March 11, 2012
Lord lord they cut George Jackson down, lord lord they laid him in the ground. oh i know this whole wide world is one big prison yard. some of us are prisoners and the rest of us are guards. All my life I pretended with my folks, it was the thing in the street that was real. I was certainly just pretending with the nuns and priests, I served mass so that I could be in a position to steal altar wine, sang in the choir because they made me. When we went on tour of the rich white catholic schools we were always treated very well — fed — rewarded with gifts. It always starts with Mama, mine loved me. As testimony of her love, and her fear for the fate of the man-child all slave mothers hold, she attempted to press, hide, push, capture me in the womb. The conflicts and contradictions that will follow me to the tomb started right there in the womb. The feeling of being captured . . . this slave can never adjust to it, it's a thing that I just don't favor, then, now, never. he wouldn't take shit from no one. he wouldn't bow down or kneel. authorities, they hated him because he was too real. prison guards they cursed him as they watched him from above. but they were frightened of his power. they were scared of his love.