Monday, November 23, 2015

first world problems

If your family is anything like mine, we have a lot to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. Most of our issues will revolve around what we call "first world problems." Whether to use a tablecloth or place mats. Whether to serve pumpkin pie or apple. Which grace to recite before we overindulge.

Many people are not so fortunate given today's climate of fear, hatred, and intolerance, the scourge of domestic violence, the plight of the poor. The random shooting of unarmed citizens. The threat of terrorism. The refugee crisis.

Clearly many can't, or won't be allowed to, enjoy Thanksgiving this year. This, I feel, is a sad thing for a country so full of promise, so full of possibility, and so full of hope for so many.

Because the news has been especially dismal lately, I decided to share this poem:

Let America Be America Again

Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

Let America be America again.
 Let it be the dream it used to be.
 Let it be the pioneer on the plain
 Seeking a home where he himself is free.

 (America never was America to me.)

 Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
 Let it be that great strong land of love
 Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
 That any man be crushed by one above.

 (It never was America to me.)

 O, let my land be a land where Liberty
 Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
 But opportunity is real, and life is free,
 Equality is in the air we breathe.

 (There’s never been equality for me,
 Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

 ''Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
 And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?''

 I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
 I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
 I am the red man driven from the land,
 I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
 And finding only the same old stupid plan
 Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

 I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
 Tangled in that ancient endless chain
 Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
 Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
 Of work the men! Of take the pay!
 Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

 I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
 I am the worker sold to the machine.
 I am the Negro, servant to you all.
 I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
 Hungry yet today despite the dream.
 Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
 I am the man who never got ahead,
 The poorest worker bartered through the years.

 Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
 In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
 Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
 That even yet its mighty daring sings
 In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
 That’s made America the land it has become.
 O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
 In search of what I meant to be my home—
 For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
 And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
 And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
 To build a “homeland of the free.”

 The free?

 Who said the free?  Not me?
 Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?
 The millions shot down when we strike?
 The millions who have nothing for our pay?
 For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
 And all the songs we’ve sung
 And all the hopes we’ve held
 And all the flags we’ve hung,
 The millions who have nothing for our pay—
 Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

 O, let America be America again—
 The land that never has been yet—
 And yet must be—the land where ''every'' man is free.
 The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
 Who made America,
 Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
 Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain
 Must bring back our mighty dream again.

 Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
 The steel of freedom does not stain.
 From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
 We must take back our land again,

 O, yes,
 I say it plain,
 America never was America to me,
 And yet I swear this oath—
 America will be!

 Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
 The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
 We, the people, must redeem
 The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
 The mountains and the endless plain—
 All, all the stretch of these great green states—
 And make America again.


Thanksgiving is such an iconic observance in our country, I can't help but feel a bit nostalgic about it, much the way I feel about the values America was founded on...and much the way I remember the innocent, if naive, pleasure I took in Thanksgivings long since past. This week, I give thanks for the promise, possibility and hope that America symbolizes to the world


ps: don't ask me what happened to the formatting of this post...

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