You take Kanye, I’ll take…(scholar challenge)

DR. FRANCES CRESS WELSING (March 18, 1935 – January 2, 2016)

Welsing was born Frances Luella Cress in Chicago on March 18, 1935. Her father, Henry N. Cress, was a physician, and her mother, Ida Mae Griffen, was a teacher. In 1957, she earned a B.S. degree at Antioch College and in 1962 received an M.D. at Howard University. In the 1960s, Welsing moved to Washington, D.C. and worked at many hospitals, especially children’s hospitals. While Welsing was an assistant professor at Howard University she published her first body of work, “The Cress Theory of Color-Confrontation”, in 1974. This was an introduction to her thoughts that would be developed in The Isis Papers. Twenty-two years later she released “The Isis Papers”, which is a compilation of essays she has written about global and local race relations.

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Slaughter of the Innocents (A Chicago minute)

origianl-exerpt

Not easy to break something broken A city cursed with the plague of blood-Lust, Hunger-pains, and Raging-fires

No-gains Momma-tears Gang-signs Steel-toys
Chevy bubbles and dick boys
…Normality…

Ordinary pains
98.6 degrees burns the evidence to ash so you never
ever…..ever….ever
know what really happened here
Nobody from the outside really knows
Lil babies born and die the same day
…buried in the sea of factory made bastards and our voices scream pain with no words
language understood but hardly to fluency
so we maneuver and twist in the face of the icy winds
And off in the distance Strange fruit is plucked viciously from concrete trees Long tee’s and dragging denim catches the blame, but are they really players in this old game?
The fruit pickers grin with blue shields and long swords
slicing the young fruits as the approach maturity
some get missed
slated to only fall to the ground
…rotten…
yet still sweet
but too rotten to be acceptable to those above
and even those are smashed, soil mixed under the heel of the harvester
We have to ponder
…What a way to go…
you know
Being born a beautiful fruit in this wretched garden
A place where short memories are in abundance
deep pockets filled with denial
…yet we remain…

All in the shadow of mountains man made strips of green sprinkled down from the rooftops downtown
Like two beacons atop a mountain of gold
ever present floating amongst the clouds
Shining
Reminding
Teasing
yet untouchable are the bastions that hold those coins…
Why here?
Why did they flee to this wretched soil?
Why us?
Why we?
We the American untouchables expected to feel blessed
expected to proclaim patriotism and recite battle hymns to our young
expect to remain non-violent while the police continue to pluck us from the trees
just as the strange fruit were picked by their fathers a generation ago
they remain resolute and strong

Still Wearing The Mask (Excerpt)

We grin when we hear our spirit manufactured for pleasures sake
We even find ourselves moving shamelessly according to these false vibrations seeking something familiar, something…..true
Yet you still look upon us an uncouth while we shimmer, pop, lock, and dance to shake away the pain
we sing to empty our  lungs so that the coughs born of smoldering legacies feel somehow justified
still
      while
               wearing
                                 THE MASK
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In honor of  Mother Maya Angelou and Paul Lawrence Dunbar