I Look At The World
by Langston Hughes
I look at the world
From awakening eyes in a black face—
And this is what I see:
This fenced-off narrow space
Assigned to me.
I look then at the silly walls
Through dark eyes in a dark face—
And this is what I know:
That all these walls oppression builds
Will have to go!
I look at my own body
With eyes no longer blind—
And I see that my own hands can make
The world that’s in my mind.
Then let us hurry, comrades,
The road to find.
I visited the site where George Floyd was killed last Sunday, nearly two weeks since his death. It was a place of honor and healing. The energy was expansive, grief filled but not overwhelmingly so. As I approached there were free supplies available to be safe in the age of the pandemic. There were hand sanitizing stations, free masks, a medical bus parked sideways in the middle of Chicago Avenue preventing any flow of traffic to allow people to pay their respects and approach quietly on foot. There was a huge flower stand with free flowers or a voluntary donation so everyone could honor George Floyd and place them anywhere we were moved to do so. The nearly half block long rows of flowers that lead up to the spot where he died is an incredible sight. There was music of many different kinds being made, there were chants, and prayers and offerings, artwork, posters and impromptu messages that people had created and left behind. There was a feeling of solidarity that something better has to come out of this.
I was inspired by the artwork of all shapes and sizes, posters, paintings, murals, sculptures, all to express the myriad of emotions that collide at this time and place. What shouldn’t be surprising is that it is a typical south Minneapolis neighborhood. A neighborhood anchored by stores, schools, non-profits, restaurants, shops, gas station, places of worship and art galleries. There is a lovely wetland and pond, with a fountain less than a block away which leads to large grassy park which under normal times would be home to soccer practices and pick up base ball games this time of year. It is a neighborhood that is diverse with a mixture of buildings from new to over a hundred years old. If you visit someday you will be surprised how it looks like almost any urban neighborhood that has a small family owned grocery store on the corner. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture it, only disbelief in what occurred there. However, it is not a common place anymore, it is a sacred place to honor Black Lives Matter and George Floyd. It is a place of extraordinary tragedy. And my only hope is that from this is a positive uprising, an uprising for change.
What Kinds of Times Are These
by Adrienne Rich
There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled
this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.
Fourteen Lines 