A Rose By Any Other Name

I've been concerned with the duration of our light if not the quality. Reflecting back, I think that's why I shed so many tears for dear Mr. Ossie Davis. I'm listening to too many who have come and gone*, Shirley Horn, Mary Lou Williams, Jimmy Smith, among others whose creativity continually enchants. I attest. And I miss their dapper attire and kick myself for sort of slumming it to work or to my not black congregation. That's not not how we do or how we did. But purist, I am not. I still prefer Miles to Wynton, always will.

I am re-reading Invisible Man now. It is time. It reminds me of the futility of trying to disprove white disdain unless, of course, one masochistically enjoys getting repeatedly knocked upside the head. And I always remember Du Bois as black public figures shuffle across my TV screen or crassly bellow from my not acting right iPod. A lot has changed. I could maybe attribute it to the diminishing influence of once prevailing black ethics, codes that we have exchanged for indignant swagger and blood-stained currency. It is a little overwhelming, although not so much as the firehose. I want not for a time machine just a little order.

I am surpsingly calm about the homegoing of our Rosa. I don't know why. Her passing reminds me of the politics of her iconicity. Ms. Claudette, beat her to the punch, but didn't look the part in the eyes of our transformational leadership, avowed devotees of the prevailing black ethics, the codes of our segregated sanctuaries and streets. Freedom attended Sister Rosa, a fair-skinned woman with an equally unblemished reputation, and the rest as they say is history. We celebrated her but not with enough zeal to allow her seamstress hands some well-deserved rest. And we, "new schools fools" as 'Kast put it, call her name while renouncing her whispered witness.

Peace be upon she.

*Will others punctually come forever and ever?