I Am The Oppressor

This poem is my feeble attempt to tell the story of oppression. It leaves a little room for hope for those who can eventually see the error of their way. I often hear, "I did not do it," which is correct, but when we continue to profit from the system that our people created years ago, then we remain guilty by our silence. Let me know what you think about these words.

                                                 I Am The Oppressor

I am the oppressor
Who has been written about and described;
I am the one who has held the chains, the whip, the power,
I am the one you all have personified.

I am the oppressor

The one who bought the land and the people;
I am the one who chose who would go where,
The one who built the house with the steeple.

I am the oppressor

The one who bought people’s flesh;
I am the one who sought control and fields and influence,
I am the one who knew what was best.

I am the oppressor

The one who owned those sailing boats;
Whose cargo was like any other animal,
I am the one whose banks held the notes.

I am the oppressor

The one who owned all the land;
Whose purchases worked day and night,
To support me and my clan.

I am the oppressor

The one who wrote the important laws;
Who decided who was human,
The one who voted for my own cause.

I am the oppressor

Who lived in the big plantation home;
The one with those huge columns,
Who left you only at night to roam.

I am the oppressor
Who sold those kids away,
From their mamas and their daddies
Just to work another day.
 
I am the oppressor
Who broke up all those families,
The one who made a lot of money off of
Other peoples’ calamities.

I am the oppressor

Who set the weights of the scales;
The one who decided the worth of your crop,
The one who profited the most from the sales.

I am the oppressor

The one who created that powerful institution;
The one who hates paying back
Someone with what is called restitution.

I am the oppressor

The one who knows not compassion;
I am the one who wields the power of the pen,
I am the one who sets up good like a ration.

I am the oppressor

The one pretending to be someone I’m not;
I am the one who buys and sells at will,
I am the one whose very institutions will someday rot.

I am the oppressor

The one who establishes systems of power;
I am the one who worries late into the night,
I am the one who unknowingly awaits the final hour.

I am the oppressor

The decider of what is right and wrong;
I am the one who hears only my own tune,
And wants others to sing my own song.

I am the oppressor

The one who does not even try to hear;
I am the one who does not begin to grasp,
The cries and moans and groans that fall upon my human ear.

I am the oppressor

The one whose skin is white;
I am the one who knows not that today’s victory,
Will turn into the horrors at the dawning of the right.

I am the oppressor

Who does not seek to understand;
That dignity is that for which all humans search,
Their cause is no concern as it is not under my command.

I am the oppressor

And someday soon
I will be the oppressed
It will be now or noon.

The Lord will come to make all things right

It may be soon or it may be on down the road;
The one who will not be ready
For that is too heavy a load.

To change my perspective

From power and greed;
To respect humanity
Is more than I can concede.

I am the oppressor

But I am in my self-imposed chains;
I will hold on to my power till the rocks cry out
And my possessions reveal my deepest pain.

When my own spiritual drought

Has come to an end;
Then I will know what I have refused to see
I have wasted my life on that which I could spend.

Forgive me, Lord, for participating

In my own demise and many others;
And those I refused to see as my sisters,
My kinfolk my brothers.

Amen

 

Memphis, My First Black Land Loss Summit, and Things to Learn

I was just back in the saddle at Abilene Christian University in January, 2006. The previous semester had found me traveling to North Carolina, Georgia, Oklahoma, and Kansas to interview Black farmers and their families who had been devastated by the oppression of fighting the USDA and the DOJ. Those had been days of learning about struggles and resiliencies of farmers and families. It was a time of learning about me.

In January, 2006, The African American Farmers & Land Legacy Summit was held in Memphis, Tennessee. It was led by Dr. Clenora Hudson-Weems, author of an important work on Emmitt Till.  Other prominent persons were there, Jackie Frazier-Lyde, Habiba Ali, Habiba Alcindor, Dr. Ridgley Muhammad, Gary Grant, Harry Young, Mayor A. C. Wharton, and many others.

Since I have journaled for years and have kept those “mental meanderings,” I looked through my notes for January, 2006.

It was an interesting summit. It was predominantly an all-black crowd with the exception of Phil Morasky, Dewayne Burger, Charla, and me. I felt both in and out. I felt called to the cause of justice for Black farmers, but that did not mean that my face was any different from the oppressors at the county office of the USDA.

I was a part of a panel that convened on Saturday morning to discuss “Physical and Mental Health Challenges of Black Farmers,” moderated by Dr. Alfred Brown who in his high school years had played with the classmate who later formed Booker T. and the MGs. Dr. Harry Davidson, Co-Chair of the Association for Black Psychologists; Dora Anderson, founding president of the Society for Disabled Citizens; Phil Morasky, rural chaplain and farmer from Michigan; and I were the panelists.

It was life changing and gut wrenching. Much of it is a blur. Dora was quiet and understated as she shared her story of advocating for her daughter in the automotive industry. Phil Morasky, like me a white guy, spoke gently and articulately about the spiritual challenges of farming while black. I spoke and some of my ideas were challenged by the panelists, but strongly supported by a physician/farmer from Mississippi. I remember him to this day with much gratitude. His name was Dr. Wheeler, an internal medicine doctor from central Mississippi.

Dr. Davidson and his intense speech and rhetoric were chilling to me as a person who just wanted to do well with the stories that had been told to me. Our paths had actually crossed a day or two earlier when I thought he was going to challenge me. Dr. Muhammad, Dawson, Georgia, spoke words of encouragement about our previous work in South Georgia back in October.

I remember that Dr. Davidson was enraged, spoke long and intensely, and was vehemently opposed to white oppression and oppressors. I was one of those. It got hot on the platform that day. A gentleman who has since become a good friend recognized that and spoke words of grace to me afterwards, brief but profound. “You did well,” was all he needed to say to me.

After the panel was completed, I still recall part of a conversation with Dr. Davidson. I mumbled something that I do not remember, but as he autographed his book with the words, “To Waymon, peace & love, Dr. Davidson,” he said quietly, almost beneath his breath, “you have to learn not to take things so personally.” That was all. Panel over. Calm restored. Intensity remained.  Autograph received. Chill. I have still not read the book, but it is on my list. It will be a hard read, one I need to do. The title?  “The Ultimate Conspiracy: An Assault on Democracy, Reason and Religion, Man’s Fall from God, the Role of Secret Societies, and Skull and Bones.” Long title for an intense book written by an intense man.

So, with that long story as a backdrop, what is the point? What are the points?  There are several for me. In this day and age of what we can learn from each other, what whites can learn from blacks, and what blacks can learn from whites, and how we can learn to live in peace and harmony, that encounter still is striking.

For me, among other things, is the lesson to learn and grow, and to apply what needs to be applied, to be part of the solution and not part of the problem. To let people have their say, to value the perspectives of others, and too understand that we bring ourselves to the table of understanding. My white way of looking at the world is only one way of making sense of things.  That people of color have their life experiences and their ways of looking at the world is something I continue to learn.

To live with differences is not to disregard others. To hear and to not take personally those things not intended to take personally, that is the challenge. To hear, take personally, and commit to change is perhaps the bigger challenge.

Gerunds for Justice

Deciding, choosing,
            Pondering, living, dying.

Crying, lying,

            Sighing, whying, working.

Marching, writing,

            Riding, wondering, inviting.

Cooking, creating,

            Speaking, confirming, alarming.

Raging, fussing,

            Discussing, dismissing, judging.

Deciding.

Decided.

Summary of Injustices done to Matthew and Florenza

Admittedly, farming under the influence of the USDA is very complicated. Here is a brief summary of the injustices Matthew and Florenza Grant experienced at the hands of the USDA.

Originally the Grants were foreclosed upon in 1976 for the sum of $10,000 following three years of county-wide disasters with little to no support from the county office in restructuring loans or other benefits given to any other farmer.

In 1981 the Grants signed a “Consent Judgment” against their property such that the USDA would release farm equipment. This was, according to the USDA, a “settlement of sorts,” which allowed them to continue farming; however, the USDA refused to allow one son who was a farmer to assume their debt, but instead foreclosed on him as well. The USDA also refused to allow another son to assume the debt and would not work with the adult children on a monthly payment plan.

In March, 1998, Matthew Grant and the USDA Civil Rights Officers signed a “FINAL RESOLUTION AGREEMENT,” documented with photographs of Secretary Glickman, other USDA officials, and two Grant sons after the signing of the agreement. This action is further documented in a letter from the Director of the Office of Civil Rights dated March 27, 1998.

In 2000, under the leadership of another Director of the Office of Civil Rights, the USDA offered a settlement which was deemed an insult by the family. The USDA said that they wanted to settle with the family once and for all.

Later in 2000, when it appeared that the USDA was reneging on their agreement, the Grants entered a class action suit Wise etal v. Veneman in a case that is yet to be settled.

Upon Matthew and Florenza’s death, the family heirs attempted to settle once more with the USDA. The requirement by the Department of Justice was that the action would must be done “with prejudice,” a term signifying that charges could never be brought again. This would mean that all rights would be surrendered, something all black farmers have faced.

The USDA and DOJ are hiding behind technicalities such as no “similarly situated white farmer” was named. This is untrue. The family did point out a “similarly situated white farmer.” This claim is ludicrous.

Currently, the family heirs are paying a large sum of money to a local bank that has paid off the federal government so that the land cannot be foreclosed upon. This monthly payment is weighty and onerous for the family.

Justice is still left undone for Matthew and Florenza. This one final possibility through administrative procedures is the final opportunity for justice.

Please follow this link for more information and support:  https://www.gofundme.com/justice-for-matthew-florenza

Fund Raising, Glory Anticipated, and Farming While Black

For those of you who read the words on this page, I'd like to thank you and point you to an opportunity to make an additional contribution to justice in the world.

Since 1994 my fingers and soul have been in the black farmer world. Some of those stories are told over at this site. The stories and those posts mean a lot to me. Located within them is one particular farmer and family story.  You can locate that one here. If that doesn't work, go to November 17, 2007 and a story will unfold there.

The latest chapters of the story are told here. The short verse is that the USDA/DOJ settled their discrimination charges with this family on more than one occasion.  And, on more than one occasion, the feds finagled their way out of it. In the meantime, the living children of their deceased parents are continuing to fight for the land. That is an onerous task. It requires time, energy, and money.

They have one last chance to gain justice under the law. By going through an administrative route, they hope against hope to settle their parents' case. Though it has been settled, the power resides in the hands of the bureaucracy. That bureaucracy is powerful and has unlimited resources.

So, please follow the story here, on my FB page, and on the gofundme page.

Please also contribute whatever amount you can to the cause of justice. This route requires funds for travel, filing fees, and anything and everything related to dealing with USDA/DOJ in Washington, DC.

We long for that day when we can proclaim, "Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Justice has arrived! Glory!"

Thanks for your consideration. It means a lot to the Grant family and to Charla and me.

Courage, Its Face, Its Sounds

What does it look like
        How does it sound;
Its smell is like what,
        It comes when and how?

To speak a word of truth

        To utter kindness or generosity;
To shout a word into the wind of the times
        To whisper against the roar of complacency.

To offer resistance when the clamor
        Is for the same well worn path;
To listen to the quiet cries of the shattered
        Above the shouts of the angry mob.

 To write words that will be

        Misconstrued or misunderstood;
To seek when you cannot find
        And to find when you do not seek.

To pray words when you do not see

        The face of God;
To lay open all of yourself for no one to hear
        And to believe maybe, just maybe.

To offer a hand to the one who has lost the way

        Or to the one blinded by the hatred or hurt of the past;
To touch those deemed infectious by the wise of the day
        To guard the perimeter in bitter cold of winter in a war you did not start.

To stand when all sit,

To sit when all stand;
To pray when all chatter,
To kneel and pray when all others sing.

Courage what does it look like,

        Courage, how does it sound;
The smell of courage is like what,
        Courage comes when and how?