Meet Me at the Well
It's been difficult to find focus in my studio this week. My mind, guts, and hands have been entwined with Nashville, Burma, and Louisville. Consumed by the true history of the United States of America. The decisions it makes still. The glorious, necessary confluence of Black history and my own. The repression of journalism and the savagery of the Myanmar coup's aerial attacks on innocent civilians. Fighting with no aid from the United States government. Fighting without the $1 billion belonging to the people of Burma that President Joe Biden froze. Fighting white supremacy. Fighting injustice.
A movement towards truth.
You will not die of feelings.
You will not die from others' feelings.
Lift the veil.
I was born and raised in Rochester, New York. It is the birthplace of Kodak Film. It is the resting place of Fredrick Douglas and Susan B. Anthony. It is a fallen city working diligently to build itself back up, like many homes within America.
There was an emphasis on The Underground Railroad in my schools and teachings as a child, because of the local history. A sense of pride. An involvement. But the community, the support of the Northerners, is only a slice of our history. Black history. And as much as I wish my ancestors' involvement in The Underground Railroad is where my roots as an American begin, that will never be the case.
The only way forward is through.
This letter is my candle in the window.
A signal of safety after a long journey.
A journey I could never fully grasp.
Like looming ghosts.
Meet me at the well.
As we are.
Movements decidedly in tandem.
And forever shall we be,
The People of a unified, democratic Nation.