In his poem, “Let America Be America Again,” Langston Hughes writes:
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
In this poem, the text—and the meaning—shift with the use of the parentheses. This choice creates a whisper, a side note, a tilted head with a raised eyebrow. It becomes that moment when what you hear slams up against what you know to be true.
We must ask America, our neighbors, and ourselves hard questions. Who does America belong to? What will it take for America to be for everyone? What must change for a country where billionaires explore space while others drown in debt, and people still debate vaccines and masks after nearly a million died of COVID, to become a place where our children can roam free? What will it take for us to love this country enough to believe it can be better?
Reflecting on these questions personally, I think about my own family, who loved this country, fought for it, died for it, and believed in it. Our blood is mixed deep within the soil of South Carolina. I come from enslaved people on both sides of my family. On my daddy’s side, my ancestors lived on a plantation owned by two brothers, Jim and Dave Draft. I remember hearing these stories when I was younger and realizing early on that our history was entangled with their history. Even before I understood it or could articulate it, I knew that Black history was American history and that American history, when it was taught, only included White history. I knew what it felt like to be erased, which made it hard for me to love this country and call it my own.
My grandfather, my father’s father, loved this country. Though he grew up in Jim Crow South Carolina and was called the N-word more times than he could admit, he believed in the promise of America. That America—the one we talk about, sing about, and pledge to—called him. His dream kept him moving. He told me we were the heart and soul of this country. “We are survivors,” he’d say. “Because slavery couldn’t break us, Jim Crow didn’t, and White folks won’t.”
He used to walk around reciting the Preamble to the Constitution, stopping after every line to add his commentary (his parentheses), and he would tell me that within those 52 words lay the promise, the hope, and the work we needed to do to make America America to us.
On this Fifth Day of Black History Month, I want to challenge and encourage you with my grandfather’s words:
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Ask the hard questions and work relentlessly to find the answers.
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Be the change you wish to see—challenge injustice, pursue equity, and inspire others through your actions.
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Remember, your life is meant to answer a question the world has been asking; the challenge is to figure out the question and answer it.
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Along the way, the world will always remind you of the worst things you have done; you remind yourself of the best things as often as you can.
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Most importantly, remember that America belongs to all of us; she is worth fighting for and defending.
Bending toward social justice,
Karsonya Wise Whitehead
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*Portions of this statement were originally published in my mother’s tomorrow: Dispatches from Baltimore’s Black Butterfly. |
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