Langston, am I your child?

Langston, am I your child?
© kendall crouther

 

Langston, am I your child?

Before you answer, let me share why I think so.

I tell you a story, Langston, called "Langston and Me."

 

Langston and me share many things. We both too sing for America.

We watch while our masters eat off the fat of the land while we fill our bellies with milk,

bread

and other sustenance we can find.

Langston and I know the plight of the bastard child: We are our master's proudest secret and scariest asset.
Me and Langston know the tacks and boards torn up because we build our keepers' crystal stair.
Me and Langston understand what it is to be bright enough to wonder,

yet ill-equipped to see America.

 

YOU SEE:                  Langston and I know  h-i-s-t-o-r-y     far, far too well.

And such, we know not to confuse hope with reality. Langston and me know they will see our beauty and be put to shame,

but it is an English order

not

cause   -           and      -           effect   sentence.

Our beauty does not put them to shame because it is blinding!

It puts them to shame because it shown out of the darkness as an unstoppable, uncontainable force that broke the plantation walls to expose the compassion in our hearts.

 

YOU SEE: we are the bastard's child.

 

A SOMEHOW reminder of Christ's capacity to overthrow an american God and shackle its wretched keepers.

 

Oh, LANGSTON, how I alone can articulate our plight:

We sing

we shine

We sing

we shine

we shine

we shine

we shine.

 

Langston, there is a life in us that ought not be forgotten: fat bellies.

Fat bellies in round eyes at a King's Table.    God     bless this                     America.

 

WHEN WE grow strong, Let us clearly flash our stomachs and smile. In deprivation, disorder prospered. In condemnation, forgiveness shown. In aspiration, we persevered. IN FEAR, we sent the demons out trembling. We are one in the same, Langston:

we lay no claim to shame as we focus and plunder our family name.

 

LANGSTON, LANGSTON: what most binds us,

and binds us well,       is that we grieve with unstuck hearts              that trust not in a small good in our masters,

but in the good we just cannot yet touch: a good that will touch our masters' hip as they wrestle up the crystal stair, then

staring face to face with their own shame,

will relieve and relinquish us of ours.

 

Langston, Father, Langston, Please: Let us too keep our singing songfulness for that 'merica.