I Went to a Plantation

The day before Juneteenth, I visited the Hampton Mansion - a former slave plantation reserved for history. 

Let's start with Juneteenth. if you don't know what Juneteenth is, it is the day that enslaved Africans were finally emancipated on June 19, 1865. 

My colleague Elijah and I took an Uber to the mansion. We got there around 12:45, with our recommended tour starting at 2, so we had some spare time. We walked up to the mansion, where another tour, a separate one, was to start at 1, so we walked the grounds outside until it was time to enter the mansion. Before the tour, Elijah and I walked towards the hill at the back of the house, both of us noting our disgust with it all. But I found it strange, the sound of it all; the chirping of the birds and the noise of the highway nearby made me wonder about the sound back then. I thought about the birds, and wondered if the birds had any stories passed to them of the things that happened here. Before going on the tour I had to touch one of the large trees, wondering what it remembered from long ago.

I Went To A Plantation

As I walked through the halls of the mansion I felt burdened by the history and the pain. I saw all these nice paintings of White people; people who I thought were evil. These people were some of America's greatest liars, cowards, and savages. You can probably feel the rage stirring in me right now. 

We walked through large drawing rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, and more. The decorations were ornate; the furniture lavish. The colors of the walls were rich and the large windows brought to life the richness of it all. My favorite room was the big blue room with the wallpaper, but probably because that was where the food was eaten. I love food. 

The Ridgley family clearly enjoyed luxury. They also owned hundreds of enslaved Africans throughout their time. The size of the mansion itself is a testament to the fact, but the large paintings inside, as well as the fine imports from Europe and Asia, also make it clear. In the main hall sat The Lady and the Harp, the painting that saved the estate in the 1940s, when failing business forced the descendants to sell the remaining property. 

The first tour finished after an hour. By then, the tour Elijah and I were supposed to have gone to had left from the park and went to the grounds down the road where the enslaved were housed. We eventually caught up to the crowd, meeting up with another colleague of ours, Omar.

This part of the tour was even more gut wrenching as the others. Being in the house of the overseer was even more awful as the tour guide pulled the actual bell used to call the enslaved together. We eventually got to a part where we were able to touch and feel replicas of items used to keep the enslaved in order. For some reason, I was able to touch the chain and the neck brace, but the whip was just too much for me, so I let it skip me as it made its way around the room.

During this time, I learned a new word - manumission - after hearing how one of the Ridgleys, then governor of the state, freed some of his slaves. I originally thought this was good. But the tour guide reminded me of the families split apart, mothers ripped from their children, brothers and sisters ripped apart - reminding me slavery was so complex. I couldn't imagine being split from my little brother Justin. Hell, in ninth grade I moved from South Carolina to Maryland to be reunited with him and our mom after separation started affecting my grades and behavior. 

My attention was mostly to the mansion and its grandeur. I was enraged at the undeserved beauty of it all. Quite honestly, I wanted to burn everything in the building and walk off. The video we watched beforehand described the wealth as fabulous, reminding me on a talk about objectivity, history, and context. And then not only history, but historiography- the way a story is told. A Black woman told the story in the slave quarters. A White man led the tour in the mansion. In considering how the story is told, the emotional connection must be considered, with the relationship to the history. Two hundred years ago, one of them would've been property; the other not.

I Am Allowed to Be Mad; I Am Allowed to Mourn

In my freshman history course, we read the diary of a slave-owner who's life literally consisted of traveling, having sex, and reading. The having sex part may be an exaggeration - it may not - but that's what I remember. Either way, when I think of slavery, I think about the enslaved Africans, the denial of their humanity, and the denial of freedom in the one life we know. I think about the Black enslaved boys and girls unable to read books like their white counterparts. I thought about Black fear post 1850, when everything was at stake as the Missouri Compromise changed the nation. I think about the families hiding from dogs, families split apart, families denied the pleasure of reading and dreaming and simply being. I think about Black girls raped without protection from the law, only seen as animals and chattel, mere objects.

I've brought it up here several times, but truthfully, I always forget slavery was for two hundred years and very well could've been longer. That's the part people always seem to forget when talking about it. In the larger part of history, I can't wrap my mind around 200 years, mostly because I can hardly wrap my head around 10 years and how much has changed in between. I think about the technology, the fashion, the laws, the people. These are things that define a time, and so much can change between it. Yet, for 200 years, the system stayed in tact.

I am so appreciative of my grandmother and my mother who taught me never to give a fuck. I can imagine, if I was raised by adults concerned with the white gaze, my reactions would've been different. But my grandmother, fearless as she was, projected unto me an attitude that allowed me to express myself as freely as I wanted. I took ownership of my expression and feeling; and was thus unafraid to be vulnerable. And in that room, that's how I felt. 

I don't have to apologize for my rage. I will continue to talk about slavery and anti-Blackness in the country, giving no fucks as to who is offended or why. I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand justice. I have a right to mourn.  

I Will Continue the Fight

My pastor, Dr. Rev Heber Brown III asked a question that always stayed on my mind: What would free people do? He asked this at the first freedom school I went to and it's been on my mind since. I'm not sure what freedom means to other people; and during my lifetime I do want to understand more about what freedom meant to the enslaved and how that shaped politics, especially Black politics. But I think that critical question would lead to a lot of different answers, which is fine because not everyone is alike. Circumstances meant different free people did different things, but there is a certain type of freed person I want to be like. I wonder if today's free Black traders and free Black entrepreneurs understand the implications behind global trade and industrialization, and if they're able to make that connection to their own history. 

I'm always asking myself questions, but one I find myself asking so often, especially in Baltimore, "Is this all we deserve? I ask that last question when I see public housing and consider the divestment of resources for poor Black people. Context is important, as well as the burden we carry from generation to generation. That means, whether right or wrong, I don't find Black poverty to be the issue of the Black poor because the we didn't create our poverty, it was created for us. How and where does accountability come in, many ask? A professionalism centered around whiteness, the inability for Black folks to be themselves, and the lack of support systems for Black people signal an oppressive system larger than us. I want to address more perspective on Black opportunity and accountability in another post, but this is as concise as it gets for now. 

This just speaks to Black people again being robbed of our destiny; this time, we just have the tools to rob ourselves and each other. And when I say robbing each other, I mean more than just taking someone's iPhone in a snatch and grab. Sometimes we rob each other when we say "hate the sin, love the sinner." Sometimes we rob each other when we say "How you gonna find a job" when talking to Black Studies Majors. 

But its easy to get lost in these words and lost in this study. I warned my professors early on - I didn't want this project to consume me. Black struggle is more than a study piece, more than a curriculum, more than something to observe. I don't want to be that Blacademic who sits on the sideline watching history happen around me.  The Black political builds itself encompasses my work in the Baltimore Green Party. The Black educational struggle builds itself my work at the freedom school and my work at Morgan State.

Visiting the Hampton Mansion brought me closer to the history than I wanted to be, but its not like nightmares haven't done worse. One particular nightmare I had, brought slavery to the modern day. This tour, however - touching the grass, feeling the trees, and hearing the birds -made it real in a way that books couldn't. This history is full of love, pain, hurt, and escape. But, it is ours and I'll make of that what I must - the same way the ancestors had.

Special thanks to the amazing Park Ranger who led the tour. She did an amazing job, and I wish I knew her name. 

Ivies Don't Need Our Help

This blog post is a response to my President David Wilson's article here.

For context, my name is Jeremy Collins. I am a Junior at Morgan State University majoring in Screenwriting and Animation. Morgan State University wasn't my first choice....nor was it my last. I got in on a decision day in early July after my own college plan sidelined. I got accepted to the University of Maryland College Park's Computer Science program and intended to transfer there after getting credits at a Baltimore community college due to the unaffordable Out-Of-State tuition (I'm from South Carolina). That didn't quite work out the way I planned so I ended up here, at Morgan, and my life changed for the better. 

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1. Maybe Towson or Loyola could use our help a bit more.

I was cold waiting outside of a large building on Charles Street when my Twitter timeline erupted about the protest at Towson University. Black students were sitting in their President's Office with a list of demands about accountability and representation, daring not to move until they were acknowledged. Mizzou had just happened, so with a sense of urgency, I texted my friends asking if we could pool together money to get food for those brave students inside. We were all so quick and ready to mobilize to take pictures in solidarity for Mizzou, but what about when things happen right in our city (or Metropolitan Area to be more correct). Fortunately, they ended up getting food and drinks to get them through, but not from us, as the people I contacted weren't as urgent as I thought they would've been. It would've been a good time then for Morgan to be helpful and suggestive, both from students and administration. But Twitter fingers and hashtag activism don't always translate well to real life work.

2. How exactly does this solve the problem rooted in a culture of white supremacy?

What Dr. Wilson proposes seems to be a short-term bandage, if even a bandage at all. In what way does having students from Morgan State at Yale for a semester challenge the issues of diversity? Morgan Students don't need a semester at Yale to experience the culture of elite whiteness. Hopkins is a but a few stops on the 3 Bus line and 1 stop taking the Collegetown Shuttle.  

Dr. Wilson suggests that the experiences would be transformational, but I argue that it would not.

If white students and white faculty want to seek inclusiveness, maybe they should pay attention to their Black students and their Black faculty. If white colleges really seek to be more inclusive it will require actual work, actual confrontation of ideas and beliefs. There are many things that step in the way of that: white entitlement, white fear, and white tears. Just look at the BlackTwitter hashtag #StayMadAbby. The process of coming to terms with that requires a lot of internal struggle. It's a process - one that won't be solved because you have two more Black students in your class than you had yesterday.  

3. Why should we be participating in the outsourcing of jobs when there are well qualified candidates for these positions?

Morgan shouldn't have to feed Yale, Harvard, or any of the Ivy League institutions good talent when there's plenty of it right here. There's enough Black academics out here who could fill those spaces long-term. It would require, again, that these institutions do actual work.

4. Is this article about HBCUs or is it about Morgan?

I'll be honest. The way the article centers Morgan State, and not HBCUs as a whole, bothers me. I read the article several times trying to find mention of any other HBCU outside of Morgan, but I couldn't. I just had to wonder what

 I love Morgan, but I love Coppin too. I love Howard. I love Morehouse. I love Spelman. I love FAMU. Half of these institutions I've never visited. Why do I love them? If I don't love these institutions the way I love my own, we all lose. Black institutions can't afford to not hug each other and love each other and support each other.

It's already bad enough that people are asking if HBCUs are still relevant in a world of #BlackOnCampus. In fact, our own Black President has seemed to question the relevancy and effectiveness of HBCUs. In his glaring critique of HBCU success - ranging from lack of alumni support and flimsy governmental support - our President seems to not understand the value of the HBCU outside of a monetary view, underpaying the cultural and historical significance.

With that being said, if one falls, we all fall. Anti-Blackness is not selective, and thus we don't need to try to be selected. Looking at the Black elite's response to racism, we can see that within our own class bubbles Black people still don't receive the same treatment. The merits, just like the humanity, of Black people are always question. Instead of trying to be the answer to the question, let's change the conversation and challenge the question.

5. DO we have the resources?

Continuing on the idea before, why does it seem we have a very white-centered view of success? So many of us have "reach the top" aspirations, neglecting the people who may not have had the resources to climb the ladder in the first place. Morgan State University is not my idea of an elite Black institution. Morgan doesn't look like a Black Yale or a Black Columbia or a Black Dartmouth. I'm fine with that. I have my own critique of the Black Professional class that will come at a later time, but I think we are doing fine grooming the students we have. 

We also have to look at the type of students that attend these schools. Someone who's paying for a Brown education and used to Brown resources probably wouldn't want to spend a semester at Morgan. And a Morgan student suddenly immersed in Brown's resources probably wouldn't want to come back. This is not to say that Morgan or any other HBCU is inadequate, but we do need to take an honest look at the disparities between Black colleges and elite White Institutions and a look at the history that made such. Again, confrontation. People will be uncomfortable. People will have to question and challenge their privilege. It's not going to be easy. But I can imagine the people who were shut out of these institutions would say their life hasn't been easy as well.

Whatever it takes, a simple exchange program will not change what has been taught from early on. Let's get back to the drawing board.

still fighting. teaching love

Constant. Rage. My literary father, James Baldwin, said it.

I live in the age of #BlackLivesMatter. I also live in an age where we are deciding whether or not to take down Confederate monuments. 

It's hard. What people don't seem to understand about racism is just how major the devaluing of Black life is. We see it in Flint with the poisoning of water. We've seen it with Katrina. We've even seen it in our fight for reparations, where the "radical" economic justice candidate can't even deliver justice to one of the most oppressed populations on this imperial settler colony. 

I just came from New York City. Just yesterday, I was minding my business in Washington Square Park when I was approached by a group of people with a camera. I was interviewed for a webseries on complexities. When prompted the question about my own complexities, I took a minute to think exactly what I wanted to say. I had a lot on my mind, from Baltimore, to activism, to being a writer. A lot. 

But I took the time to unpack a lot of stress about being young, Black, and working class. If the interview gets posted, great. If not, it was a much needed statement from myself. Just hearing the words come out of my mouth felt therapeutic. 

I have to wonder, how much fighting we got to do? Will we be fighting for reparations on Saturn Colony II in 2154? I can imagine, in the days where space travel is common, little Black kids sitting outside on a stoop knowing they'll never see the world from space. The battle against white supremacy and the anti-Blackness woven into our culture will never cease to exist. And my arms are tired. 

Tired of thinking about those with "unmarketable" names not getting callbacks. Tired of walking past homeless people in a city where entire streets need to be demolished. Tired of faking the image of someone who's okay. Tired of thinking about alternative pasts and how people vilify those who would've had my behind enslaved. Tired of the prosperity gospel that tells me to pray harder as if I hadn't had generations praying for my soul. My freedom. If I pray any harder I'll end up looking like FKA twigs' on her M3LL155X cover. (I love FKA twigs).

I'm fighting. I'm taking punches I can't see. My eyes are swollen and my arms are tired, but my body tells me, in the voice of Precious, my grandmother "Boy you better keep going." I hear her words in my fingers that write this blog post. In my fingers I find resistance and revolution, sizzling like a fresh Ginger Ale on a Sunday afternoon in mid July.  Fre

I'm still fighting because I know love. My grandma taught me love. My teachers taught me love. My mother taught me love too. Each individual taught me love and worth in another way, but it was all love, and it is all the reason I'm in such predicament. 

Because I know the value of my Blackness, I can't stand seeing others who may not and thus, I tell them. In one poem, I wrote the line "I become modern day abolitionist" because there's something noble and purposeful about being an abolitionist. I owe them - the Harriet Tubmans, the John Browns - my gratitude, for my freedom. But the abolitionist movement is not yet done. Not when an entire system is built off of the criminalization of your people, throwing them in jails where slavery is still legal by the same amendment that was supposed to set you free.

But I know this because of love. Love makes me the mother lion fighting to the death for her cubs. Love keeps me on this Underground Railroad where I sneak in tidbits about Black radicalism in my daily conversations with young folk. Love keeps me healthy. Love keeps me human. And that's all it is. Love and pain. Pain at the dirty water in Flint Michigan. Pain at the amount of youth that would've been served better by recreational centers than juvenile prisons. Pain for the unskilled worker who's merit is challenged on the same land while the descendants of the enslaved still haven't received their check. Pain at those who lost homes in Rosewood, Tulsa, Philly, and Seneca Village. Pain for anyone on the mother continent that could've been my cousin. Pain for the enslaved mother who saw her son get sold, only to never see him again. Pain for her and the grandchildren she may never know. 

But at the end of the day, through this cycle of joy and hurt - the Black American experience for some - I'm still fighting. Teaching love the same way my grandma, mother, teachers, friends, and ancestors taught me. 

We Gon' Talk About Race

I love to read.

This blog post comes after my stomach dropped at such a disturbing article . This is the post I'm talking about. Written by former classmate of mine, HD Stone, it is a response to another student's post talking about race. Another student at Wofford responded to Stone's post, but the response was rather general and didn't really ask questions to engage critical thinking. I'm interested in engaging on a personal level, using history, experiences, and statistics to have a meaningful dialogue on Black folks. 

I love quotes. My love for quotes might be number twelve on a list of Top 103 Things Jeremy Likes. That's a good spot to be on such a list. With my love of quotes, and context, I'll pull out some troubling statements in the article and try to dissect them. 

1. "Freedom of speech, other constitutional rights, and the heretofore pillars of higher education take a back seat to this “inclusion and diversity” rhetoric and the implementation of leveling curriculums that will no doubt contribute to the stagnation, and closing of the American mind"

This is a very interesting quote, only because it purports that diversity and inclusion are anti-"freeze peach". In fact, I love when Within the context of the article, the author seems to be referencing the protests that have been happening all across the country where students are demanding more representation in faculty, more awareness of issues, and more cultural tolerance.

I have to question the author's true passion for "freeze peach" considering he was very silent when the #BlackLivesMatter protestor was beaten and bloodied for using his right to "freeze peach" at a Trump rally. I guess "freeze peach" only matters when it's not endangering your privilege. 

2. "Here’s an idea for all of you:  educate yourself on real things. Read Aristotle, read Plato, really examine the tenets of America which make it so great. We live in a meritocracy that clearly advocates a certain way of life; yet, so many deviate away from this grand vision and advocate for this utopic, egalitarian society."

"Educate yourself on real things." just may be the one thing to make the most sense in this whole essay. Honestly. The rest of it just makes me shake my head in disbelief and wonder how can someone be so scholarly and so removed from society. 

"We live in a meritocracy".........so you gonna advocate for reparations from slavery or nah? I'll wait on your petition. Or maybe you don't think slavery happened?  Or maybe you never considered the stress that comes from working around people who you suspect may secretly hate you. If white people have to deal with that sort of stress, please let me know. Maybe I'm wrong. If so, I can be accountable for my mistakes and learn from them. 

But back to this fallacy of meritocracy. Living in a meritocracy would demand an egalitarian society, would it not? Meritocracy negates the truth of benefit that connections, wealth, and societal privilege bring. Sorry Stone, your privilege is not earned. We live in a meritocracy, but minimum wage has stagnated while productivity has increased and the cost of living has gone up? 

But let's assume we live in a meritocracy. Great. Technology continues to make certain jobs obsolete, so what happens to those people put out of work? Is their humanity diminished due to there not being jobs for them? Does their need to eat, drink, and survive suddenly go away because technology took their job? 

3."If we truly want to transcend the tyrannical and backward clutches of identity politics as DuBois clearly advocates, we must abandon identities rooted in things beyond America."

For context, Stone uses DuBois' quote that reads: “The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line.” Ironically, Stone agrees. But it seems he misses the point. But it is with this quote that really drives the fury embedded within the article, mostly because of the "Martin Luther King" effect of taking a quote or person out of context. If DuBois was able to see this rotten use of his quote, he'd probable have an asthma attack from the amount of breath lost in one sigh. 

Stone, however, is correct in saying that race identity is beyond America. People who pay attention can look at how European colonialism has taken the world by storm. 

He also puts the onus to letting go of race politics on Black people as if Black people started this race problem. Just in case you forgot, I'll start off with a list of things that Black people didn't do.

- Hop on a ship voluntarily and come to the "New World"

- Break apart our own families and sell our children into slavery to become hard labor. (see Harriet Jacobs' slave narrative)

- Codify laws to keep each other from speaking to one another or getting an education or getting loans from federal housing funds to buy property and build wealth. (see redlining)

- Hang each other on trees in post-Reconstruction America. (see Ida B. Wells and lynching)

- Ask police to kill us unarmed and extrajudicially, forgetting the Constitutional right to due process.

Instead of telling Black people to "get over it" - as conservatives love to do - maybe he should fight with us. He should gather his friends and family and take them to anti-racist training. Why doesn't he tell his Egg-Avi Twitter friends to look deeper into #BlackLivesMatter instead of trolling?

But of course, this article shows a clear lack of understanding. Stone doesn't have to be cautious of every step he takes in the eye of police. Stone doesn't have to make trips to the library to read books on the criminalization of white folk. Stone doesn't have to look up symbols that represent the fight for his freedom. Stone doesn't have to feel unwelcome in this country, nor does he have any reason to. Stone doesn't have to go to community healing sessions to cope with the trauma that is existing in this country. Stone doesn't have to channel surf looking for representation and people like himself.  

But that's my reality. 

I swear, all this energy Stone had put into this article to tell Black folks to "stop being whiny crybabies" might've been able to eradicate racism, had it been used productively. But alas, Stone's article is less about productivity and progression and more about distancing himself from and protecting privilege - including his own in being a white, straight, and relatively wealthy male.  I must ask, why is it so hard for conservatives to acknowledge the problems of Black people and other minorities without insulting them? 

But at this point, I digress. There were definitely more quotes worth pulling out, but then I'd spoil the article. Besides, as a writer myself, I know certain page hits would be appreciated, so go take a look if you must and decide for yourself. The link is at the top.

Let's keep talking. 

What We Not Supposed to Do

Some may say little kids aren't supposed to cook.

I walked into Pleasant Hope Baptist Church to the sight of children, huddled around a griddle, putting fresh bacon on the sizzling thing. The other kids either sat in a circle joking with each other, and one little boy was actually doing impressive head spins. I walked over to Pastor Heber Brown III, and introduced myself, where he gave me three options:  help with the food, run social media, or take photos. Both of my phones were dying, so I did the obvious thing and took photos of the kids making breakfast.

When the bacon was done, there was a brief intermission. One of the kids, Denzel, started showing everyone how to tie a tie. I took off my coat and grabbed a tie, seeing if he could show me. And, well, he did! A ten year old taught me how to tie a tie.

When breakfast was done, the kids threw their trash away and Moriah, one of the volunteers, Shannon, and I washed the dishes while the kids did their libations to the ancestors. 

Pastor Brown had been teaching the youth so much in the past two days. His spirit and love for the kids showed through his grace and patience. "When regular school is closed, Freedom School is open!" he'd shout, and the kids would follow right along.Any other person would've been frustrated and yelling, but he did what a lot of us won't do - let our kids be kids.

Black kids, Moriah, and I discussed, don't get the privilege of childhood, especially impoverished Black kids. Especially little Black girls. Constantly dehumanized, the rush to adulthood comes both externally and internally as our kids have to worry about judgement, performance, and excellence very young. The concept of innocence does not extend to Black kids. Non-Black kids that are loud are simply loud. Black kids that are loud are not just loud but ghetto, and for some reason (racism?) more intolerable. Black kids have to be the face of the entire Black community.

This is different from my experience serving children over the summer with Operation Help or Hush. (Read about it here.) Where the kids in Sandtown-Winchester were dead before they lived, these Freedom School kids might've had a thousands souls inside of them. They were playing and laughing and dancing and singing and cooking and being free. I pictured little Tamir playing with them, quickly changing the thought to something more peaceful.

The kids then got back to making breakfast. Under adult supervision, oranges were juiced, and eggs were whisked. The kids made waffles, scrambled eggs, and fresh orange juice. Shannon, one of the volunteers and one of the kids' parents, gave a miniature lesson on herbs and natural medicine.

The kids then got on the bus (I really want to see the Spike Lee movie) and headed downtown, where there was a protest action where demands were made of the Baltimore City Police Department. I rode in Moriah's car, where we had a great talk on American culture, capitalism, and Cuba (read her post on Cuba here, at ForHarriet). It was nice to be able to converse with someone on such a level. We talked about whether or not Brother Bernie was a real socialist or not, the Uprising, and the individualistic competition-driven culture that our country breeds. The exchange of thought, theory, and ideas felt freeing. This wasn't any elementary exchange of racism and concepts that should've been understood in sixth grade, but actual critique and international experience on a macro and micro level.

The kids, leading the show, sang their song about the RBG from Jones Falls all the way to City Hall, loud and proud. Cameras and a podium waited for their grand entrance. Black and Latino youth were behind the podium as several young leaders spoke about the injustices they faced by the police department, along with solid concrete demands.

After the speeches were made, I was able to meet Dayvon Love from Leaders of a Beautiful Struggle, a group that looks to raise community voices to promote change. I did a brief interview with The Real News Network, and we were on our way to the buses. 

Before we got to the buses, the kids were able to see Eddie Conway, a former Black Panther. Many of the kids shook his hands and thanked him for what he did with a reverence that resembled that of the American and the American soldier. The kids had questions about Baltimore and the meal programs and the Party itself, and seeing the younger people so curious and passionate excited me. These kids weren't 15,16,and 17. They ranged from 7-14! 

I rode to the Freddie Gray Empowerment Center with Lawrence Rodgers, an evangelist at another church in Baltimore. There was interesting conversation there as well, as we talked about KFCs closing and homelessness in the city. We rode to the Freddie Gray Empowerment Center, conveniently located just a block from my childhood house on Eutaw Place. 

Freedom School closed out with each kid saying what they learned, liked, or will remember forever during the two days. Most kids said meeting Eddie Conway was the biggest highlight. The recognition and affirmation from elders seemed to provide a shelter for the kids. 

The whole day felt like the second part of a spiritual cleanse. Just the night before, I was singing songs and cracking jokes with my poetry friends while making a banner for the Homecoming Parade. And for the next day to be filled with such beautiful energy felt like a blessing.

Black people aren't supposed to be doing things like this. The institution of American chattel slavery was supposed to be generational, extending from our grandparents to our grandchildren and to their grandchildren. This is what the Confederacy fought to uphold; this is what the culture of our country promotes. We aren't supposed to celebrate and love each other. But we weren't supposed to run to the North either. We weren't supposed to sit in at segregated lunch counters. We weren't supposed to fight back. We weren't supposed to sneak around and learn how to read. We weren't supposed to be able to tell our own story.

Some say kids aren't supposed to cook, but sometimes it's best to do what you not supposed to do.

For Jeremiah and the Kids Who May Have Died Before They Lived

Today was my second day volunteering with Operation HelpOrHush, giving out food to the Gilmor Homes community in Sandtown, Baltimore. The name may not sound familiar, but this is where Freddie Gray lived. Yes, the same hashtag Freddie Gray that caused the media to run to Baltimore and make a frenzy out of everything. The air was hot, but it was fine. I walked past empty abandoned house after empty abandoned house. As I walked from Upton/Avenue-Market Metro Station to the where the tables were set up, I saw death. Little dead kids. Old dead adults. Everything and everyone just looked dead. Being in Baltimore, I was used to seeing the walking dead - Lexington Market had enough zombies to make its own apocalypse. But this was different. The death was the same death in Lexington Market, but even the environment was death. Each apartment was a casket where the dead rose and fell, ate and drank, lived and died. 

We served the kids first. Hotdogs and hamburgers came and went as I poured relish, mustard, and ketchup. It was an odd experience. Some kids seemed ashamed to ask for condiments. Some of the kids didn't say anything at all. I asked some of the kids their names. I hardly got a response on the condiments, so it shouldn't be too much a surprise that I didn't really get any names.

But then, an older woman with a child who couldn't be no older than three came up. I don't remember whether she got him a hamburger or a hotdog, but I poured ketchup on something. The woman then said "Jeremiah, you want relish or mustard?" and the little boy shook his head. Anyone who knows me knows as much as I dislike my name, I love the name Jeremiah, so I smiled first and said, "His name's Jeremiah?". The little boy then looked at me. He was short. Had a good bit of hair from what I remember. But he looked at me, and for some reason, it felt like he looked into my eyes. 

The woman nodded her head. She was one of the nicer adults we fed. I could imagine her being a maternal figure in the community, the one who looks after everyone's kids and makes sure they doing right. I told her my name - Jeremy - and how it was cool. Jeremy helping Jeremiah. 

The strangest thing was just seeing a face with a hint of vitality. Amongst so much death, I saw life in little Jeremiah who very much didn't want relish or mustard. I didn't catch too many eyes that day. Most of the faces I'd seen looked aged beyond belief. The skin seemed to drag as if they came out the womb angry and upset; as if gravity was somehow stronger in their space on the planet. 

Dealing with many of the adults seemed to be a challenge. I thought about my respective twenty year-old youth and my environments and my upbringing and all the blessings I had in my life. I thought about who these people may have been at my age and how they got to where they are now. I saw death and poverty. In a few I saw entitlement, angry at us for running out of hamburgers when they came late to the line. In a few I saw impatience, catching the slightest bit of attitude at the pace of the line. I wondered if they went to college. If they had internet access or even heard of #BlackLivesMatter. I wondered what they thought of the uprising. I wondered a lot about them. 

But more than the adults, I think about the children. I think about the future that lies in them. I think about the potential they may have. I wondered if any of them liked art. I wanted to ask. I could teach them art - it wouldn't be my first time. I thought about the life they represented, the spaces in America they'd take as we vacate ours. The children who might being dentists or the next big CEO. 

And so I write this for them. I write to keep my spirits up. I write in hopes that you'll take time to look at the ghettos in your own communities. I write this for little Jeremiah and the kids who may have died before they lived. For the kids who may be alive, but can't truly live. For the kids who's parents come home tired from work, or for the kids whose parent's choose to stay on welfare for government benefits, or for the kids who feel ashamed to take free things because they can't afford to get it themselves. 

For those kids in Sandtown, Baltimore, I'll see you Monday.