BLACK HISTORY IS MY HISTORY

Black History is my history:

I could see the look in her eyes. She tried to be brave and put on a 

happy face. But she was not happy. Again we were at the jailhouse. Again she was bringing him cigarettes and putting money on his account. Again, she was looking at her firstborn son through the bars of a jail cell. I was just a little girl but I could see the hurt and the pain in her face as her heart broke yet again. Then one day, he graduated to the big time and was hauled away to prison. Miles and miles now separated us from him. There would be no more weekly visits. Now it would become a burden to drive the extra mile with three small children in tow, to go through the ritual procedure of signing in to the space behind the barbed-wire fence. This indeed was a gated-community, but not the kind of community she had wished for him. Now we would have a picnic, in the yard that was surrounded with a chain linked fence, that was crowned with barbed-wire circles, so he couldn't get out. None of us could get out. I remember being frightened that they wouldn't let us go home. In my small little-child heart, I made a vow that I would never do the thing that my mother was doing. I would never make these horrible trips to the jailhouse behind a son of mine. I would never allow my heart to break over and over again in this way.

When I grew up, I had a son. As he grew older, I rehearsed for him my childhood vow. I would say to him, “I don’t DO jail! You have no business at the jailhouse! If you go there, do not expect me to come for you because I DON’T DO JAIL!” He would just look at me and not say a word but he knew that I meant every word. After he was a grown man, he told me of an incident where he had gone to jail when he was about 30 years old. And even though it was history, and he had only stayed overnight, my heart sank. I breathed a sigh of relief at the same time as my heart was gripped with fear. Would he be a repeat customer? I prayed not. And to this day, he has never returned to jail. It would seem we dodged a bullet on that one.

Once, I attended a church service where a panel of prisoners was allowed to come in to answer questions from the young people in the congregation. Our pastor had at one time been locked up as a teenager. His crime: murder. This was his attempt to give the next generation some first-hand experience with some young men who knew the truth about jail-time and were still living it. The question was asked, “What is the worst thing about being in jail?” The answer came quickly. “Being separated from family,” one of the young men said. “It is the loneliest feeling you will ever know.” His voice broke and he dropped his head briefly. The rest of the panel nodded in agreement. My mind flashed back to my brother and his stints in jail. Somehow, my mother had known what I, as a child, could not fathom. Because of that, she was willing to sacrifice to stay connected to him.

Still Their Slaves

My mind now goes to the days of slavery. Men and women were bound with chains and torn from the arms of their family members. Children were sold off like chattel. The worse thing about slavery may not have been the abuse and rough treatment. Perhaps the worst thing about slavery was “the separation from family.” If that is the case, and more and more jails are built every year, perhaps we have not yet overcome.  What if the reason so many of our young black men and an increasing number of women are under a generational curse that has passed down through the ages and the atrocities of slavery? What if we are still their slaves?  Have we truly overcome?