By Don Allen, Publisher – Our Black News
Someone carries a key; a key to the past – searching for a door; a door with a lock. A door with a keyhole; a keyhole that unlocks the past and shows someone the future. Lifting the ancestors, my ancestors, I see a vague a tattered past; a past reminiscent of an egg, an egg that has dropped out of a robin’s nest; an egg broken by the force of the world. A place where a mother robin looks helplessly and cannot communicate to the world what might have been?
My anger is my hate, people make my anger, and my rage is carried back and forward into generations that do not see moving visions in their decision but chose a quick fix with a hot needle and some warm heroin. The pain comes in many forms from my mother who picked one-hundred pounds of cotton everyday of her young life and was beat if she was sick our did not go out in the rain. The Irish plantation owner who raped my great grandmother is also to blame for my anger. The blood of his blood; the blood of his sons; the blood of his bloodline; runs through my veins, red, raw and ruined for generations to come.
Being the Angry Black Boy is sometimes like being laid to rest:
My ancestors cursed me on both sides as a cruel joke to make sure I carried out the missions of Nat Turner in a modern day execution of all that is evil; all that is bad; all that my ancestors never had.