Category: Art as Resistance

Priests – The Village Vanguard

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By Johari Jabir

Honoring the nine martyred priests of Mexico

When I was just a boy in the king’s court, I overheard the king say to the merchants of death: “Kill the priests first. They are the village vanguard.” The fact that our king would betray his own came of no surprise to us, little boys in his harem whose small bodies he touched night after night. Yet, it was the priests who made sure our infinity remained untouchable.

Every evening ‘round midnight, in slow solemn procession, shamans, sages, and priests circled the edges of the village  sprinkling water crystals, wafting sweet incense, tossing kisses at the moon, and touching the tree leaves with their fingers, turning them into green lanterns. Out of all the sacred specialists, it was the priests who translated our collective moans and counted, one-by-one, the tears in god’s face.

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Our Descendants Will Walk on Water

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By Dwight L. Wilson

I am the official historian for my maternal grandfather’s side of the family. Last week I was in Charleston, South Carolina where I was asked to give the major address to the Mack/ Kinney/ Rogers Family Reunion (Mom was born a Mack) This week, although not the official historian, I was asked to give the keynote to my maternal grandmother’s family at the Haynes Family Reunion (her mom was born a Haynes). It was held in Dayton, Ohio. Both gatherings trace their families from an enslaved couple who came to adulthood in Northeastern Georgia. I’ve counted those on the first tree. We number over 5000. There are more surnames on the second tree but I haven’t counted people. My guess is they number even more. Each time I read this psalm.

PSALM 40023
Through You we have known bright elation
where glorious victory lights the way.
Our smiles mirror Jesus on the Mount
smiling at those who dared to believe.
Lest we forget where we arrived
after the Middle Passage to a Hell
calling itself, “The land of the free”
remind us of ancestral pain.
Dear One, You delivered us into hope
that our descendants will walk on water
until they arrive at Your great mountain
and united, continue the climb.

Dwight L. Wilson is a Quaker who has held many jobs: educator, administrator, religious leader. In each role, he worked to advance equality, opportunity and understanding. He continues this work in his carefully researched historical fiction series Esi Was My Mother, which follows the lives of an enslaved black family from 18th century Africa to the American Civil War. He strives to portray triumphant examples of black stories that will make history come alive for readers. He is also author of two short story collections, The Kidnapped and The Resistors as well as a memoir centered on caring for children, Whispering to Babies and two psalms books: Modern Psalms In Search of Peace and Justice and Modern Psalms of Solace and Resistance.

Quotes

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From Rebecca Solnit, re-posted from social media (July 7, 2023)

I collect quotes, starting a new document every year I paste them into as I encounter them. The collections go back several years. Here’s a few from 2023’s album.

“We are all here to serve each other. At some point we have to understand that we do not need to carry a story that is unbearable. We can observe the story, which is mental; feel the story, which is physical; let the story go, which is emotional; then forgive the story, which is spiritual, after which we use the materials of it to build a house of knowledge.” – Joy Harjo

“American racism has many moving parts, and has had enough centuries in which to evolve an impressive camouflage. It can hoard its malice in great stillness for a long time, all the while pretending to look the other way. Like misogyny, it is atmospheric. You don’t see it at first. But understanding comes.” -Teju Cole

“Being queer saved my life. Often we see queerness as deprivation. But when I look at my life, I saw that queerness demanded an alternative innovation from me. I had to make alternative routes, it made me curious, it made me ask this is not enough for me.” – Ocean Vuong

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Resistance

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by anna markowitz

We went to prove we are not something, which is to say
We were not all there to do the same thing, which is to say
We had our reasons.

Where were you?
Fussing with your collar.
Quaking with a new knowledge—
We are nothing like God, we’ve never met Her.
That apple was just a dizzying tumble
Into our own dark hollow. We’ll only diminish
That which we form in our image and likeness.
Our slightness.

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Spring Sauntered North

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On Juneteenth, we open up Toni Morrison’s Beloved. This passage comes right after Indigenous people, who refused to move to the reservation, cut off the shackles of Paul D, a man who escapes slavery and stays with them in the Southern woods.

“Paul D finally woke up and, admitting his ignorance, asked how he might get North. Free North. Magical North. Welcoming, benevolent North. The Cherokee smiled and looked around. The flood rains of a month ago had turned everything to steam and blossoms. 

‘That way,’ he said, pointing. ‘Follow the tree flowers,’ he said, ‘Only the tree flowers. As they go, you go. You will be where you want to be when they are gone.’ 

So he raced from dogwood to blossoming peach. When they thinned out he headed for the cherry blossoms, then magnolia, chinaberry, pecan, walnut and prickly pear. At last he reached a field of apple trees whose flowers were just becoming tiny knots of fruit. Spring sauntered north, but he had to run like hell to keep it as his traveling companion.”

For the Friends who have Forgotten why Life Matters More than Guns

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By Cindy Wallace, Associate Professor of English, St. Thomas More College, University of Saskatchewan, re-posted from her Facebook account

The dappled light is why—
and the apple’s red skin, its
sticky-chin juice—
the way the breeze feels on your
arms after a winter that wouldn’t stop.
I want us all to know this,
as much of this as a body can take
in, for at least eight decades,
or a dozen:
the chickadees’ black caps and
the donuts’ perfect glaze and
the first-kiss flush and
the glory-stretch of toes freed
from all-day boots—
the glory-stretch of an infant
fresh from sleep—
the glory-stretch of a life
wide open to its loves—

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Inside the Broken Heart of God

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By Johari Jabir

1 year – Ukrainian Resistance
20 years – U.S. Invasion in Iraq

The old lady has sat in her little rocking chair since the first bomb hit her village
day after day she sits in her tiny chair
facing the window
watching the morning sun burn the clouds of war
an apparition in the shape of a black angel appears every morning

rickety tickety
she rocks back and forth, humming for God’s mercy
furiously knitting socks for the soldiers
the little rocking chair too, begs for mercy

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Re-tired.

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By Ric Hudgens, re-posted with permission from social media

Sometimes we choose transition. Sometimes it’s thrust upon us. Either way it’s disorienting. But, as the great Walter Brueggemann reminds us, disorientation is one stage on the way to re-orientation. I’m feeling that on-the-way-in-betweenness.

Divorce, a stroke, a resulting move to a new place, and then of course the pandemic left me a bit traumatized. It’s not dramatic (not like some), but it’s substantial. I find unfamiliar fears and anxiety showing up in unfamiliar places.

I’ve also known “post-traumatic growth” which was the subject and the fruit of a recently completed doctoral project. So I’m still “growing” and have much to be thankful for, and I’m also disoriented – like when I was a teenager and every year outgrew my clothes.

I need God/Spirit/Meaning in new ways. The old pathways bore me. Familiar methods leave me feeling confused, curious, cautious, and a bit cranky. I’m walking like someone with new shoes that are not yet broken in. I think my heels are blistering a bit.

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