I watched the Freedom Riders documentary on PBS last night with husband. As I watched, a slow burn crept through my body. It wasn't a new feeling, I've felt it before. It's the same feeling of raw power that I get whenever I hear narratives about the freedom movement in the south. I can't quite pinpoint what the root of this feeling is, whether it's mounted anger, sadness, or desire to keep fighting and be better. Perhaps part of it is the feeling that I have no right or reason to bitch and complain about my life when so many others before me literally got their asses whooped for equality. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because of my own close contact with that turbulent part of history - Albany, GA and Albany State is home to the Freedom Singers and other milestones in the Civil Rights Movement. My grandparents told me about their "behind-the-scenes" efforts to feed and make signs for the nonviolent protesters because of the shameful reality that they would lose their jobs for open retaliation against Jim Crow. Don't get it twisted, however, folks. My Paw Paw was never Jim Crow's bitch - he carried a rifle in his back window as a warning not to fuck with him. 


But in all honesty, folks, I'm starting to think that slow wine of anger is not just for the ignorant shit that went down in the 1960s but my awareness of the ignorant shit that is happening in the aftermath of the Civil Rights era. I say aftermath because slowly but surely this important narrative is being pushed to the fringes. It's not discussed. And, on top of that, this inherent laziness is conducive to an era where race narratives are considered a step backwards. C'mon, shawty. Everybody doesn't and will never have similar experiences. That's far gone. 


The question becomes, what are we riding for? Is the bus a comin' or is it a goin'?