My voice is fierce.
My voice is balanced.
My voice is trained to translate scattered, often obtuse, centuries old data into a guide for modern justice.
My voice is also the descendant of those who denied it.
My voice is a reckoning.
I think that’s what it is to be an American. Our collective purpose is in a constant state of reckoning.
My voice is truly American, then.
My voice is the descendant of the colonizers gifting diseased blankets and building a Tudor-style two-bedroom on the ashes of the longhouses.
My voice is the daughter of the loud women who still kept their place.
My voice is the child of the grandmother who nearly disowned me with her stare when I dared to mention “The Civil War”.
My voice is the mirror to White America that doesn’t want to look at itself, except by its chosen filter.
I know these clinging voices that have left us at this tipping point for our climate, for our politics, and for our wellbeing (holistically and economically). I meet these voices, their continuous speech, every holiday at the Zoom call, formerly the Dining Room Table.
I remember what it was to be the rising generation of posterity, wishing for a Voice of Reckoning.
Instead, there were the voices of the privileged deniers around that dining room, skipping over to the kitchen’s kid’s table. The skeptics of scientists, but not of the neighborhood conspiracy theorist. The, “They’re making it a Black problem. Not our problem. Play ball.”
They cannot deny me.
I am no scientist. I am an actor. A catalyst.
A historian of their past. I am one of them. My voice is born from them, for those who won’t listen to anyone but themselves.
Copyright Off The Porch History 2021