On The Pulse Of Something...Good

A sign of change popped up on my street yesterday, and it wasn’t a sign from god, a gang sign or something metaphoric. A REAL sign. This may not seem like a big deal to most people but on what seemed like a normal Monday, something really important had been installed on the corner of 14th street in the middle of DC. When I started the walk up the slight hill to my place, there it was, the latest, and in my mind greatest, version of the history trail signs given only to neighborhoods where:

1) It’s safe for tourists to walk through and
2) Something significant happened, worthy of sharing the story

What merited this place one of these historic markers? The fact that I live here says it all, as does the title of the sign: "Cultural Convergence." Fourteen years ago when I moved to DC, this area of town was a wasteland. In the ‘80’s it was a drug dealer’s dream and in the ‘90’s it was an abandoned and broken place where no one, especially a youngish white female would dare to visit let alone take up residence.

I love my neighborhood, have never once felt worried since moving here and am so happy to see the social change I’ve always wanted coming together. Only once have I seen something akin to this type of city integration and revitalization, and that is Belfast from 1998 to 2001. I didn’t live there the entire time but the changes made were overwhelming. This was due largely to the huge monetary package included in the Good Friday Agreement—remember back when the US government spent money on peace packages instead of wars—but it feels the same as on Falls Road as it does now on 14th.

Now that I’ve lived in DC for as long as I have, bearing witness to something so big that can be seen in a sign so small is an awesome thing. Tonight’s post honors a poem from my “List” post and is a poem I read aloud because I loved it so much at a ceremony my senior year of high school for the National Honor Society inducting our new members. I didn’t do her booming voice justice, but there is something bold and beautiful in these words no matter how meek or strong you feel on any given day. I hold Dr. Maya Angelou in the highest respect and hope she visits DC again soon to see our progress.

On the Pulse of Morning
by Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly,
   forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today,
you may stand on me;
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song, It says
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.

Come, clad in peace,
And I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today.
Come to me,
Here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed-
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede,
The German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
The Italian, the Hungarian, the Pole,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space
To place new steps of change
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face,
Your country,
And say simply
With hope--
Good morning.