Threads
Nobody said, when I was born: This one will be raised a racist. And I did not, with my first gasp, make any decisions at all. It was just in the web of threads I walked through as I was growing, wrapping 'round my mind from watching, sticking to my mind from lis'ning. It mixed with all the other threads running unseen through the weaving of my personal tapestry. Then from the corner of my eye my teenage mind glimpsed awareness of the threads doing their weaving of the threads already woven. And there, flowing bright and shiny was music, a thick strand of it, and that thread was weaving more threads each pushing forward new questions. What was it that blew in the wind? What should I do with that hammer? What needed to be overcome? Where, indeed, had the flowers gone? Alongside these pulsing questions was other music woven tight — love songs I couldn't get enough of. Walking in the Rain, Stand by Me This Magic Moment, One Fine Day Baby, It's You, He's a Rebel And the thread binding them to me did not have a distinct color, just the hue of the human soul. From this came a profound knowing: The singer's color didn't matter and if it didn't matter in song, it didn't matter in anything. So through weaving by my own hand I added this resonant thread to my still-growing tapestry. And though unwanted threads remained — we are all stuck with what we've lived — better threads of our own choosing can make our weavings worthier. Harry W. Yeatts Jr. |