How Much Does Black Pain Weigh?

How much does ‘black pain’ weigh?

For a couple of years now, I been wondering what a free black person’s life would be like, and I am amazed at how limited my imagination is. What would it be like if my body, my soul, my life was not weighed down by ‘black pain’? Would I be able to just fly away like those famed black Africans who remembered the magic words of their mother tongues, who whispered freedom to life and sprouted the wings they needed to take themselves back home rather than facing an existence of generations who will carry the burden that our history, our existence has become?

White people cannot know the weight of black pain, the way it holds you down. I mean, I love the earth, my center is down towards our mother, but father sun still calls, and I cannot answer because of this load of blackness that I carry, and I cannot breathe. How does one carry the weight of black pain? Every day I feel as I try to rise out of bed. I wake up and I remember, I’m black and wonder, what will that cost me today? White people cannot know.

Four hundred years of not having ownership of my own body, multiplied by the total number of us all. Carry that load, boy. Each and everyday my blackness meets me, and it is quick, you see, it reaches my back before my humanness gets there most days. What must free blackdom feel like? It is silk, softly wrapping itself around my form, kissing each wound made from the burden of the pain I been carrying, healing with its nothingness? I know the weight of the chains we wear each day, binding my soul; whiteness can’t begin to know.

How do we keep moving? How have we been able to raise our children, work for a living, skrimp and save and make it each day under this weight? How can we bear it? And yet we do, because we have no choice, it lays on us like a second skin. Black pain and my soul bleeds.

My students asked me today about Kanye’s statements about his love for Donald Trump and I had to help them make sense of this. Is there anything that could have prepared me for the man who told the world, “George Bush doesn’t care about black people,” who chooses to continue be a Kardashian, now chose to be Trumps friend? And all I can think of to say is, “white people cannot know the weight of black pain.” How it clings to you everywhere you go. How it never gives you a moments rest, not for one moment. Just when you think you can take off, leave the ground and soar, it’s there holding you down.

I want white people to imagine never having a single minute of freedom in a world that is trying to convince you that you are free, been free for generations. Whiteness owns individualism, keeps it for itself. This is the true face of race-based privilege.

I want black people to imagine being able to be an individual. Imagine being able to just be yourself, not every Jim Crow, every darkie who has ever done anything bad, wrong—real or imagined by whiteness. Black people, imagine not being expected to think just like every other black person alive! Imagine a world where your thoughts can be your own, and you don’t have to represent the black view, and no one will every say to you, “oh, I thought you’d like this because, well, you know, you’re um blac..african um…” ever again. Imagine not being weighed down by the pain of blackness.  Black People, imagine being able to not have to worry about being a credit to your race. Not being the usual suspect. Imagine being able to hold a cell phone in your hand that is seen as a cell phone, not a gun. Imagine being able to be seen as the smart kid who is going to go far, without having to an example to all those other kids, to just be you being you. Imagine being able to be silly. Imagine laughing, loud, soft, it doesn’t matter. Imagine singing and dancing to our own music without someone listening and figuring out how to appropriate what we are doing for white profit, while condemning you for practicing your own arts.

On my back I carry the burden of our success. Slowly, step by step each generation we inch closer to freedom, that shimmering, shining promised land, the mirage of freedom that is always yet to be, almost, not now, not ever. And if I put down my share of that pain for even a second to stretch use my muscles in my own name, then all of my brothers and sisters have to take up my load, for someone, we, always has to carry our blackness. What I am trying to do is to learn to separate blackness from the pain. This is what I am not sure is even possible, but it is what I imagine freedom to look like.

Black people, I want you to imagine freedom. What does it look like in everyday life?

I understand this about Kanye. He wants to be free from black pain. He wants to be able to love who he wants, and hold any political view, have enough money, and fame, and whatever it takes to be able to be a free black man, any way he chooses. And I can’t blame him for this. But his ability to put down blackness for a minute, doesn’t dissolve the weight I feel, and I can’t help but resent him for letting me help to shoulder his share.

I want to lose this weight I carry. I want someone to invent a pill to dissolve black pain. I want to wake up in the morning next to Nina Simone and know what it means to be me and to be free. And I want that freedom to be more than sexual, more than monetary, more than physical, more than mental, more than spiritual. I want everything thing that is possible, and I want it painted black.

Visiting an online discussion with students about the concept of “Reverse Racism”

Visiting an online discussion with students about the concept of “reverse racism”

I’ve been teaching an online race class for over 10 years now and being able to see students from across our nation, who come from different parts of the world, have a thoughtful discussion about their experiences with race has been a wonderful education privilege. It has helped me to see, close-up, how race impacts their daily lives. And having this discussion, which I moderate, has allowed me to see the imprint of race in my student’s lives, and it calls me to use my own experiences with race, from both lived and those acquired from  the more than 30-year-study of the subject that has become a basic component of my life. I have been granted a wonderful laboratory through which to examine this social construction that has shaped my life.  What follows is the basics of a discussion that I had with a couple of students in my Race in America class. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, and editing of some of the student’s words for meaning may have taken place. The jewels that are to be found from telling the stories of our lives, and then examining them through a filter of race, allows us to see things that we may not have thought of before. I present this discussion for your consideration.

This discussion happens in a section of the class called Capitalism and Race. We have talked about the connection between the creation of our nation, the creation of the concept of race and how those two resulted in the creation of capitalism as our national economy, with the examples of the land taken, and genocide performed on the Indigenous peoples of this land, and the use of enslaved free African people as a basis for the nation’s economy, the students were asked the following question:

Our discussion topic:  In what ways is racism profitable and for whom?

Students are required to log in and to participate in the discussion.  Students must

  1. Think of an action which you believe to be racist and then discuss the following:
  2. who profited from the action?
  3. what was gained?

Student Mark:  Racism, depending on the area can be monetarily and possibly socially beneficial for people based on the area, and conditions therein. The example is one from my own personal experience.

 I lived in Hawaii. A friend and I were in an area that was notorious for being full of local Hawaiians. We would usually hike all over the island of Oahu on our days off. One day, after we finished a hike near this densely local populated area, we decided to stop at a gas station and a drink as and a snack. Upon entering the gas station, we immediately were glared at and whispered about. When we went to pay for our snacks and drinks we were told that we weren’t welcome in the store. My friend and I looked at the attendant, surprised, and he automatically answered: “I won’t serve you, and if you don’t leave now, I’ll call people who will make you leave.”

Instantly my friend and I headed out the door, with the attendant shouting at us, “F*ck off Haole boys” (Haole being a racial slur towards white people from Hawaiians). As we walked to my friend’s truck, a truck full of people from the neighborhood pulled up to the gas pumps and we could see the hostility in their eyes

I would say that the gas station owners benefited from refusing service to us (as is his right to do) in a social way. There is a sign in the neighborhood that reads, “White Invaders Give The Islands Back Before We Take Them Back,” so I assume that the clerk experienced some personal gratification, the gas station owners probably got some sort of additional business when it became known that my friend and I (the student did not mention the race of he or his friend directly, which is white )were kicked out of the store. I would say that there was more monetary gain beyond what my friend and I would have contributed to his business, as well as some personal gain and recognition within the neighborhood.

Instructor Kim’s thought/notes about student Mark’s post:  When I read Mark’s post the first thing that strikes me is that he calls a native, Indigenous Hawaiian neighborhood “notorious.” The negative connotation is obvious in the word, but it may not be obvious to those who read this. The people of the island are ‘notorious’, and no such words are used to talk about the white student and his friend, who I am assuming is white as well. I know that both these people are white even though the student never identifies himself, or anyone else as white. It is fascinating that he has not problem identifying native Hawaiians as such, but does not recognize his own color, race, ethnicity or anything. Yet in order for us to understand the ‘reverse racism’ that Mark also does not name, is to understand that he and his friend are white.

White is the race that goes unmentioned. We never have to talk about it, because it is assumed; this student assumes his whiteness, and he assumes that we will also assume his whiteness; he never questions that we will recognize him as white. What also goes unmentioned is the fact that Mark and his friends are colonizers. They understand their whiteness without a filter of race. They are white; they don’t have to think about what that means. But they know the meaning of the race of those who are other. They live in “densely” populated neighborhoods that are notorious.

The student can see how the race of the Indigenous people impact their own lives, as well as how their race impacts his life. It is not Mark and his friend’s whiteness which gets them kicked out of the gas station; it is the ‘Hawaiian-ness’ of the locals that is the problem. Whiteness cannot be the problem for Mark, because it does not exist; he cannot ‘see’ his or his friend’s race.

But Mark sees the ‘local-ness’ of the clerk, and it only through the language of native Hawaiians, ““I won’t serve you, and if you don’t leave now, I’ll call people who will make you leave.” “F*ck off Haole boys!” By the way, a Haole, is not a term for all white people. It is a term for white people who have colonized the Hawaiian Islands and continue to benefit from this act of oppression.  It is important to understand the limits for the power of the word haole, because there is no way to say that all white people are bad. There are ways for different groups of white people to be bad, but the idea that whiteness may be something undesirable is inconceivable.

The importance of the voice of the clerk cannot be overestimated. It is only through the voice of the clerk that Mark and his friend begin to understand that there may be places on this island where they are not welcomed. This concept is as foreign to Mark and his friend, as they are to the island. We are told that the two, “We would usually hike all over the island of Oahu on our days off.” The friends never question if they belong on the island; it is theirs to explore, after working at jobs, that many of those who are born to the land have difficulty being hired for.

What seems most problematic for these friends is the fact that there is a sign in the neighborhood that declares the intentions of those who were born to the island, ““White Invaders Give The Islands Back Before We Take Them Back”. It is the voice of the island that calls Mark and his friends White Invaders. Without this voice, Mark and friend’s race would never have been spoken, noticed, would never really exist.

Without this sign, there would have been nothing in Mark’s analysis that spoke of the fact that white people did invade and colonize the islands. These are facts that are not part of Mark’s consciousness, so it is easy to ignore. If these facts are not acknowledged by white voices, then the impact of their truth does not have to be part of the story that Mark gets to tell his classmates about the ways that people of color benefit from treating he and his friend in an unfriendly manner.

Student: Isabelle: Thank you for sharing a personal story with us! I don’t have a deep understanding of Hawaii’s history besides knowing that the U.S. annexed it illegally in the 1900s at some point. Based on Johnson’s definition of racism, was that what you guys experienced? It just sounds to me more like prejudice on the part of the shop-owner- based on the island’s history of imperialism and violence, he saw you two and immediately felt animosity. 

Instructor Kim’s thought/notes about student Isabelle’s post:  I love that Isabelle is asking Mark about the history of the Islands! I love even more that she is reminding him of the class definitions of racism: The Patterns of Privilege and Power granted to one group over others based in race. This is something I can work with.

 

This is what I posted into the student discussion:

Hey y’all what a great discussion y’all are having about the differences between racism and prejudice and the concept of ‘reverse racism’ that seems to be at the base of Mark’s story.  I, too, would like to thank you for sharing this story Mark.  It is brave to talk about the ways that we have experienced the impact of race in our own lives.  This may take a while, LOL!

So Isabelle asks if what Mark experienced on the Island of Hawaii was prejudice and not racism.  Mark has told of his experience of not being served by indigenous peoples (native Hawaiian descendants) and being physically threatened and forced to leave the area.  Mark spoke of the financial reward that the shop owner would receive in terms of having other indigenous people spending their money in his store, and the ‘recognition’ he would get from the community.

 And the history of the Hawaiian Islands is complex; while it is a U.S. state, statehood came at a high price for the Pacific Islanders who were the victims of the horrors of colonization, plantations, occupation and all of the other things that being treated as a conquered people entails, including having your homelands taken over by others for their profit and pleasure (tourism) and leaving little ability for indigenous people to even make a living, except in service to those people who use the islands for their own pleasure.

So what, in terms of the ways that we are going to use the vocabulary in this class, are we talking about here.  The following are the ways that we will use terms in this class.

  1. Prejudice-is a bias, either for or against someone or thing, often based in stereotypical social understandings about the behaviors and natures of others because of group memberships.
  2. Racism is the patterns of privilege and power granted to one group over others based in race.

There are two (2) important things to notice about these definitions.  There is no mention of hatred, or intention.

So let’s begin this analysis at the beginning of the relationship between the U.S. and who can be citizens.

  • In 1790 the first naturalization and immigration act said that there were only 2 requirements for one to become a U.S. Citizen. The first is that one had to be free. The second is that you have to be white.
  • This is one of the clearest places to see how early whiteness and U.S. citizenship have been linked.

In 1922, Hawaiian born Japanese descendant, plantation owner and farmer Takao Ozawa took his petition for citizenship as an ‘all-american’ successful business man to the Supreme Court where he was denied based on race. With the Chinese exclusion act of 1882 and then this, it wasn’t until the 1950’s that Asians were allowed full citizenship, after World War II and the U.S. internment camps for Japanese. With all of this history and so much more that relates directly to the U.S. acquisition of Hawaii, involving the violent inhuman treatment of indigenous peoples on the Islands, there is a long history of white American cultural based U.S. benefits much more from statehood than have many indigenous Hawaiians. This is racism.

When I look at the story that Mark so graciously shared with us, I see a situation that happened between individuals (Mark and his friend and the shop owner and people present). I see a hurtful situation where the prejudice of the indigenous peoples that Mark and friend dealt with was awful. It was real, and it hurt.

The next thing that I want to address is profit, because the connection between profit and racism is what this lesson is about. Mark’s experience is that there are two ways that the Shop owner profits/gains from not serving people (Mark and friend) because they are white. But it is obvious that he actually doesn’t personally profit monetarily; the shop owner loses whatever money that Mark, and friend would have spent. This has happened on the individual level, and once again, there are people here who have done the hurting—the Shop owner and the indigenous community. And there are individuals who have been hurt (Mark and friend) because of their race, in this case, because of their whiteness. This is real and is seen by some as an act of racism, but as the instructor and a person who has been studying racism for years, this is all an example of the hurtful ways that prejudice hurts others.

For the purposes of this class, when we talk about racism, we will be using the larger, systematic definition that is suggested by our textbook, Privilege, Power and Difference, which focuses on the patterns of privilege and power. The Patterns of Privilege and Power granted to one group over others based in race.

Because of the impact of race in colonialization, the Shop owner was actually really risking having no business at all or having the dominant culture (whites who live on the island (power)) never doing business with him again, and having violence done to himself (shop owner) for not doing business with and for threatening white people. And what makes this systematic and not individual, is that from what happens to you is that most of the business opportunities, jobs and the like are tied to white owners, (especially in tourism airlines and hotels, etc.) and those with power will have a greater influence over a wide number of indigenous peoples.

What happened to Mark will not determine how all white people will be treated across the island.   I hope that this is clear. Feel free to ask questions.

The power of story. We all have stories to tell, and it is only through telling our own stories that we can begin to deal with the trauma of race in our lives as individuals and this is important. And what is vital to our society is that we tell the stories through a filter of race. Mark’s ability to divorce his story from the political social and historical situation that he lived when he was in Hawaii is one of the reasons that talking about race across racial groups is so difficult. Often when white people talk about their experiences, they are doing so from an individual experience; the stories of people of color may be individual, but they are always about an entire people. What an essential difference!

Telling our stories validates our experiences and that is healing for the individual; examining our stories through a filter of race helps us to heal for a society. If we want to heal, we must find places and times where we can tell stories, and listen to those of others. And then we must do the hard work. We must listen to the voices that have been silenced. We must add the parts of the story that are missing; and only then will healing be possible.

Wisdom from My Daughter, Aged 12

Wisdom

To Katya, Age 12

 

I listened.

She said.

Momma how do I tell my Dad I want him to

Stay in one place, have a home.

She listened.

I said.

I’ve never been very good at talking to your Daddy. You must find your own way.

She listened.

I said.

Your Daddy may not ever be the man that you and I need him to be. So, we’ve got to accept the man he is.

She listened.

I said.

We can both keep searching for a man who is right for us. We don’t have to settle.

She said.

Momma you can change the men in your life.

My Daddy will always be my Daddy.

I listened.

I Remember Ondad, my Grandfather

This is an old piece, but it speaks to me as I have been thinking about family, and missing them. I wrote this in 1996 after the death of my Grandfather, Edward B. Pollock, and no harm is meant to anyone mention herein. My grandfather, Edward Benjamin Pollock is the first on the left, 3 away from the Great Ma Rainey.


Smiling black faces straining; sweat pouring to the pavement, watering the past.  Torn, worn red keds, clicking, ticking back to a time before now, before then.  Quarter blues and jazz swirling and twirling making white faces smile easy, hateful.  Laughter without joy tumbling from mouths thrown open wide.  I was seven, and all I knew was that the movements and music should have been mine.  Should have felt good.  But my stomach ached, and I wanted to be somewhere else, someone else.  Yet the dancers never stopped.  They just waited for the next crowd to appear.

I remember my grandfather, Edward Benjamin Pollock.  He was always a strong, hard man.  I remember that he never wanted to throw anything away.  He thought he could do, could fix anything.  He would try to force things to work, sometimes breaking them beyond repair in his attempt to bring the pieces together again.  I can see coffee pots taped together and chairs held together with string.  He thought that he really could force things to work, force things to last longer than nature had intended.  Even force people to love him.

I remember his raspy voice.  At times he sounded like Louis Armstrong, which was not so surprising, since he was born in New Orleans the year before Sachmo.  I always knew that my grandfather had been a jazz musician, yet it wasn’t until I had lived in New Orleans that I understood.

When I was little he still played his clarinet occasionally.  It was always such a strange sound – so light that it just floated off.  My grandfather never floated.  It was so lonely, his music.  Before I was 10 he stopped playing, only a guitar after that, but he could never make it sing.

I can see my grandfather; just another of the little black boys roaming the streets of the Quarters.  When I first saw these boys I was a 7-year-old girl who had been raised in my father’s – my grandfather’s adopted city- Chicago, I hated those boys.  All I could see was blacks putting on a show for white people.  Dancing and smiling with bottle caps stuck in the soles of their shoes so that they could use their feet to create the rhythms that those white faces had come to reap.  I was sure that the steps of these boys weren’t any different than the shackled shuffles of their great-great-grandfathers as they walked through the same streets,  ankles bound , auction block ready. I hated those boys because I knew that somehow, I was them, and I never wanted to beg.  I was ashamed of my grandfather because there was always a bit of that little Quarter hustler in him.

That street dancer was always there.  He was the one that made my grandfather hold on to thing which should have been allowed to die.  He was the part of my grandfather who never allowed anyone to be tired, to be sick, to need a rest.  My grandfather made everyone just keep on dancing, keep on smiling, no matter what.

When my grandmother first got sick, it wasn’t so bad, because to some extent, she could still do for herself.  But as the years and the strokes continued to drain her, my grandfather could not understand.  His entire survival was dependent on his being able to dance, to smile, to say ‘yaz sir’ just one more time.  After a while my grandmother could no longer dance and my grandfather made her pay dearly for this.  She let him down when she could no longer sing, and he had been with her for so many years that he had forgotten how his own voice sounded without hers.  All he could do was try to force her to sing, force her to dance, even though her body had left her years before.  By the end, she would push the food out of her mouth, because not even my grandfather could force her to dance again.

When my grandfather looked at his son, he never saw a man.  A man was hard and worked for a living.  A man danced so hard that he could taste his sweat as it ran between his clenched, barred teeth.  My father never danced; he never quite understood the rhythms.  He had not been born in New Orleans; he had never seen Congo Square and could not understand.  My grandfather could never see that because he had danced so hard, my father didn’t have to.  Indeed, my father had already forgotten how.

When my grandfather could no longer sing and dance, no longer please the crowd, his life no longer had a purpose.  So he decided to leave those streets which were crowed with young faces who heard rhythms that my grandfather could not even imagine.  And so we must take up the dance.  Our steps will be different.  But I will teach my own daughter the song and dance routine as I learned it from her grandfather.  We must dance and sing as if our life depended on it, for it does.

As I walk past the little black boys in the quarters, baby stroller in front of me, I tell my daughter to look.  I tell her to love those boys, and not to ever feel shame about who we have been, who we still are.  I whisper the names of her black  great-grandfather , her black grandfather, and her white father.  I tell her to never forget the rhythms that she hears on these streets.  I tell her to listen to the echoes of all of the souls who dance before her.  And I tell her to take the movement, take the music and form wings with which to soar.

Didn’t Leave Nobody But the Baby

Didn’t Leave Nobody But the Baby

for all the Emmet Tills there have been, and that are yet to be.

Go to sleep you little babe (Go to sleep you little babe)
Go to sleep you little babe (Go to sleep you little babe)
Your mama’s gone away and your daddy’s gonna stay
Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

Go to sleep you little babe (Go to sleep you little babe)
Go to sleep you little babe (Go to sleep you little babe)
Everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn
Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

You’re sweet, little babe (You’re sweet, little babe)
You’re sweet, little babe (You’re sweet, little babe)
Honey in the rock and the sugar don’t stop
Gonna’ bring a bottle to the baby

Don’t you, weep pretty babe (Don’t you, weep pretty babe)
Don’t you, weep pretty babe (Don’t you, weep pretty babe)
She’s long gone with her red shoes on
Gonna’ need another lovin’ baby

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. The scene in “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” where the beauties, Southern White women, temptresses all, call George Clooney and pals to their supposed death, or transformation, has been swirling around my head today. The haunting lyrics came to me as I was sitting for a friend’s child with a smile that always entices me to fall into her deep, bright eyes, came swimming up through the fog of a wet Seattle afternoon.

Go to sleep you little babe Go to sleep you little babe

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. This song is tricky. Got to be real careful around it. When I hear three-parts, each voice distinct, I too, am drawn in, suckered by the all too sweet sound that forces one to stop whatever they are doing and only pay attention to those voices, calling, needy as always, forcing me to wonder what they want, and that, that it the trick. If they make me wonder about them, then I am hooked, and I don’t want to wonder about them. I don’t want to think about them ever. Too much time has already been wasted on them, by them and for them. And they have never been worthy.

Go to sleep you little babe Go to sleep you little babe

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. On January 30, 2018, DaShawn Horne was beaten into a coma for going home with a white girl

You’re a sweet, little babe You’re a sweet, little babe

Honey in the rock and the sugar don’t stop

Gonna’ bring a bottle to the babe

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. Light-skinded young man this time. A twenty-six-year-old daddy, a child that he cared for and loved, looked forward to raising and seeing him become somebody. My bad, he was somebody. Friday night, you know, he went to a club to dance and have a good time, and he heard that call. She called him, alright. But unlike Odesyus he was not a hero of white literature. If DaShawn’s story is ever told, it won’t be in the form of an epic poem, for they don’t write them about brothers. Never have never will. But she called him alright, and he answered, they almost always do. How could he not? They are everything we all are told we want. She was a white woman, and who can resist?

Go to Sleep you little babe

Go to Sleep you little babe 

Your momma’s gone away and your daddy’s gonna stay

Didn’t leave nobody but the babe

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death.That night, LaDonna Horne lost her son, not all the way like Emmet Till, but enough. Enough so that he is no longer recognizable, face beaten to a pulp, and what’s left attached to tubes that breathe and eat for him. Her brother did what he set out to do. He beat the ever-lovin’ humanity out of that brother, for touching a white woman.

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. 15’ll get you 20; but white’ll get you dead. He forgot to be careful round them. Them white women sing so sweet, their cruel, cruel song, make a brotha forget for a minute that he ain’t quite free.

Go to sleep, you little babe

Go to sleep you little babe

Everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn

Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

 

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. Oh she called to him, knowing he would answer cause he was deep in that bottle she gave him, full of that sweet nectar that helps a brotha forget what happens when you answer her call.  ‘Cause that honey she was offering was deep in the rock of her brother’s baseball bat. How all-American of him. No swing and a miss from him. Big brother hit a home run, all over that nigga’s face. (It’s ok if we say it with an ‘a’ instead of an ‘r’, you know. I mean, they call themselves it all the time so what could be the harm?)

Don’t you weep you pretty babe

Don’t you weep you pretty babe

The song of the sirens, calling young men to their death. She led him right to it. Brought him outside on the front lawn, where he beat him to a pulp. He beat him like it was 1955. That Louisville slugger was covered in red, they was white, and that nigga was black and blue. How’s that for patriotism. Just another faithful son of this great nation, making America Great Again. And she was free to go the club next Friday night. After all her song is so pretty; it would be a shame if there weren’t anybody to appreciate it in all its horrific beauty.

She’s long gone with her red shoes on

Gonna need another lovin’ babe

 Go to sleep, you little babe

Go to sleep, you little babe

Honey in the rock and the sugar don’t stop

Gonna need another lovin babe

This is the place where Emmet Till didn’t whistle at Carolyn Bryant, but got beat to death anyway.

photo credit: kim pollock