Dirty Roots

Back in October, the NYTimes published a fascinating article about the First Lady's ancestry. I was struck by what this article symbolized for America: That perhaps we can begin to acknowledge the power slavery has had on the 21st Century; the grip racism has had on the human race. Having a black President and First Lady has certainly given America a chance to grow up a bit about the black and white issues—I think we’re all more aware of what it means to truly live in a global community.

But I couldn't ignore this nagging feeling that the article had invaded Michelle Obama’s personal history—like her husband’s role in office had somehow stripped her of any of her own rights to her own life. Though many refuted this and strongly supported the story, I wanted to hear it from her. I wanted to hear her own story. This is my response.


Mrs. Obama
I’m sorry they played you out like that
I’m sorry that they put you out there
airing your roots
like they were anybody’s business but your own


listening to the disheartened gasps of all
as if it were such a shock to find
that four generations back
a white man created life
with a black woman
that the lines were blurred
the stories lost
names unknown

that a legacy of sold bodies
“negro girl Melvinia, $475”
couldn’t destroy a family’s sense
of connectedness to their own history

but I know these roots of mine
are tangled and
deep, too.

I feel it in those places
I’m told I’ll never connect with
that I’ll never understand

these roots
must be more than what I can see
because I feel the spirits of more than just me

these roots
they contain stories I’ve never heard
people I’ve never met

Growing up I thought they told me
that our roots are made of boxes and straight lines
fake trees clearly linking lines to relationships
suggesting that roots aren’t designed to mingle underground
grow mold
collect dust
or rot in places that get too wet

we live surface lives
without reverence for
the deep and tangled roots
that anchor our souls
to our stories
our skin to our bodies

the maps get musty
lines smudged
circular coffee stains that wash out words

like a game of telephone
the stories grow tall
bending in the middle and spurting new growth
from creaky limbs
and rusted sockets
(and some just hide like mice from cats)

But mine are deep. and tangled.
and complicated.
and beautiful.
Like yours.

Orange Trees

The trees that line the path to my office have suddenly turned a fierce, fiery orange. It’s disgustingly bleak out; the sky is grey. The skies are blessing us with a cold, icy rain. A chill has set into my bones that indicates winter is coming, fast and furious. All around campus, most of the other trees are shedding the final remnants of this season. They didn’t even really bother being colorful this year. Piles of brownish green leaves cling to the trunks of trees; but these five trees are holding strong to autumn. They aren’t willing to let go of the lusciousness just yet.

This orange is so passionate. So fierce. So defiant. I’m impressed with the courage these trees have to be so bold today.

For the last few weeks, I’ve sensed that the whole world is struggling to survive. All of America seems to be struggling with itself; struggling with the economy, with unemployment, with war. More bad news keeps coming out of Washington and the hope I felt so passionately this time last November has begun to tumble down, slowly. Sometimes right before I fall asleep at night, whatever program I’ve been watching will end and I’ll catch the first twenty minutes of the local news. The news is nightmarish. I know full and well that I live in a city with a high violent crime rate—but sometimes it’s easy to forget. The Baltimore I know and love doesn’t look like that. The Baltimore I call home feels safe and cozy and familiar. The news reminds me of things I’d rather not think about; the dark side of life. But the news creates this sensational message—that we’re all slowly sinking. I turn it off and try to find something light, pure, uplifting before I go to sleep. Something that encourages me to sleep well so that I can wake up the next day, rested, and ready for a new day in the world. But sometimes that message sinks in before I can erase it.

This has been one of those weeks. The message is blinding. I’d even call it disheartening. And I’ve been in a funk about it. I can’t quite pinpoint the source of this bad energy but I know part of it has to do with all the bad things happening around me. There have been several school shootings/stabbings in schools close to my home and my time in the schools this week has been chaotic, disjointed, and frustrating. I’ve spent a lot of time this last few weeks talking about why so many of these kids are slipping through the system—why so many fail. It’s hard to talk like this. It confirms things you don’t want to believe in.

When I first started working with kids in Baltimore, now almost six years ago, I knew I’d stepped into something that was going to be messy and dark and unbelievably challenging for my heart; but I also knew that I was doing something so right. So many things felt so good and fell into place that I ignored the rumblings in my belly. I knew that I had stumbled into work that few have the tolerance for; that I had fallen in love with kids that most people have given up on already. And some days are harder than others. Some days it’s not the kids and the work so much as the rest of the world—the way people respond to my kids.

Sometimes it’s the fear that people have about these kids that gets to me the most. The way most people look at these kids like savages; like criminals. The sideways glance, the disapproving stares—they see something in these kids that I just don’t see. It disturbs me that people have allowed these messages to sink into their cores—to transcend basic logic about the way children work. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of someone I work with or someone I know and see something in them that frightens me—something that sends a chill down my spine. Someone will say something or do something that makes me realize how most of us really do live dualistic lives—we put on a face for work and then we’re this other person when we are at home, in our sweatpants, saying what we really think about other people. These people are why the system is so hard to change. Why we can’t ever seem to make any progress. It’s real easy to say you support these kids—and believe in them—but without action, words are empty.

I never knew how hard it would be to witness this stuff. How difficult it would be to digest systems breaking down. It almost hurts to see how all the pieces move together and don’t always match up—like watching this enormous machine break down. Wheels stop turning, things fall off the conveyer belt, parts malfunction. Smoke billows from a part where moisture has seeped into a seal; something metal goes flying off the sides. It’s messy. And it’s even harder to recognize that the parts we work with aren’t chunks of metal or giant wheels, but people. Small children. Families who get caught in the crossfire. Is it possible that these very systems that are working so hard to save these children are in fact hurting them?

It feels like there are too many people trying to come up with the biggest and the best strategy for urban reform—too many people trying to take credit for fixing it (this illusive thing that involves poverty and race and class and other -isms that no one seems comfortable enough to really define). There is too much ignorance. Some people have the capacity to ignore otheres in a way that dumbfounds me. And it seems there are not enough people paying attention to the people who are being broken as a result of this race to the top—the people jumping to their demise from these gaping cracks. It gets pretty overwhelming; very heavy.

So these trees have some audacity to shine orange today. They’ve got some guts to attempt to remind me of hope, in the middle of all this bleak, grey despair.