Ancestral Memory

They always come. Just at that moment. Just when the world is about to end, they show up with light, a glowing globe that reminds me of possibility. They have words for me. The hold my face, raising a teaspoon to my lips and serve me words, kissing the excess as it runs down the side of my mouth.

They always come. In that desperate moment. That hard moment where I forget myself. That isolated moment where home cannot be found. That moment where memory goes down the drain to some collection of sewage of lost dreams and disenfranchisement with life. It is hard to believe that I don’t believe the tangible manifestations of my blessings. They come and I worry that I won’t come again. They come and I worry that it was meant for other. They come and I still question. Yes, I was hurt that bad.

We all were. I come from inter-generational, historical disbelief at the places that soul wounds can take people. Deep dark places with no light of humanity. I ask myself when I could not give myself permission to be all of who I was. I seek the origin of the fragmentation.

I call on my ancestors. For this story, the story of self-destruction and sabotage. This perspective. This perspective of all that is wrong with me crowding my mind like fans crowding a baseball stadium. This story and perspective seems long. A long winding road that seems beginningless and feels –in this moment-that there is no end in sight.

I call on my ancestors. They always come. I find myself watching them gather under a tree. Two women hold each other. The crowd is packed tight to learn the lesson of his lynching-don’t exist outside of the master’s control. They raise him up, tying the rope to him. Two women hold each other. Maybe it is more, but really only one is hanging on to the rest. One is watching the love of her life being raised up for who he is tucked under the premise of betrayal. He never touched that white woman. It didn’t matter. He could have and that was enough.

The wind was cruel that day. It swung him back and forth. Back and forth, spreading blood from this excised penis in a little circle on the ground. Maybe the blood emerged from the split in his belly where the placed it. The wind painted particular leaves, blades of grass, particles of dirt with evidence of his former life. The wind was cruel that day.

His eyes bulged in her direction. She covers her eyes. They all lower their eyes in surrender. It was easier to blame the wind. Yes, they could have power in the invisible realms. In the non-tangible realms. They could avoid the smile on his white face and the burn could be swallowed, tucked away somewhere unreachable. Somewhere just beyond the turning point of retribution, so that they could live.

They turn slowly. Slowly the balls of the feet turn, twisting grass and dirt underneath them like a skid mark. It cannot be too fast, because it will be a threat. Some of the men nod to him, to their teacher, their lesson planner, biting their tongue, their mental, emotional, physical and spiritual tongue. They return to the fields. They take her to the planks of wood that come together to form a resting place. She is laid there as they comfort her with words. They hold her face, raise a teaspoon to her lips and serve her words, kissing the excess as it runs down the side of her mouth.

They always come. And then I know in this moment why I struggle to be all of who I am, exactly as I am. Their stories are in my DNA, running through my blood-in me, as me. And then I know in this moment why I must feel it all, let it run through my body, through my feet, coloring the leaves until it forms a river to the center of the earth and it can be transformed in to the possibility of a new ancestral memory manifested through me and my choices. And in that moment, I know why I must continue to fight to show up, be present and live.

They always come, helping me to come home to myself.