The title of this post is inspired by Maya Angelou’s poem, Still I Rise.  Deborah, a dear friend and poetess from England, sent it to me in her comment after my recent post, The Poison of Misogyny: V. In light of yesterday’s presidential election, and in case you didn’t read her comment, I’d like to share it here.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

~ Maya Angelou

 

Today, the day after the election, Pat, another dear friend, texted me the following poem and above image:

Last night I dreamed

ten thousand grandmothers

from the twelve hundred corners of the Earth

walked out into the gap,

one breath deep

between the bullet and the flesh,

between the bomb and the family.

They told me

We cannot wait for governments.

There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.

There are no leaders who dare to say

every life is precious,

so it will have to be us.

They said

We will cup our hands around each heart.

We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,

a song so beautiful that vengeance

will turn to weeping,

the mourners will embrace,

and grief replace

every impulse toward harm.

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,

so we have sent this dream,

like a flock of doves

into the sleep of the world.

Wake up. Put on your shoes.

You who are reading this,

I am bringing bandages

and a bag of scented guavas from my trees.

I think I remember the tune.

Meet me at the corner.

Let’s go.

~ Aurora Levins Morales

I don’t know who created the image. Sister Ann, a nun who works to educate and empower migrant workers and their families in Apopka, FL sent it to Pat. If you know whose art this is, please let me know so I can give her credit. I assume it’s a “her”.

God bless us, every one.

Jean Raffa’s The Bridge to Wholeness and Dream Theatres of the Soul are at Amazon. Healing the Sacred Divide can be found at Amazon and Larson Publications, Inc. Jean’s new Nautilus Award-winning The Soul’s Twins, is at Amazon and Schiffer’s Red Feather Mind, Body, Spirit. Subscribe to her newsletter at www.jeanbenedictraffa.com.