A Rabbit’s Song

Up you little rabbit, come out of your hole

Hop, hop, hop across the lily field

Your cottontail bouncing through the grass

Ears bowing in the wind

Eyes glistening in the sun

Hop, hop, hop my cute little friend

Today is hunting season

And the “mighty hunter” has his gun

BLAM!!!

He shot hot your fuzzy butt all

to hell

I wrote this poem in the early 90s, following some difficult times and coming to grips with the harsh realities of life and the accompanying traumas that often blind side us.

But such is life in the real world, especially for people of color. So how can we feel grateful and stay positive? Can we feel grateful in the midst of turmoil? Can we feel grateful while being persecuted? Can we feel grateful in the midst of inequity, inequality, and injustice? Can we feel grateful for the sun and the quiet solitude of a calm lily field when hunters roam free and at any moment can disturb our peace and end life in an instant?

It can be difficult to enjoy peace and calm while living under the stress of becoming a predator’s prey.  Unfortunately, we have found ourselves surrounded by those who embrace that mentality of predator vs. prey and who easily and conveniently mistake kindness for weakness. There is a conquering attitude of entitlement, including the environment, wildlife, the impoverished, and people of color in particular.

Yet we have managed to keep hope alive and keep our communities intact in spite of the adversities we face. We have celebrated our culture as a community. We have our festivals, our festive garb and outfits that make us stand out in a crowd, our music that others copy and appropriate with other aspects of our culture. We have our comedians, professionals whom we pay to see, and amateurs who make appearances at our family gatherings.

We’ve learned to laugh amid our pain. We’ve learned to dance while in despair. We’ve learned to celebrate though persecuted. We still dress to kill while we mourn. We still walk with swagger, with heads held high while being held down and held back. We have learned, through our oppression, how to survive despite whatever is thrown in our way.

Our music, from the Blues, to jazz, to Gospel, to rap, has recorded a roadmap of our journey: the highs and lows, the joys and the pain, the ups and downs, and ultimately the hope that held us up and helped us to hang on to make it another day.

This was something much different than the stereotypical Jim Crow version of the happy Negro who sang and tap-danced to entertain white audiences. This wasn’t the childlike slave who needed white supervision and provision from our white oppressors for our survival.

This was power. This was creative innovation. This was making lemonade out of lemons. This was something that trumped white supremacy. This was the supernatural work of a God that blessed the poor, the hungry, those who weep, and the hated and persecuted, found in the Beatitudes that Jesus preached during His sermon on the Mount.

Some of the most soul-stirring music I’ve ever heard has come from an oppressed people. I hear it in the rhythms of Reggae from the Caribbean, the islands that were part of the transatlantic slave trade. I’ve heard it in the music of South Africa produced during Apartheid. It’s why others may try to imitate it, but no one else can duplicate real soul music. It emanates out of experiential pain.

It’s the same with dance and rhythm, with our unique swag; it’s in our slang; it’s even in the seasoning of our foods. Those shared experiences in our communities are what set us apart. It’s why we automatically gravitate toward each other in a crowd. We see each other, “I see you!” We feel each other, “You feel me?’ We have our own code, and “you can’t touch this.”

We have our own dances in the end zone of a football field, our own extended handshakes, our own hairstyles, and how we wear our clothes. It’s an experiential kinship that comes out of shared pain and oppression and yet having the ability to overcome time and time again.

What we are currently experiencing is nothing new for us. We’ve been here before, yet disappointed that here we go again. But we also have that survival instinct that has been tried and proven, and we will continue to overcome and celebrate, and sing, and dance, and eat our food that big momma put her foot in, and laugh and joke, and talk smack at our games, and dress and set styles, and perform feats like no others.

No predator and no hunters with their guns will ever keep us from enjoying the sun on our faces, and the green pastures and lily fields, and the breeze blowing through our afros and locks, because we know how to survive.