juneteenth!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3aQjTy328o

It's not so bad to be posting late on this first official day of MY summer break, because it allows me to respond nimbly to surprising developments...such as, that yesterday Juneteenth was declared a national holiday, and such as, that my school district IMMEDIATELY announced that today (since the 19th is a Saturday) would be a vacation day for all 12-month employees, such as the folks who were leading a training I was to attend this morning, which is now cancelled!  Yes, I slept in a while, thrilled by the way we have learned to turn on a dime if we choose to.

I grew up in Richmond, VA and I was hoping to report that the "June Jubilee" that I remember starting in 1976 was our version of a Juneteenth celebration, but no--it was a local arts festival that doesn't seem to have acknowledged (surprise) any part of Richmond's Black & African American history.  What I do know is that since then, the elementary school I attended, formerly known as J.E.B. Stuart School, is as of 2018 called BARACK OBAMA ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.  I adore this, of course.

If you're unfamiliar, let the NYT lay it out for you. Here's a poem for celebrating this historic day in 1865 and this historic day in 2021.  

 

The Stuff of Astounding: A Poem for Juneteenth

By PATRICIA SMITH

Unless you spring from a history that is smug and reckless, unless

you’ve vowed yourself blind to a ceaseless light, you see us. We

are a shea-shined toddler writhing through Sunday sermon, we are

the grizzled elder gingerly unfolding his last body. And we are intent

and insistent upon the human in ourselves. We are the doctor on

another day at the edge of reason, coaxing a wrong hope, ripping

open a gasping body to find air. We are five men dripping from the

burly branches of young trees, which is to say that we dare a world

that is both predictable and impossible. What else can we learn from

suicides of the cuffed, the soft targets black backs be? Stuck in its

rhythmic unreel, time keeps including us, even as our aged root

is doggedly plucked and trampled, cursed by ham-fisted spitters in

the throes of a particular fever. See how we push on as enigma, the

free out loud, the audaciously unleashed, how slyly we scan the sky—

all that wet voltage and scatters of furious star—to realize that we

are the recipients of an ancient grace. No, we didn’t begin to live

when, on the 19th June day of that awkward, ordinary spring—with

no joy, in a monotone still flecked with deceit—Seems you and these

others are free. That moment did not begin our breath. Our truths—

the ones we’d been birthed with—had already met reckoning in the

fields as we muttered tangled nouns of home. We reveled in black

from there to now, our rampant hue and nap, the unbridled breath

that resides in the rafters, from then to here, everything we are is

the stuff of astounding. We are a mother who hums snippets of gospel

into the silk curls of her newborn, we are the harried sister on the

elevator to the weekly paycheck mama dreamed for her. We are black

in every way there is—perm and kink, upstart and elder, wide voice,

fervent whisper. We heft our clumsy homemade placards, we will

curl small in the gloom weeping to old blues ballads. We swear not

to be anybody else’s idea of free, lining up precisely, waiting to be

freed again and again. We are breach and bellow, resisting a silent

consent as we claim our much of America, its burden and snarl, the

stink and hallelujah of it, its sicknesses and safe words, all its black

and otherwise. Only those feigning blindness fail to see the body

of work we are, and the work of body we have done. Everything is

what it is because of us. It is misunderstanding to believe that free

fell upon us like a blessing, that it was granted by a signature and

an abruptly opened door. Listen to the thousand ways to say black

out loud. Hear a whole people celebrate their free and fragile lives,

then find your own place inside that song. Make the singing matter.

 ************** 

I found this poem first at the Stanford University site, and it doesn't explain where the striking line for this Golden Shovel comes from, but oh what "breach and bellow" Patricia made of it! Let freedom ring and ring again, truly, and may it be so.

Our host today is Buffy Silverman at Buffy's Blog. I'll just mosey on over there after reveling in a little more resting in this fresh wide-open morning...a so much smaller freedom, but precious nonetheless.