My country, the country of seven generations of my black and red ancestors stands at the edge of a precipice tonight. Tomorrow, November 4th will be an historical date in the history of this country – regardless of who wins. The United States will either have its first African-American president or its first female vice-president. I am unabashedly an Obama supporter. While my support of him is not solely based on his race, I am mighty proud of him and this country. I honestly doubted that I would live to see the day when a black man would occupy the oval office as commander-in-chief. I doubted whether my sons would live to see such a day. I hoped my nine-year old grandson would live to see such a day.
As this day approaches, I think of my father who passed away at the age of 82 in March of this year. I think of his early support of Obama and though I know he's beaming down from above as this day approaches, I sorely wish he were here to cast his vote and celebrate the victory. I also think of my ancestors, both African and Native, whose blood enriches the soil of Virginia. I think of James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner, the three civil-rights workers who were murdered by the Ku Klux Klan in 1964 for attempting to register blacks in Mississippi. I think of Denise McNair, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson and Addie Mae Collins, the four little girls murdered in 1963 in Birmingham, Alabama. Denise, Cynthia, Carole and Addie were my contemporaries. These little girls were killed in Sunday School at the 16th Street Baptist Church. This election is for them, too. I think of Irene Morgan, who in 1946 refused to give up her seat on a Greyhound bus to a white person and was jailed. I think of Rosa Parks, whose courageous act in 1955 in Montgomery, Alabama helped to begin the crumbling of the Jim Crow South. I think of W.E. B. DuBois and his Talented Tenth. Specifically his words, one in ten black men becoming leaders of their race in the world, through methods such as continuing their education, writing books, or becoming directly involved in social change. He believed they needed a classical liberal education to reach their true destiny as what would in the 20th century be called public intellectuals. I think of Booker T. Washington and Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth and, oh so many others, countless and often nameless. And, of course, I think of Dr. King, who knew we would get to the mountaintop though he would not get there with us.
My heart, my mind and my spirit is full. Words fail me at the pride I feel. Pride not only in this black man, Barack Obama, but also pride in my country, that finally, blessedly, hopefully, we are finally beginning to make progress on the racial stain that has blighted this nation since its birth. I give thanks to all those who fought and died for this day to be possible. We stand at the precipice.
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 back yard.
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
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