterations into women. Women are praised for their bold transitions into biological manhood. Love is the auriferous, soul banner spanning, catchphrase; audacious bravery to choose a new life for oneself, hailed on the top step of every edifice.

Cautious, yet somewhat encouraged, the black American man crawls out from the wreckage of his graveyard. In the glaring promises of ostentatious light, he forgets the skeleton tethered to his waist, trailing behind him. He believes that this safe hope of a new day, will burn off the transgressions of his old life, and he too can join the circle of freedom. That he too can rise with the social tide. That he too can be a part of this so called progression and become victorious.

A swift kick to the knees and reeling blow to the back of his head, quickly shatter that fantasy into a thousand pinpricks of light where his vision once was. Broken and in pain, once more, he writhes under the vehement sonic assault.

“You didn’t apologize hard enough!”
“You weren’t sincere enough!”
“You’re nothing but an animal!”
“You DID it!”
“You’ll never be accepted among us!”

The black American man’s eyes at last begin to clear, and he can finally lay gaze upon his assailants…

 And his heart cracks in two, because he is staring directly at his own people.

 Tears streaming down his face, he realizes that they have lost the art of discernment- the very art upon which identifying and allowing redemption depends upon. His people have forgotten the gift of duality- demanding suitable community recompense, without demonizing the man. Orchestrating justice without impeding actual progress. There is no mercy for the black American man- not even among his own people. He is seen as his sin, and from that, there is no returning.

 But where was this behavior learned? Where was this merciless regard for the black American man- in a time rife with celebration for transformations of every sort- coming from? Who taught the black American people that the black man is an unreliable beast at heart- a perpetual grievance, never to be separated from the pain he has caused? Who polarized morality so stringently? Who trained the black American people so thoroughly in the art of punishment with zero long term goals for reconciliation?

One man.

 One man injected the seminal poison of his turpitude laden spiritual psychology and birthed a nation of generations that followed in his footsteps.

 It’s time for a hard look in the mirror and to ask ourselves…

 Are you one of Willie’s kids?



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