Ty Gray-El, you wrote a poem. The words said, "Hurricanes seldom if ever come off the Pacific Ocean. They do not come off the Indian nor do they travel the Arctic Oceans. They come across the Atlantic Ocean. They all get started as Tropical Depressions around the western shores of Africa, they take virtually the same root as the Middle-Passage-Slave-Trade and slam primarily into the southern states of America. And so, for all these reasons I submit Hurricanes are the Breath of My Ancestors.."
Ty, that poem; those words, the essence of it stays with me and whirls into play every time I am in and watching the wind whip rain high into the air. The first time I heard you do that poem at Bowie State University there was an immediate divide. I had two guests from my Rotary Club there. The husband understood and felt the sentiment. The emotion you delivered with was overwhelming. But Yul could not get the slave connection out of the reasonable part of his head down into his heart. We talked at length the following Monday at our weekly meeting with everyone else in the club. It was a long discussion; a fruitful one.
Not every white person feels the African angst the way we do, we decided that day, even though it logically makes sense that such an energy would create quite a stir in the ocean it is hard for many minds to accept your assertion.. The thought, the notion of the motion in the ocean carrying the angst and grief in the Atlantic is conceivable, but not possible was thought by some. But I see that Water carries Life, the Womb carries Water, and water, the carrier, holds and echoes voices. I hear African cries every time I stand on the coast of the Atlantic. No matter what side it is the cries are appeased by an offering of prayer and tobacco. - Gregory E. Woods, Keeper of Stories
August 2012
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