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VOL.
13 COMMON SENSE REVISITED
“GOD
HAS SHED HIS GRACE ON…” WE AS WELL.
I
N T E R M I S S O N
This
INTERMISSION in our journey thus far comes at this point in this
column for me to insert information that many outside of our culture
omitted in most American history books prior to the 1970’s.
“God
shed His Grace on…” WE as well. The We that I am referring to are
the collective WE of ebony hue that existed in Africa. A brief
purview/( A scope, domain, range, reach, sphere, realm, province,
compass, extent, and horizon, responsibility, authority,
jurisdiction, and understanding.) and study of Africa must be
explored in order to render COMMON SENSE REVISITED to those people
that are totally devoid of cultural competence pertaining to an
entire race of people. (Idiomatically speaking, cultural competence
needs to be broken down to the least common denominator, or the
lowest or simplest shared characteristic, idea, or quality among a
group of caring people.)
Each
Synonym
of the word purview lends itself to the proper study of African
existence and culture using each of these words according to their
definitions.
Scope: The
extent of the area or subject matter that something deals with.
Domain: An
area of control, knowledge, or activity.
Range: The
extent or limits of something.
Reach: The
extent to which something extends.
Sphere: A
particular field of activity or interest.
Realm: A
kingdom, but also an area or field of activity.
Provence
: An area of activity or concern.
Horizon: The
limit of one's knowledge or experience.
Authority/Control: Jurisdiction,
competence, responsibility, oversight, remit.
Understanding/Knowledge: Comprehension,
grasp, insight, view, ken.
Physical
Extent: Bounds, confines, expanse, latitude, area, field.
Now
let us begin:
“HERITAGE”
“WHAT
IS AFRICA TO ME;
COPPER
SUN OR SCARLET SEA,
JUNGLE
STAR OR JUNGLE TRACK,
STRONG
BRONZED MEN, OR REGAL BLACK
WOMEN
FROM WHOSE LOINS I SPRANG
WHEN
THE BIRDS OF EDEN SANG?”
One
three centuries removed
From
the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy
grove, cinnamon tree,
What
is Africa to me?
So
I lie, who all day long
Want
no sound except the song
Sung
by wild barbaric birds
Goading
massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts
of flesh that pass
Trampling
tall defiant grass
Where
young forest lovers lie,
Plighting
troth beneath the sky.
So
I lie, who always hear,
Though
I cram against my ear
Both
my thumbs, and keep them there,
Great
drums throbbing through the air.
So
I lie, whose fount of pride,
Dear
distress, and joy allied,
Is
my somber flesh and skin,
With
the dark blood dammed within
Like
great pulsing tides of wine
That,
I fear, must burst the fineChannels of the chafing net
Where
they surge and foam and fret.
Africa?
A book one thumbs
Listlessly,
till slumber comes.
Unremembered
are her bats
Circling
through the night, her cats
Crouching
in the river reeds,
Stalking
gentle flesh that feeds
By
the river brink; no more
Does
the bugle-throated roar
Cry
that monarch claws have leapt
From
the scabbards where they slept.
Silver
snakes that once a year
Doff
the lovely coats you wear,
Seek
no covert in your fear
Lest
a mortal eye should see;
What's
your nakedness to me?
Here
no leprous flowers rear
Fierce
corollas in the air;
Here
no bodies sleek and wet,
Dripping
mingled rain and sweat,
Tread
the savage measures of
Jungle
boys and girls in love.
What
is last year's snow to me,
Last
year's anything? The tree
Budding
yearly must forget
How
its past arose or set
Bough
and blossom, flower, fruit,
Even
what shy bird with mute
Wonder
at her travail there, meekly labored in its hair.
One
three centuries removed
From
the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy
grove, cinnamon tree,
What
is Africa to me?
So
I lie, who find no peace
Night
or day, no slight release
From
the unremittent beat
Made
by cruel padded feet
Walking
through my body's street.
Up
and down, they go, and back,
Treading
out a jungle track.
So,
I lie, who never quite
Safely
sleep from rain at night--
I
can never rest at all
When
the rain begins to fall;
Like
a soul gone mad with pain
I
must match its weird refrain;
Ever
must I twist and squirm,
Writhing
like a baited worm,
While
its primal measures drip
Through
my body, crying, "Strip!
Doff
this new exuberance.
Come
and dance the Lover's Dance!"
In
an old remembered way
Rain
works on me night and day.
Quaint,
outlandish heathen gods
Black
men fashion out of rods,
Clay,
and brittle bits of stone, In a likeness like their own,
My
conversion came high-priced.
I
belong to Jesus Christ,
Preacher
of humility;
Heathen
gods are naught to me.
Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost,
So,
I make an idle boast;
Jesus
of the twice-turned cheek,
Lamb
of God, although I speak
With
my mouth thus, in my heart
Do
I play a double part.
Ever
at Thy glowing altar
Must
my heart grow sick and falter,
Wishing
He I served were black,
Thinking
then it would not lack
Precedent
of pain to guide it,
Let
who would or might deride it;
Surely
then this flesh would know
Yours
had borne a kindred woe.
Lord,
I fashion dark gods, too,
Daring
even to give You
Dark
despairing features were,
Crowned
with dark rebellious hair,
Patience
wavers just so much as
Mortal
grief compels, while touches
Quick
and hot, of anger, rise
To
smitten cheek and weary eyes.
Lord,
forgive me if my need
Sometimes
shapes a human creed. All day long and all night through,
One
thing only must I do:
Quench
my pride and cool my blood,
Lest
I perish in the flood.
Lest
a hidden ember set
Timber
that I thought was wet
Burning
like the driest flax,
Melting
like the merest wax,
Lest
the grave restore its dead.
Not
yet has my heart or head
In
the least way realized
They
and I are civilized.
"Heritage"
(1925) by
COUNTEE
CULLEN
“This
is a landmark Harlem Renaissance poem exploring an African American's
complex, distant relationship with Africa. The poem depicts the
speaker struggling to reconcile their African roots with a Western,
Christian upbringing, painting Africa as both a romanticized, wild
"lost Eden" and a place of unfamiliarity.
Cullen’s
theme is the conflict between repressed, ancestral "dark
blood" and the need to conform to modern, civilized, and often
Christian, societal standards.
His
imagery is that the poem contrasts vivid, romanticized images of
Africa (jungle, drums, heat) with his lived experience.
His
key question is the recurring, agonizing question of what a
"three centuries removed" individual owes to a continent
they do not truly know.
Cullen’s
completely retrospective conclusion bespeaks his and many other
African Americans struggles to suppress our, at times, "barbaric"
emotions ("Quench my pride and cool my blood") to prevent
being overwhelmed by a "wild" ancestral heritage.
The
poem is not a celebration of a directly known homeland, but an
interrogation of a cultural, emotional, and racial heritage that
feels simultaneously close and distant.
And
YET…
Yes
YET…
(So
far, thus far, even now)
In
OUR 2026 PLIGHT WE SET…
OUR
Hebrews 12:1 scheduled race “before us thus SET”…
Empowered
with 21century “COMMON SENSE,” YET…
The
question still begs SO What now do WE GET…
WE who are still
“SO easily BESET…
Is
our “racial
heritage still simultaneously close and distant” YET?
Like
Hall and Oats’ SONG, “So close, yet so far away” … YET
COMMON
SENSE REVISITED YET…
UNTIL
THEN PONDER DEEPLY WHAT YOU’VE READ!
TO
BE CONTINUED :
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