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Grandma once told me that if I put my ear to the ground, I could hear the ancestors speak
So as I child, I would squat down in the dirt and press my ear firmly against the ground,
But I couldn't hear a thing, not even Grandma.
Now, as I lay with me head pressed against your chest,
I can hear the beating of distant drums echoing through eons of time.
I hear dances of worship.
I hear songs of praise.
I hear the ancestors rejoice.
As you sigh, I hear the shrill sound of war cries ringing in the distance.
I hear the painful wail of Africa's daughters being raped.
I hear the violent scream of her sons being castrated.
As I shift positions, your stomach begins to growl.
I hear the vomiting of seasick Africans being dragged across wooden decks.
I hear the clap of the gavel at the auction block and the firey crack of the slavemaster's whip.
I hear the dull snap of negro necks in nooses.
I hear the ancestors mourn.
As you sit up, I hear the scuffling of runaway slaves fleeing oppression.
I hear the stomp of feet marching on D.C.
I hear a prophetic speech about a dream I'm supposed to have,
And a loud and clear directive to achieve it "by any means necessary."
I hear the sound of revolution.
As your hold on me becomes tighter, the drumbeat grows louder.
I hear the sound of thinking minds and secret meetings.
I hear the sound of hammers being cocked and clips being filled.
I hear the spray of machine gun fire.
I hear the oppressor fall.
I hear...
The ancestors rejoice.
© 1994
---By Carmen M. McGill