Yoke

Springtime Oxen by Maud Lewis 1960

I am yoked to grief. And we have been plowing this field together for many years. Long before Evan died.

I only wanted to bring you speckles of light. I didn't want any darkness to distract you from your hope. I know hope is so hard to come by for us--even in better times. But the last several days, really, the last many months have been arduous. 

Mothering. Blackness. A glorious combination. 

But the world. The world. 

Every time I turn around news of some mother's dead Black child is shared, tweeted, posted, broadcast.

Yesterday it was King Pleasant. 6-years-old. The governor held his Black death up as the cautionary tale for lack of adequate gun legislation. But all I could see was a little boy whose mama had picked out his hair and patted it down gently, who let him wear the denim-colored shirt with the brown bears and evergreen tree design--the one he could only wear on picture day because a long-sleeved, collared-shirt would certainly get torn up at recess on any other day. And Mama doesn't have money to waste on that kind of foolishness. 

All I could see was every little brown boy I have loved including my brother, and old photos of my daddy, and my cousins, and my Evan. 

King Pleasant photo from gunmemorial.org

We keep naming our kids King. 

Evan's middle name Rey means King. 

In ancient times,Gods were Kings and 

Kings were gods 

endowed with eternal life. 

I never counted it blasphemy to believe

 God is in us. Each of us. 

"You are gods. 

You are all sons of the most high." 

We name them

King.

Today, King Pleasant was buried.

Today the rest of us have Breonna Taylor on our minds. We kept saying her name like the names of so many others, but it made no difference. Again. Her murderers will not be held accountable, and we are expected to keep on moving. Keep on plowing. Yoked to grief.