The Rage That I Feel

The rage that I feel

is older than my memory and generations deep,

It orphans me on these hostile shores and dares me to find

my way back home. It mocks me as I strain to lift my head and

watch the sun set on freedom and dignity-on my humanity

Lost, separate, alone, it dulls my senses yet quickens my pulse.

It speeds me onward to the precipice of forgotten language and

song, forgotten ways, forgotten names, forgotten places

Homes forgotten.

The rage that I feel

is born anew every season as I am forced to celebrate my

captivity and sing praises on hollow days made holy, tributes

to discovers’ of lands already owned, houses already made

homes, places already named. Made to sing proud songs to

founding liars, hymns to a pantheon of thieves, murderers

and hypocrites, white icons stained blood-red from victims

too numerous to count, vile progenitors redeemed by time,

redeemed by memories too weak to recall the truth. If these

be the fathers of my country, I choose to remain an orphan.

The rage that I feel

scorches my fingers as they touch a burning breast, trying to

salve the whole fever of a fraction of a man. laws and constitu-

tions born to subdue me further as if the filth of slavery was

not enough as if the waste I am forced to live in, eat in, sleep

in, die in, was still too good for me, forced to watch while my

captors gloat on their superior culture, their superior civiliza-

tion, their superior evil.

The rage that I feel

consumes my sleep as the freedom you promised to restore

remains as distant as a forgotten homeland. I wail in the night

as you come for me, no proclamations promising emancipation

signed by unwilling hands can silence my cries as you force

the lie inside me, the seeds that you have planted in my womb

will tell the tale of your brutality, your baseness, your true char-

acter. Yet, I stumble as I seek comfort in a god of your choosing,

a god that looks like my tormentor, white and blonde, bleached

of truth and justice. I embrace the wizen deity branding the

destroyer in my flesh, surrendering my reason. I live The Lie

for my pain is too great, my hurt too deep, my only other 

choice is not to live at all.

The rage that I feel

traps me in ignorance and poverty, holds me in a new place,

traps me in a hostile world and forces me to eat a strange and

bitter bird called crow. I should have left with the others while I

had the chance, but I didn't know when the ship was leaving, no

one told me where I must go, no one told me where home was

maybe no one knew, maybe they all forgot. It's been so long

now and I am so tired, so weary. So, I wander in this wilder-

ness without a Moses, trapped in another man's paradise,

trapped in an exquisitely hand-crafted European hell, trapped

under a red, white, and blue banner of stars with a broken

compass that points nowhere.

The rage that I feel

swallows my strength as I pull myself up...slowly as I gaze

behind me into the hollow abyss, I struggle not to remember the

pain, the broken pledges, the amendments written in deceit. I

recite those promises to myself, silently, like wishes...wishes I

know will never come true, wishes of equality, of freedom, of

acceptance. I wish for a better time, for this to be a better place. I

squint my eyes closed—HARD, so I won't see the injustices, the

lynching of black innocents. I press my fingers in my ears-

DEEP so I won't hear the screams of fatherless children, of

crying mothers as comfort and hope fades into the cold white-

ness of my captors smile, the silent gloat of a job done well.

The rage that I feel

swells inside me as I strain to remember my names, the names

of mothers and fathers, the names of people like me. Visions of

past glory race from memory too fast for me to catch them. The

lies slow me down, keep me back, hold my feet in place. I try to

organize my thoughts, my dreams, but half truths confuse and

confound me. Negro leaders pull me in wrong directions, they

pull me apart ánd leave the pieces scattered and fragile, they talk

of talented tenths, of societies that are Greek to me, strange

religions with stranger names. Too many choices, too many

opinions, I think maybe I should not think at all. Maybe I should

just wait for the sweet by and by.

The rage that I feel

dams my eyelids yet puts me to sleep, zombie like I trod off to

war. I tell myself another lie, the fable that things will be different

If I do this one thing, my valor will prove my worth. I will fight

and die for a cause not my own, for a land not my home, for a

people that despises me. I will prove that I am fully human,

man, woman, flesh and blood. At last no longer "colored" but

American, fully American, fully human. But haven't they seen me

cry and die? Haven't they torn the flesh from my bones them-

selves? Surely they must realize how human I am. Wouldn't any

other people seek retribution rather than friendship, justice rather

than equality? Wouldn't any other people point the guns in the

other direction, shoot the most ancient of enemies? Culture

not uniform, race not creed defines my foe. Wouldn't they...if

they had this chance? Surely they must know, surely they must

understand. Maybe they don't care. As long as I work for

them, live for them, die for them... as long as I remain asleep.

The rage that I feel

dances inside me and bursts from my mouth in blue songs and

ragtime rhythms, make do remedies to heal an ancient hurt, a

wrong that stinks to high heaven. I try to forget as I leave old

homes for new homes, old hope for new hope. My banjo and my

bible will comfort my travels as I strain to reach the promised

land. Dreary roads I trod to new places with old names and

familiar faces - Harlem, South Side, Watts. I place my tattered

luggage down…at last home…my last hope.

The rage that I feel

bursts from within as I break free of old chains, as I raise

from stupor and prepare to fight again, a second civil war. I

take up my banner; I declare my full humanity. I shout loud,

long. New sounds ring from vocal cords silent too long,

shrill voices proclaiming black power, defiant voices, angry

voices, voices that will not be restrained, voices that circle

the globe. Echoes resound, echoes of distant drums sound

the call to march. I follow gladly. Up and down avenues

and malls, on pavement hot with my oppressors rage,

through hoses and dogs sent to quell my discord, quiet my

righteous indignation. I persevere unyielding in my demands,

in my dream. But, the day wears on and my relentless

enemy is stronger, more cunning. With one Act, one pen

stroke, I am free again. All is forgiven. I have won. We are

one. The melting pot returns to simmer. Again, I believe

and take my rest at Lincoln's feet. Gazing into the pool of

this shallow democracy, the mockery of its hollow promise.

my reflection obscured by the scorching sun of new racism,

institutional, I fall tired and spent. I see my Dream of equality

and justice evaporate like morning dew. I surrender. Maybe

they were right, maybe I am only a traction of a man, but

certainly a whole fool.

The rage that I feel

sits silent in a weary breast, soothed by shallow words spoken

on vapid holidays, cold words, winter words, words dead and

forgotten as soon as they are uttered. Like Manhattan I trade my

pride for trinkets, like Esau, my birthright for crumbs. I place

myself willingly on your auction blocks, your stages, screens,

music halls, auditoriums, and stadiums. Oiled and groomed I

strut like the peacock on parade, a proud slave handsomely

rewarded for my performance, my deception. I entice others to

live my lie, to waste their lives, their energy on your distractions.

It works, I fetch the price you placed on my head, I smile and

take the crumb from your hand. I am happy, you love me at last.

I have proof, you sleep beside me. To you I am green, not

the dreaded cursed Black of those before me, those beneath me. I

have my heaven, cold and empty though it may be. I wait for your

words to pronounce me human, but your lips are pressed tight,

your arms folded -- an affirmative action. Still I wait, I fear in vain.

The rage that I feel

compels me to whisper my discontent to others like me. We

study we learn, the bell is rung, school is over, we gather in

closed places speaking louder as our numbers grow, sharing

what we have taught ourselves. Making ancient sounds from

new words. Words of remembrance, words planted in black

earth, nurtured by Black hands. A new crop to harvest for the

young ones, for the future. A fruit sweet with truth, ripe with

pride, full with strength. We share it among ourselves, delicious

beyond taste, filling beyond appetite. We gorge ourselves for

the drought has been long and the famine hard. Strength born

anew, memory refreshed, I eat more, drink more. What a

strange new delicacy this ancient recipe, a base of truth, a cup-

ful of discipline, the leaven of pride. I am satisfied, I am in my

right mind, I am whole.

The rage that I feel

sharpens my senses as I wake from a drugged sleep. I shake

the lethargy of mind and spirit and stand upright. I glance

toward home, responding to the call of voices sweet with

greetings. Greetings I faintly recall, warm they are, warm they

make me feel. The siren call swells as I grow stronger, as I

practice the ancient recipe. But my feet stay in place, com-

fortable in this house of pain. The house my kidnapper has

made is large, is full of things, things I am used too, things I

will miss. I glance again toward home. My home is desolate,

a waste land, a place torn and teetering upon oblivion. I have

just recovered, should I risk my health, my wealth. Ah, but I

have the potion, the elixir of restoration. It is enough for all,

but it must be shared, it must be given by hand, adminis-

tered precisely, dose by dose, the treatment is long but sure.

The choice is made, the decision final. I turn my face to the

hard wind and my back on this house of cards. As I leave I

hear the breaking of things, it is The Rage That I Feel.

Written by N. Xavier Arnold in 1998.