Believe Black Womxn
Scripture: John 12:34-50
Verses 42, 43 and 47**
“.. Yet at the same time many even among the leaders believed in Him. But because of the Pharisees they would not openly acknowledge their faith for fear they would be put out of the synagogue; for they loved human praise more than praise from God.”
“I did not come to judge the world, but to save the world.”
Behold, the sacred, beautiful and resilient bodies of Black womxn. For centuries our bodies have been vessels of truth telling. Our bodies, woefully sacrificed, raped, stolen, objectified and commodified. Yet, with tenacious courage and truth, we emerge unbowed and restlessly pursuing freedom and justice.
The bitter roads we trod tell the tragedies, but does not erase our trails of triumphs. The stripes upon our backs unveils the sins and crimes against our humanity, but do not remove our ancestral crowns. We do not seek the praise of humans. Our testimonies give glory to God. The songwriter sings, "My soul looks back and wonder how I got over."
With each name etched upon the virtual headstones trending as hashtags, we bear witness to our burdens and expose the ugly seeds of racism, sexism, poverty and violence. Our plight is known across the diaspora and many have joined the resistance for change. Still with blood stained and indisputable evidence of unrighteous harm against our very lives, many remain silent and complicit. Many still fear the judgement of humans more than the justice of God. Many know the unbiased love of God extended to all and yet they refuse to openly confess truth, that Indigenous, Black and Brown lives matter, for fear of being outcasts or disinherited, too.
Black womxn like Sandra Bland, Sarah Lee Circle Bear, Tanisha Anderson, Jayne Thompson, Henrietta Lacks, Breonna Taylor, Aiyanna Stanley Jones and a host of unknown have made the ultimate sacrifice. We must unashamedly believe Black womxn. Our lives and humanity depends on it.
Further Reflection
Our Rivers Run Deep
by Waltrina Middleton
This poem was written on Friday, July 31, 2015 for Ralkina Jones, 37, Cleveland Heights, Ohio who died while in police custody, Sunday, July 26. Ralkina is one of five Black womxn (this does not include the substantial number combined of Black, Brown and Indigenous womxn like Sara Lee Circle Bear) to die while in police custody between July 13 and July 27, 2015, less than one month collectively, in police stations in New York, Texas, South Carolina, Ohio and Alabama.
Meet me at the river, sister, for there the cool wind blows. We come bearing witness and carrying burdens to lay down.
Here we are again at the river, made with fresh tears and as deep as sorrows go. "How deep?" is not a query I wish to know.
Meet me at the river, brother, and let us sing songs of Zion for her.
Or have you hung your instruments upon the poplar trees and forgotten our freedom songs?
Here we are again, saying her name... no, crying out her name as Rachel cried in lament.
This is our Ramah.
This is our Ferguson... our Baltimore... our Chicago.
This is our Charleston... our Cleveland... our Staten Island.
Our rivers run deep and they speak of oceans that run deeper.
Meet me at the river, daughter.
You once came here to be washed in the baptismal spring. Remember how we rejoiced?
You sat on the rock and kept watch just like Rizpah. You would not be moved.
Meet me at the river, mother. There are many waiting for you to enter into those troubled waters again.
This is your homecoming.
Another daughter.
Another mother, sister, partner, lover, friend.
Another revolutionary fighting for her right to be human and free like the Sankofa bird, eyes affixed on the white sandy beaches of the homeland's shores.
Meet me at the river, prophets.
Sojourner, Harriet, Ida, Mahalia, Betty and Nzinga offer their broad striped backs as bridges.
Too many wade on the other side of Jordan lamenting your crossing over.
Rosa, Yaa Asentewaa, Nina, Septima and fellow courageous souls righteously resist the currents.
Yet many remain in the middle of the river and some on the shores vigilant and planted like trees.
We remain in the struggle fighting even if you didn't know your fight was and is ours, too.
Here we are at that river--pugnacious red and refusing to be quiet, stubbornly resisting nature's pull.
In every roaring wave I hear:
Ralkina, Ashe!
Tanisha, Ashe!
Malissa, Ashe!
Yvette, Ashe!
Renisha, Ashe!
Depayne, Ashe!
Myra, Ashe!
We now add Breonna to the restless roaring waves… Ashe!!I
IN EVERY ROARING WAVE I HEAR them marching, persisting and resisting:
Sandra Bland, Ashe!
Raynetta, Ashe!
Kindra, Ashe!
Joyce, Ashe!
Miriam, Ashe!
Shelly, Ashe!
Shantel, Ashe!
Rekia, Ashe!
Baby girl, Aiyana Stanley Jones, 7-years old, Ashe! The current does not know age. It takes them all.
Here at the river, a litany of rushed waves become cool water the ancestors drink in libation!
Here we are at the river, overflowing and running deep. Didn't Langston teach us about "Ancient, dusky rivers?"
Our souls grow deep like the rivers.
Oh the agony of knowing the contours of veins in these defiant river bends.
We know rivers.
Our rivers run deep.
©Waltrina Middleton
By Waltrina Middleton
CRS Executive Director