Excerpt from Chapter Two
Knowledge In Poetic Views
Freedom Doesn’t Feel Like It’s Supposed Ta!
I see the wounds of my ancestors
Scares and bruises,
Bodies worn and worn out,
Whipped, torn and dug out,
Insignificant,
Only 3/5 of a human being,
Died to pave the way in hope
Huh! Did I hear someone shout!
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“We’re talking about leveling the playing fields.”
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“I had a Dream that one day...”
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“To Be Young Gifted and Black?”
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“We shall overcome someday?”
Freedom! Sure doesn’t feel like it supposed to.
My ancestors cried from the jive
Passed on by our own people
Tricky words and slogans that had us hypnotized while the world goes by
Forever forging for us a cause to fight!
So that others could kick us around and we later forgive them for it?
Just to be where we ain’t wanted, yet the most wanted,
What for?
Why did Sammy Davis, Jr., lose his eye?
Hope! Keep Hope Alive!”
Why did Huey Newton have to lose his life?
Hope! Keep Hope Alive!”
And my ancestors cry.
All we’ve been singing is the same old songs,
All we’ve been singing is “bridge over trouble waters”
For way too long.
And these wounds need to heel,
And my ancestors’ wounds you don’t feel,
Selfishly you have crossed over and that’s real.
The new master oppressing our lives,
Dammit! Our own people are taking our lives.
So when do we overcome?
So when do we overcome?
You know how these circumstances begun.
“I’ve freed thousands of slaves and
Would of freed thousand more
Had they known they were slaves…”
That’s what Harriet Tubman said,
And her wounds, I feel for the descendant of the wombs
Of our African kings and African queens
Damn! Things ain’t like it ought to be.
I’m tired of struggling to just be,
Man, let me be
Man, let me be
Let ME Be FREE cause
I’m tired of the cries of depression, oppression,
Cries of neglect and wanting some satisfaction
While having your hand held out,
Still beggin’ massa for a handout.
And freedom doesn’t ring like it supposed to,
And freedom doesn’t mean what it’s supposed to!
The wounds. The wounds. The wounds.
Oh my ancestors’ wounds
And freedom doesn’t feel like it supposed to!
I see the wounds of my ancestors
Scares and bruises,
Bodies worn and worn out,
Whipped, torn and dug out,
And I see the wounds of my peer
In so deep they don’t even have fears,
Gunshot sounds are celebrations,
Another’s life free from these trials and tribulations
Another black youth hung his self in his cell
This life has some heaven and a lotta hell.
Huh!
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“We’re talking about leveling the playing fields.”
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“I had a Dream that one day...”
Hope! Keep Hope Alive?
“To Be Young Gifted and Black?”
Hope! Keep Hope Alive
“We shall overcome someday?”
Time to make our blessings,
To take our blessings and
Be a blessings…
Freedom just don’t—
Freedom just don’t feel—
Freedom doesn’t feel like it supposed to!
[Chapter Two, Pages 43-45]