Series: The American Haj

Gregory Alan (b. 1978)

The American Haj, 2009

Archival Inkjet Prints

Inauguration

Dear America,

To a slave your entire land was once a boundless plantation, as unfamiliar as another planet; populated by pale creatures, many with mouths that spewed malice, and whips that worked flesh like fertile soil, trying fervently to plant the seeds of domination and condemnation.

The crack of your whip cried out “You are not a man…you are a beast! And I am Adam, and you have been bestowed to me by divine providence, by our lord and savior! You are my horses and my steers, and my silent, obedient servants. You are not guests! You are chattel, and when I wish it, in the dark of night, where my sins cannot be seen…and in the bright falling light of empty dwellings, you are my whores and my indemnified courtesans…your dignity will be drenched in the sweat, blood, and fluids of my shame, and you will wash it from my sheets until they are innocent again. I will not weep for you, I will not look upon the horrors of my own bed, or my fields, or my pastures…my heart will grow harder still, with my own hands I will shackle my descendants!”

Can one man really undo centuries of degradation? “Yes mams, right away sirs” seep like curses through bitter lips…this nation swallows the seeds of strange fruits with blood-soaked roots, trying to avoid the memories of atrocities? Can an entire people gaze upon the surface of the tumultuous sea of changing times, and hope by chance, to see anything but a warped and twisted countenance glaring back? What manifestation does the content of our character present, when color is all that remains…all that can be seen…all that is allowed to be seen. And so…some wear their feet raw…running from their own reflections.

It seems strange then, that when the hardness has been outlasted, and the weary can run no more, hope and change have somehow begun to rise on the horizon…are we destiny’s favored witnesses to something akin to the second coming? Allusion, or illusions; has Jesus ever loved me so? His wooly hair was long ago unkinked, and his skin cleansed and bronze beauty scraped away. His sacrificial crosses blazed across our yards, for a time, casting off a cacophony of rage and horror filled shadows…a martyr’s effigy razed to remind us that whiteness can subdue even our gods.

And now, are we expected to righteously walk like faithful pilgrims to this Mecca, despite the deeply painful irony inherent in our particular experience of freedom, knowing that all celebrations in some way signal an end? But an end of what, we do not truly know, despite the seemingly prescient preaching’s of the newly arrived post racial prophets. We hold our heads a little higher though now, don’t we, maybe let our hoods fall onto our shoulders for a time; it will not be detrimental today, to be seen. But we clasp our masks tight in our grips, because we’ve never known that version of you America, the one that beckons “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door”

We arrived in the holds of ships, where glints of light whispered of the day, adorned in chains, amongst the foul and rotting things, each breath sea and death…the strongest of will among us, endured, so we could walk amongst you rightfully as men. We were always noble, how long have you been mistaken; our music, minds, and words have moved your souls…what keeps your soul from moving?

We are nobles still…didn’t you see that smile creep across our faces, even then, after all we had endured, as we loved, and laughed, danced and played, when the moon nightly blotted out your terror. America, you yourself were penned in deep black ink, from the deepest, blackest womb of striving. How dare you stand there and not move your feet a bit? Why must we continuously educate your conscience. Why must we be unfairly burdened with the work of indoctrinating you into reconciliation with your own espoused ideals. America itself is our struggle, fits and throws…protests and violence; in perpetual labor are we all, hoping to birth a better nation. There is something on the horizon to be sure.

“When I discover who I am. I’ll be free”
~ Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man