The Torch and The Cross

What voices do you hear in the wind? What sense can you make of the rhythm of drums?

The reveilles of my forefathers are what keep me up at night. I hear their songs and rest uneasy, fearing they were unable to find freedom in the sky. As things truly did fall apart and the children lost their way, it became clear we were not able to discern the meaning in the beating of the drums. So their tormented specters returned. “What do you bear,” they ask us, few still having ears attuned enough to hear them. “What is it you bear, child?” Their questions persist. Fearing that I might miss the call God has sent them to deliver, I have only one choice. I respond.“The torch.”

Even as a grown man, I think more than anything sometimes, I just want my father to be proud of me. I don’t want to want that. But I do. And, I swear, I know. That’s not really anything special. Every kid would probably say the same thing. They’d want their father to look at them and see value. But as a black man, I feel like there’s something more to that. I feel like I want him to see me as a man who can carry burdens. To look at me as the next chapter in our history. I want to be worthy of the torch.

I feel like we live in a time where it’s so fashionable to hate cultural appropriation. It’s so easy to cancel someone over it. And no, I don’t condone it either. But honestly… I get it. Appropriation is not okay but I love my people. The people I come from. Black people. I believe that black people, culturally speaking, are some of the most beautiful beings on this planet. All our history and legacy and humanity. It is beauty. And what must it be like to be a white kid growing up with no such thing? Of course, he wants to emulate the style and listen to the music and be a part of something he never fully can. His only other option is to grow up trying to reckon how his forefathers could rape and torture and hold captive their fellow man. To fly a flag for a long-dead confederacy opposed to patriotism as we know it. Or better yet, to accept the empty platitudes of Reagan and Jackson-esque demagogues. I recognize the glory of my people, so does he.

So to me, being worthy of my father’s torch is the highest kind of honor. Just as God has entrusted his children with his glory, I yearn for my father to do the same. I want him so desperately to be proud enough to hand me the torch that burns in the darkest of nights, that lights the way for others and that cannot be extinguished. A torch I know all too well has burned him. A torch that’s much too heavy to carry for such a long time. A torch that signals to the next generation of black folks there is a hope that remains alive. A hope that would inspire pride in a father’s eyes.

Again I ask you, what voices do you hear in the wind? What sense can you make of the rhythm of drums?

The lullabies of my foremothers are what put me to bed at night. I hear their songs and rest easy knowing they have found freedom in the sky. Even as things truly did fall apart and the children lost their way, it became clear there was still a beating of drums. And with it, their beautiful specters remained. “What do you bear,” they ask. I pray more people attune their ears to hear them. “What is it you bear, my child?” Their question lingers. Hoping that I might answer the call God has sent them to deliver, I have only one choice. I respond. “A cross.”

Even as a grown man I think I still just want my mother to be forgiving of me. I don’t want her to have to worry that I might get hurt, that I might die. It’s an odd thing really. To pray your mother dies before you, for her sake. But it’s true. All I ask is that she understands my mistakes before she goes. She understands that I’m just trying my best. I mean I’m really trying, you know? And what more is there? Perhaps nothing is greater than to proudly bear your cross.

I feel like everyone always expects you to have answers these days. Every issue, you have to have a response and it has to be right. People are so ready to jump down the throats of anyone who says the “wrong thing.” Or to chastise someone who doesn’t say anything at all. What does that leave me but to feel lost? I stopped having opinions, whether the issue affected me or not. It seems, other than the all too popular firearm, opinions are the single most prevalent danger to people alive today. One misstep and your career, your relationships, and your respect are all gone. It’s hard to handle. I guess I just, honestly… don’t get it. Sure, some people deserve to lose, but maybe we all get off on it a little too much. And for black people, it just feels like our mistakes are always magnified tenfold. All the while, all that comes with being black feels ten times as weighty. I couldn’t imagine anyone free of it would want to take up this cross for themselves.

So I ask my mother if she might honor me with forgiveness as I try to bear my cross. Just as God has forgiven his children, I yearn for my mother to do the same. I want her so desperately to understand that I’m giving it all I have, and to rest easy knowing I can handle this cross. A cross that I know all too well is hard to drag on one’s shoulders. A cross that’s much too heavy to hand off to someone else, even when we do misstep. A cross that signals to the next generation of black folks there is still faith that remains alive. A faith that allows a mother to understand and forgive her child’s missteps.

Thus it remains up to you. To hear, in the wind, the voices of those forgotten and to discern, still, the meaning in the beating of the drums.

Inspired by the work of the legendary James Baldwin.

“Every black person born in America was born on Beale Street, born in the black neighborhood of some American city, whether in Jackson, Mississippi, or in Harlem, New York. Beale Street is our legacy. This novel deals with the impossibility and the possibility, the absolute necessity, to give expression to this legacy. Beale Street is a loud street. It is left to the reader to discern a meaning in the beating of the drums.” — James Baldwin