Reparations Now, Reparations Tomorrow, Reparations Forever

using text from George Wallace’s 1963 Inaugural Address

I.
The Governor Speaks

before I begin—
			                  patience.            

my heart, by which I mean my anxious country,
		            will never forget the folks we beat:

						                                    the little lady who couldn’t see too well,
						                                    the blessed opposition,
						                                    the vote—

this debt, this duty to every man, woman, and child:
				                    no Black shall have his livelihood, his future.
				                    we have stolen it away
				                    with our happy money,
				                    Jefferson Davis’s loving blood—

II.

Mo’ Money Interlude

money got mo’ problems money got a maserati money got mo’ money

money got ya mama and ya daddy too money got no expiration date

money got pennies and papercuts money got a white man on its face money got faces

money is nothing black even the ink is green money don’t know your name

money paid the price for our sins? for our freedom? money got math we can’t learn

money says it trusts in God what God trusts money? Jesus, Money, and Joseph

money, descended from Ham money watches us, naked money curses us, rich & poor

money said separate but equal money said 3/5ths a man money said four score and seven years ago

III.
Altar Call—The Poet Reproduces Wallace’s Exact Words

IN THE NAME OF THE GREATEST PEOPLE THAT HAVE EVER TROD THIS EARTH, I DRAW THE LINE IN THE DUST AND TOSS THE GAUNTLET BEFORE THE FEET OF TYRANNY AND I SAY: SEGREGATION NOW, SEGREGATION TOMORROW, SEGREGATION FOREVER.

IV.
Praise Break: The Governor Channels The Spirit of His god

Riot! 
                  Children, you can write that down. 

                                                       Mississippi was a B-29 bomber in this war to stop residential integration. 
Hypocrisy! 
			                  Let us send this message: 
                                                                   we, tyranny, shall put our heel on the neck of Washington,
				                       of those insipid judges who send smoke signals to the White House,
						                                   those who are not worth the honor of their race. 
Hear me, Southerners!
			                Your hearts live in the soil of Dixieland. 
			                Your rock-ribbed patriotism, your flaming spirit 
			                for segregation and freedom
			                has 
			                              been 
			                                           blessed 
			                                                         by 
			                                                                     God!

Alabama is the center of the world. 

God has given this to us—a heritage of unimpeachable authority and power. 

		          This ungodly government, these degenerates are the very opposite of Christ. 

Children, say a prayer for our dollars, our founding fathers, our faith, our power.

V.
A Case for Reparations

When, Governor, can we enjoy the full richness of the Great American Dream?

My grandmother was a sharecropper. My grandfather beat his Black wife and Black children. My uncle was arrested for a crime he didn’t commit—in America, even the shadows of Black people are black enough to hide all innocence. Some nights, I dream of being killed like Emmett Till or Trayvon Martin or Sandra Bland or [INSERT BLACK PERSON’S NAME HERE]. Some nights, I insert my name there. Is that the American Dream? Governor, President, Mayor, Boss Man, Woman With A Cell Phone or a Police Badge or a Bank Account and The Skin Tender Enough To Make Murder Legal, when will you be tired of the taste of Black blood? Sometimes, I’m singing a song and you make that feel like death. Sometimes, I’m dancing a dance and you make that feel like shame. Sometimes, I’m sitting on my porch just trying to eat a damn melon and you make that feel like I’m selling my Black soul. My parents told me I could be anything, even God. That’s the least I’m owed—to know I’m worth heaven, yes, but also worth a life on earth. My mother told us we were pretty enough to be dolls, pretty enough to be praised in the Book of Barbie. That’s the least I’m owed—a face, skin, hair so obviously, inherently, objectively beautiful it’s frozen in plastic and sold to kids all over America to hug and love and look at with the eyes of dreams. What, you think all I want is money? What, you think money can ever repay what you stole? Give me land, give me all the blood you ripped out of our backs, our veins. Give me every snapped neck and the noose you wove to hoist the body up. Give me the screams you silenced in so many dark and lustful rooms. Give me the songs you said were yours but you know came out of our lips first. Give me back Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X and Medgar Evers. Give me back the beauty of my hair. The swell of my hips. The big of my lips. Give me back the whole Atlantic Ocean. Give me a never-ending blue. And a mule.