re[comm]union... (or) bambara, my love...

the Toni Cade Bambara Scholar Activism Conference has given me so much over the years. it gave me: another place to contribute my words, the opportunity to share one of the academic works i've been most proud of in my scholastic career, the impetus for my delicious fixation with nikky finney, my introduction to the word wizard called alice lovelace and the opportunity to meet many amazing women who exalt me and humble me at the same time. i have this woman, toni cade bambara, to thank for it all - for her work, for her heart, for her legacy. and we never even met. sometimes i daydream about the workshops in her home. from the stories i have heard, i imagine her being serious and tender - encouraging but not babying. how powerful one must be to draw others together in her name even after she has crossed over, orchestrating transformation from another dimension. how beautiful it is to gather when toni cade says, "Come." i was permitted the honor of delivering a poem at the opening celebration/libation/reception for the conference. so, i wrote this just for the occassion.

"Keys to the Gate"
In honor of the Women's Center, Spelman College activisim and the Toni Cade Bamabara Scholar Activism Conference

she approached the gate
unaware of the keys already in her possession
she has so much to teach, but first
she has to learn her lessons
a large number to be taught outside the classroom
consumed by a world's problems
with seemingly no ending, no beginning
the conception of interlocking systems had her mind spinning
and her sad heart dropping into her shoes
but she chooses to forsake despair for hope
attempts to commence
the unweaving of deceiving "isms", like double dutch rope
who knew she'd been preparing her whole life to do this work?
classrooms were think tanks - intellectual reserve banks
the civil rights generation thought their ship had sank
but she just changed the course
moved to the south to bring our priorities back north
she is the star who will lead us now
strong daughter, from stronger mother
she bears the fruit to feed us now
and somehow between classes, crisis, changes and challenge
she manages to find her voice
because freedom is a right, but fighting is a choice
spent years ingested the words, strengthed her womb
with evolution through involvement--
energy went, time spent, then arrival of her commencement
time found her on the other side of the gates again
this time with keys in hand

but it doesn't just all go away--
disappear with the appearance of
maybe another degree? maybe a salary? maybe 401K?
at least i have to believe it's not that way,
so i have to wake every morning and say
"how will i be revolutionary today?"
now that might not include marching, per se, or a picket
but if the radio calls me out of my name
(you best believe) i'll flip it
if the TV show mocks my community
(you best believe) i'll switch it
if there's unsightly trash on the ground
(you best believe) i'll pick it up and throw it away
or stay on my knees a few minutes longer before the dawn
giving thanks because this day may be my last
and if i transition to meet the heroes of our past,
i don't want them to make me sit at the children's table,
saying, "we were more willing, but you were more able
and what did you do with the leverage that we gave you?"
then i'll have to sit there
in my kindergarten-desk chair, with some stupid ass look on my face
like i got suspended from school or broke the TV antenna
because they put their lives on the line to open doors i wouldn't enter
because they put my freedom first, but i wouldn't put justice at my center
so i make daily efforts to remeber them all
'cause i never been much of an athlete,
but i'll be damned if i drop the ball

i want to re(visit/edit/fine) this piece, but this was essentially my contribution to the 2006 TCB Scholar Activism Conference. With everything that the conference gave to me, it hardly seems like a fair exchange.