As I turn the pages
of a People’s History
I feel like I’m reading 1984
all over again.
But this is real.
Too real.
The sort of real
that drove Orwell himself
to pick up a gun
and take a bullet
in the fight against Fascism.
Columbus sailed the ocean blue
in fourteen hundred and ninety two.
But when he got here
what did he do?
There are no words for what he did
for what they did
for what they’re still doing.
It started with the soil
the legacy of a thousand generations
countless acres of fertile soil
soaked with the blood
of millions of indigenous
ripped barren of forest and prairie
farmed into dust
buried in a black tar shroud
unbroken by root and rain.
And then there were the Africans
torn from their own fertile soil
bound in cold iron
packed on top of each other
in floating wooden coffins
their blood turning the oceans red
before they even made it here.
And then there were the women
servants and housewives of men
with no money or land or vote
driven to cook for men
and clean for men
and work for men
and fuck for men
and give birth for men
and die for men
with no books to read
or ink to write
or a moment’s space
to meet with other women
or step out of the shadow
of man.
The list goes on
page after page
of clubs and guns and bombs
bruising flesh and breaking bone
and spilling blood and brains
from the cobblestone of New England
to the jungles of Viet Nam.
But from the very first day
there’s been another history
yearning to breathe free.
Hushed voices
whisper in the dead of night.
Silhouettes gather in the shadows
in the master’s fields
in the man’s house
in the boss’ factory
in the patches of wildwood
just beyond
the white man’s reach.
These are the voices
of the Africans
who never believed
that they were slaves.
These are the voices
of the women
who never believed
they were servants of men.
These are the voices
of the workers
who never believed
that the bossman
owned their labor.
These are the voices
of the native people
who never believed
that the white man
owned their land.
At first, their voices are hushed
like wind whistling in the trees
a whisper here or there
a paper passed in the night
a song about a drinking gourd
a book with a pen name.
But then it blossoms
it explodes
thousands of people
bursting out into the streets
factories shut down
or run without bosses
Custer and his cavalry
hacked to pieces
whole towns seized
by armed bands of liberated Africans
who refused to be slaves
a whole society ablaze
with strikes and sit-ins
marches and pickets
walk-outs and teach-ins
until they’ve hammered
their dreams into reality.
Some people think it’s all over
that this is all history.
But this is a People’s History
and We the People
are still writing it.
So open your eyes
raise your voice
take a stand
and demand
to be free.