She marches along with the rest
Cradling her belly
Swollen with child
Her chin tilts to the sky and she SHOUTS
Black Lives Matter!
She's more sad than angry; less angry than sad
She's homeless; the child within is not
She marches to make the World
For the Other
For her Own
For her Child
“What keeps a poor child in Appalachia poor is not what keeps a poor child in Chicago poor – even if from a distance, the outcomes look the same. And what keeps an able-bodied black woman poor is not what keeps a disabled white man poor, even if the outcomes look the same.”
― Ijeoma Oluo, So You Want to Talk About Race
The only thing that matters is that they are all poor. And if they do not join together to address that situation, they will all remain poor while those who benefit from their poverty will remain rich. This is the truth of racism and sexism and homophobia and xenophobia and religious bigotry. The shared goal of all these evils is to maintain separation between those that have and those that don’t. This is usually accomplished by convincing some percentage of those that don’t that they may one day be a member of the those that have group. They won’t. Ever. But they fall for it. That percentage happens to be 30%.
It is the intersections of the oppressed which will provide the strength to set things right.
Wikipedia, Jerry Rescue
On October 1, 1851, William Henry was arrested in Syracuse under the Fugitive Slave Law. Earlier in 1851, Secretary of State Daniel Webster had warned that the law would be enforced even “here in Syracuse in the midst of the next Anti-Slavery Convention.” The arrest was considered a message that the locally unpopular law would be seriously enforced by federal authorities.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You’ve fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
– Walt Whitman, O Captain! My Captain!