Our Grandmothers - Maya Angelou

I am publishing this poem in a blog acknowledging the work of Maya Angelou and the full context of the history that lies behind the N-word, it talks of the generations that bore the brunt of the hate and humiliation that we have so easily forgotten for an odious trend of identity that signifies we have lost our roots and have become a nation of people bereft of a storied ancestry.

An anthology of her poems appears here.

Our Grandmothers

She lay, skin down in the moist dirt,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves,
and loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.

She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.

She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you from us tomorrow?

Yes.
Unless you keep walking more and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,

I shall not be moved.

In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands,
she cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me and though I perish daily,

I shall not be moved.

Her universe,
often summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her feet,
made her cry each time into a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed.

Yet, I must not be moved.

She heard the names,
swirling ribbons in the wind of history:
nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, but my description cannot fit your tongue,
for I have a certain way of being in this world,

And I shall not, I shall not be moved.

No angel stretched protecting wings above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of reason into the confusions of their lives.
The sprouted like young weeds,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away,
underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless.

When you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,

I shall not be moved.

She stood in mid-ocean, seeking dry land.
She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother, Enter here.

Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God, I go forth
alone, and stand as ten thousand.

The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.

The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my
feet without ceasing into the camp of the
righteous and into the tents of the free.

These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple,
honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted
down a pyramid for years.
She is Sheba the Sojourner,
Harriet and Zora,
Mary Bethune and Angela,
Annie to Zenobia.

She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of hand-outs.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners,
hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.

Centered on the world's stage,
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
however my ignorance and conceits,
lay aside your fears that I will be undone,

For I shall not be moved.

The people are high on opium - III

My uncle is another example

I explore further my Muslim heritage. As you will recall, I paid tribute to the religious pragmatism and tolerance of my paternal grandfather. My uncle, who is my father’s kid brother, also took up Islam.

My memories of him are quite fond, I even remember when he celebrated his 22nd birthday asking if he would wait for me to catch up; I was just coming to 8 then.

I have not in anyway matched the fondness, love and dedication between siblings that my father has with my uncle, they may not worship each other but they are certainly close and do really look out for each other.

My uncle also took after his father in marrying a very beautiful lady with a strong Christian background. In their case, the children both had Muslim and Christian names, however, only the first son; now of blessed memory took up Islam.

Exceedingly worthy of emulation

My uncle in his demeanour is probably the friendliest, approachable and considerate Muslim gentleman I have ever met. He defers, respects, acquiesces and concurs with disarming humility that conveys strength where nominally one would expect weakness.

Selflessness in consideration for others dictates how he sues for conciliation and peace in soft-spoken tones that appeal to reason and common-sense. It makes him an unwilling mentor and more so, a person exceedingly worthy of emulation.

This man lives out the qualities and essence of being a Muslim; in whom one would find no bitterness or rancour; a person who exercises self-control and comportment in all circumstances.

The sacrifice – faith and belief - personified

On the maternal line, I also had cousins who with a strong Muslim heritage through their paternal grandparents. In that setting, I participated more in the Muslim festivals which during my secondary school days fell during term time.

The main festival involved the slaughter and preparation of the sacrificial ram which re-enacts the sacrifice that Abrahamic sacrifice of his son, Isaac; at least the context is that Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son in the service of God.

God’s acknowledged that selflessness by providing a ram to replace Isaac on the sacrificial altar. The same selflessness in service to God is required of followers of Mohammed’s doctrine.

However, that should also be viewed in the light of Abraham’s complete personality and conduct which allowed him to belief first and then exercise faith in God being able to revive back his son; if the sacrifice did take place.

Blades for rough hairs

All of us got involved the preparations; after the Imam from the mosque cut the throat of the ram, we had to shave the ram before the butchering of the flesh.

This involved making a tourniquet round the neck and then from a slit in the back legs, after clearing pathways with a stick, the carcase was filled and bloated with air like a balloon.

This made the skin taunt allowing for soap to be applied for shaving the rough hairs, by holding the blades with fingers as the shaving stick.

I think, I was quite a dap hand at the job; it was an activity I relished.

The silent majority of reason

The Muslims I knew then, at home and at school, would hardly have been part of the fracas that occupies our streets around the globe.

It is however, unfortunate that they constitute the silent majority of reasonable and likeable Muslims. Their religious diet definitely does not consist of opium.

The people are high on opium - I

I have a Muslim heritage

My interaction with Muslims is a lot deeper than appears in my commentary. I never knew my maternal grandfather; he passed on over 4 years before I was born.

My paternal grandparents however, I did know well, I even once had a great-grandmother in that scion and whilst many thought she was old and near death, she went on and on after falls and sicknesses bouncing back stronger that by the time she died she had long lost all her contemporaries.

Many wondered how we just got on so well, as we chatted about everything imaginable for hours on end. They have all since departed, but the memories of their lives abide.

It appears only my maternal grandfather was literate, he kept journals of all sorts of stuff that I have not had the time to examine.

In my early years, we met up with cousins in the long holidays by visits to my ancestral village which had my mother’s people as indigenes and my father’s people as settlers.

No more village people

My father’s enthusiasm for those village visits and patriarchal patronage did not however become the passion of first my mother, then my siblings and ultimately myself.

We are driven to distraction about it, that it made us completely averse to anything to do with that village – a reconciliation of views seems a little bit far off for now.

Whilst my other grandparents were not literate; they were smart, knowledgeable and interesting.

They traded farm produce and ready-prepared labour-intensive foods at the weekly market which was every 5 days, when traders from far off came round with their produce to indulge a microcosm of globalisation – trade still matters for the emancipation of village and country alike.

Muslim marries Christian

My grandfather was a Muslim, he was married to a Christian, they had six children, without duress or prompting; half turned out Christian and the other Muslim.

In a time when women’s rights was completely unheard of; my grandmother was able to go to church without hindrance, whilst my grandfather went to the mosque.

Their children celebrated both religious festivals without prejudice and neither were they ostracised for being who they were.

My father, for instance was the first born; in a setting that meant you carried on the mantle, he is Christian, his only brother, however, is a Muslim.

Pragmatism worthy of emulation

The pragmatism of my grandfather even goes further; they all realised that education was essential and ploughed all their resources into my father’s education – my great-grandmother being the person who did the most to get him through the early schooldays with the help of her brother who was a school teacher.

He became a qualified and certified accountant, a trail-blazer amongst his contemporaries and those after; we ended up with just fewer than 10 certified accountants from our village.

My father was allowed to select a surname that had no religious connotations and when I was born, my grandfather offered a name that had no religious leanings even though it was his prerogative to offer a purely Muslim name.

I see in my grandparents an understanding of religion; tolerance of other faiths; a willingness to accommodate and live in peace; an example worthy of following.

Instruction for others

This quality of religious pragmatism unfortunately did not extend down to my parents in dealing with their affairs and children. It is probably the most divisive element of our relationships; it has caused ructions to the extent that reason cannot gain prominence over entrenched beliefs – this especially from quite well-educated people.

Sometimes, I wonder if this schism with my parents also affects my ability to foster a strong God-son relationship the context that views God as father – Christianity.

My grandparents were not under the influence of opium, driven by dogma, instructed by unscrupulous religious leaders or educated beyond the capability of instructive reason, they were people who worshipped God and were considerate of other people.

My grandfather was a model Muslim; I doff my hat to him.