'In the Eighties We did the Wop" by Major Jackson, and Mary Strong Jackson's poem in response.
In the Eighties We Did the Wop
By Major Jackson
If you end your crusades for the great race,
then I will end my reenactments of flying,
and if you lean down to smell a painted trillium,
then I will cast a closer eye on those amber waves, then I will turn my drums to the sea and away from
your wounded mountains. Who mothered your love of death?
Here is a heart-shaped stone to rub when you feel fear rising;
give me anything, an empty can of Pabst, a plastic souvenir, a t-shirt from Daytona.
Here is a first edition: The Complete Poems of Lucille Clifton.
Give me an ancient grove and a conversation by a creek, charms
to salve my griefs, something that says you are human,
and I will give you the laughter in my brain and the tranquil eyes of my uncles.
Show me your grin in the middle of winter.
In the eighties we did the wop; you, too, have your dances.
It is like stealing light from a flash in the sky. I promise:
no one is blaming you. No one is trying to replace you.
It's just that you are carrying a tainted clock calling it European History,
standing in khakis, eyes frightened like a mess of beetles.
In Response to Major Jackson's "In the Eighties We Did the Wop"
By Mary Strong Jackson
Boots on the ground, white go-go ones for my 8th birthday
gave me no hint of the sorrow of black babies my age.
The prairies of Nebraska's amber grains waved freely at me,
and comforted the bib-overall wearing men in my family, some in Harley gear.
I thought I knew them, so I'm hollowing out their fears like scooping a squash,
spreading the flesh of it out, picking through seeds to taste who they are,
who I am.
My mother said, No color of people are better than any other color of people,
and rich not better than poor. My brothers had the same mother - all mothered 'til her death.
Some see coyote hides as bounty. For others, death means loss,
loss of howled longings, the end of moonlit lives.
I've reached for lightning while I danced my dances,
until the speared hands from the tainted clock of European History
embedded deep under my skin festered to the surface.
There is a word, Svaha - the time between lightning and thunder.
While lightning whips the senses, thunder asks, "In the time given,
what did you consider, bemoan, or rejoice before my unstoppable boom?"
With eyes, calm as sunflowers leaning towards the sun,
I rejoice for what is unable to be stopped – change, good change.
In January when ice glistens on the trees, we'll read Lucille Clifton
along the Rio Grande. I'll offer my poems as proof I am human.
Come add branches to my wattle fence, eat fresh bread loaded
with butter, and bowls of beans with green chile.
My charms are few but they are yours to salve griefs.
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