We Sing the Song of Truth and Reconciliation by Isabel S-C
Tradition says difference is not a thing of beauty,
but isn’t tradition just one voice of the dead?
I prefer a more nuanced understanding of the past
and not give in to the stagnant voice of the stubborn.
Together, it’s obvious my generation is tired of the echoes,
tired of being forced to listen to the same insensitive murmur
from white faces---the same white faces printed in our history textbooks.
These voices, like nooses, tie us to trees,
yet these trees have roots that ground us in a different story--
A story told by black voices, to which we weep:
songs they sang from plantations,
songs of sadness but songs of strength.
They’ve taken hurtful words
and thrown them into the mix of blues, jazz, and rap,
played on repeat and becoming a familiar tune,
riding on the lips of this generation.
The verses include names of victims of racism
played, repeated
so their stories aren’t forgotten.
Let them ring out:
Howard Cooper
Emmett Till
Freddie Gray
Breonna Taylor
George Floyd
and so many other names who are part of the chorus.
Sometimes I wish I could sing here anonymously.
Hands reach out to silence my song,
and I remember that it’s a risk to be bold.
The pain is no longer abstract.
It hovers above the heads of my generation and seeps into our hearts,
and the air begins to taste like salty tears.
But what is the point of living if we don’t let life affect us?
We have begun to sing out a more honest past
and ask new questions that make ears buzz with new voices.
We can change the tune,
the unity of a chorus giving us strength.
Hug these words close,
because the truth is hard to embrace
but worth embracing.
Howard Cooper Poem
By Ethan N
Saturday night Howard Cooper sat in his jail cell.
He was a 15-year-old black boy accused of harming the white girl Kate Gray.
His story is one that all must know.
On the evening of July 12, he lay in his bed,
thinking and talking himself
through the assault, rape, and attempted murder he was accused of.
While lost in his thoughts,
he heard voices of people yelling
and breaking things outside.
In the jailcell he anticipated the worst and wept.
Before he knew it, he heard a smash
that came from the back entrance.
The convicted boy saw what must have been 75 or so men
running in the halls.
All of the intruders had on masks and all stormed together
like a swarm of killer bees.
They used a flagpole to break the backdoor,
and they were coming to Howard’s chamber.
They were convinced of his guilt before it was proven.
The gathering took the same flagpole and began thrashing the lock on the door
It was broken so easily; the poor boy was doomed.
They tied a rope around his neck and dragged him into the jail yard.
He was hanged from the Sycamore next to the building.
This was not the end of Howard Cooper.
Today the methods of execution have changed,
but racial violence continues
through police brutality, racial discrimination, and violence.
Howard Cooper is not dead.
Why do these atrocious actions occur?
Because Howard’s voice
and those of many other African Americans have been silenced.
Enough is Enough!
We all need to speak the truth of Howard Cooper.
In the words of this story Howard is still alive with us today.
By coming together and promising we won't repeat these acts of racial terror,
Howard lives with us.
He lives in the bodies of those saved from violence.
It takes you agreeing to the idea that you won't be involved in racial abuse along with helping others make the same commitment.
This is how we must help our brothers and sisters.
This is how we show that Black Lives Matter.
Echoes of a Past by Lexi H
My name is Howard Cooper.
My feet are scraped and raw.
A faceless mob of hate and anger,
They stare at me with scorn.
Put in ropes,
I cannot breathe—
So young and yet already gone.
My name is Garfield King.
Thunder ringing in my ears,
Their anger in my soul.
Why do they do this to me?
Put in ropes,
I cannot fight—
Life cut short from fury.
My name is Mathew Williams.
Filled with holes
And thrown through glass,
Falling into their grasp.
Put in ropes,
I cannot live—
Their greedy hands reaching for me.
I am a witness.
Smoke rising from flames,
They laugh and cheer.
The body charred with dread.
They turn towards me,
Throwing their fists—
Their blows tolling my head.
I am a student.
I hear their stories.
I feel their pain,
Learning from the spirits left behind.
Injustice haunting
Lingering still
Echoes of a past not quite gone.
The Future of Our Humanity by Elisa G
Is our humanity defined by the ability to love and feel compassion?
If that is true, then why has a harsh past been ignored?
Do we take no notice of our past because of the pain it brings us?
Our past consists of poor choices made by humans who believed that certain lives didn’t matter...
First, people were taken away from their homes...
Some pulled from their brothers and sisters...
To live life serving others that cared none...
To live life believing their lives mattered less.
Then, when it seemed that humans were finally equal...
Racism came in a different form.
Innocents were treated as if they did something wrong...
Young and old executed by mobs.
Today, there are some people who continue to want inequality.
They act justified in their want for White supremacy...
But their actions are only as justified as murder.
Corruption slips into our systems...
Our humanity is a never-ending cycle of injustice.
But just as it was started, it can also be ended.
When we start to acknowledge our human past, and learn from it...
Only then can we build a better future.
A future where race doesn’t determine rights...
A future where we see the humanity in each other...
A future where innocent lives aren’t stolen...
A future where our humanity is undoubtedly defined in words of love and compassion...
A future where black lives matter.
Graveyard Pathway
By Black Rose
We are standing on a graveyard
The bones of the ones who have fallen past our pathway
And we walk like we don’t see it
We run like we don’t feel it
And maybe we don’t
Maybe no one explained how many birds fall out of the tree so we can fly
Maybe no one told about the ashes we rose from so we could be a phoenix
Maybe we didn’t see the bodies
Or maybe we were just too “blessed” in our oppression to notice
They closed our eyes and made us blind
Blind to corpse on our road
Blind to everything they don’t want us to see
The pain
The pain
The pain
The pain
How many times do I have to say it for you to hear me
We are walking on a graveyard
You are stepping on your ancestors
The bones don’t pave the path
The bones have made the path
And we walk like we forget them
Because we forgot them
Because we never knew them
You were so focused on the destination
We didn't see the names paved on your walkway
Freddie Gray
Oscar Grant
Amadou Diailo
Patrick Dormond
Tamir Rice
Tanesha Anderson
Aiyana Jones
Rekia Boyd
And so many other names we all forgot
Or maybe we don't care anymore
How could we forget Harriet Tubman
How could we forget our history
Maybe because they stole our tombstones
Or we just couldn't afford it after selling our dreams for the hope they never gave us
They stole from us
And not just the thunder in our voices
They stole our memories
They fed our oppression to treat our "Short term memory"
Feeding us the pain while telling us we didn't have any
They erased us from the history books
Pretended black was only good for slavery
Like we weren't kings and queens before they showed up
Like our blood ain't on there pathway too
Long before I went 6 feet under
I'll see you on my pathway
So don't forget the bones that broke so you could fly.