My Mama, Your Mama

They were women-
strong and black in their generation, with flint- like faces that reflect years of pain. Their eyes have seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see, yet those same eyes can tell a story better than any book ever could.

On sturdy legs they walk into the fields, head- ragged and barefoot
to plow the earth with their black and sometimes blistered hands.
The same black hands that will iron the master's clothes, cook the master's food and clean the master's house.

With their spirits oppressed and broken, the only thing left to them is their song and oh, how they love to sing!
So they sing about their freedom.
They sing about the day when they too can have place to call their own.
And they sing about the day when their black men will no longer carry the burdens of the master's demands, or the scars of anger inflicted by the master's whip.

My Mama, your Mama.
Together they paved the way for you and me, the mothers and daughters of our generation.
They have opened doors that were once locked.
They have knocked down walls that were meant to keep us out.
My Mama, your Mama

They were women-
strong and black in their generation.
It's through them that our heritage lives on as we so painfully abandon the past, and bravely embrace the future.