In These Dissenting Times

"To acknowledge our ancestors means
we are aware that we did not make
ourselves, that the line stretches
all the way back, perhaps, to God; or
to Gods.  We remember them because it
is an easy thing to forget: that we
are not the first to suffer, rebel,
fight, love and die.  The grace with
which we embrace life, in spite of
the pain, the sorrows, is always a
measure of what has gone before."

IN THESE DISSENTING TIMES

I shall write of the old men I knew
And the young men I loved
And of the gold toothed women
Mighty of arm
Who dragged us all
To church.

THE OLD MEN USED TO SING

The old men used to sing
And lifted a brother
Carefully
Out the door
I used to think they
Were born
Knowing how to
Gently swing
A casket
They shuffled softly
Eyes dry
     More awkward
With the flowers
Than with the widow
After they'd put the
Body in
And stood around waiting
In their
Brown suits.

WINKING AT A FUNERAL

Those were the days
Of winking at a
Funeral
Romance blossomed
In the pews
Love signaled
Through the
Hymns
What did we know?

Who smelled the flowers
Slowly fading
Knew the arsonist
Of the church?

WOMEN

They were women then
My mama's generation
Husky of voice -- Stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged Generals
Across mined
Fields
Booby-trapped
Ditches
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we
Must know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.

THREE DOLLARS CASH

Three dollars cash
For a pair of catalog shoes
Was what the midwife charged
My mama
For bringing me.
"We wasn't so country then," says Mom,
"You being the last one --
And we couldn't, like
We done
When she brought your
Brother,
Send her out to the
Pen
And let her pick
Out
A pig."

YOU HAD TO GO
TO FUNERALS

You had to go to funerals
Even if you didn't know the
People
Your Mama always did
Usually your Pa.
In new patent leather shoes
It wasn't so bad
And if it rained
The graves dropped open
And if the sun was shining
You could take some of the
Flowers home
In your pocket
book.  At six and seven
The face in the gray box
Is always your daddy's
Old schoolmate
Mowed down before his
Time.
You don't even ask
After a while
What makes them lie so
Awfully straight
And still.  If there's a picture of
Jesus underneath
The coffin lid
You might, during a boring sermon,
Without shouting or anything,
Wonder who painted it;

And how he would like
All eternity to stare
It down.

UNCLES

They had broken teeth
And billy club scars
But we didn't notice
Or mind
They were uncles.
It was their job
To come home every summer
From the North
And tell my father
He wasn't no man
And make my mother
Cry and long
For Denver, Jersey City,
Philadelphia.
They were uncles.
Who noticed how
Much
They drank
And acted womanish
With they do-rags
We were nieces.
And they were almost
Always good
For a nickel
Sometimes
a dime.

THEY TAKE A LITTLE NIP

They take a little nip
Now and then
Do the old folks

Now they've moved to
Town
You'll sometimes
SEe them sitting
Side by side
On the porch

Straightly
As in church

Or working diligently
Their small
City stand of
Greens

Serenely pulling
Stalks and branches
Up
Leaving all
The weeds.

SUNDAY SCHOOL, CIRCA 1950

"Who made you?" was always
The question
The answer was always
"God."
Well, there we stood
Three feet high
Heads bowed
Leaning into
Bosoms.

Now
I no longer recall
The Catechism
Or brood on the Genesis
Of life
No.

I ponder the exchange
Itself
And salvage
mostly
The leaning.

Alice Walker