And there the church mothers go again,
herding their grandbabies into church pews
like a shepherd preparing for a storm.
The oldest is bribed
by the promise of dinner,
of its greens and its pot liquor.
The youngest, a purse's bottomless pit
of peppermint candies.
But, hey, we are here.
Now, I don't know what the CME
in Bethel Temple CME church stands for,
but I imagine it stands
for "Christmas, Mother's Day, and Easter."
The Holy Trinity
of Black religious celebration,
the only days that we,
the biological descendants
of this church's mothers
are forced to be here.
And today is Mother's Day,
the most sacred of the three,
the only day the Black matriarch
can get even her grown son
to don hot pink in a blazer.
Loafers and slacks
are a tall order, she knows,
so she'll settle for him
in white sneakers and jeans.
If he won't wear a belt,
hopefully, he'll hold
his pants up long enough
so they don't fall during the altar call.
"It doesn't matter
what you wear," she says.
"Just come as you are.
All that matters is that you here."
And we are all here
under the watchful eye of the Lord
and a grandmother in the choir stand.
We, the proof
of our grandmother's blessings.
We, the evidence that the prayers
of the righteous avail as much.
We, the barrage of belligerent Black boys
who will stand on your street corners
and tote bandannas and Berettas
on May's second Saturday,
only to tote bibles and bow ties
on May's second Sunday,
on Mother's Day.
We will come as we are,
with no street cred but that
of our grandmother's last ties.
We will come as we are,
with no reputation but that
of our grandmother's last testimony.
And our grandmothers will pack
the congregation with us,
as if to say, "Look what
the Lord has done,
how He's been faithful,
how He's kept them alive."
And ain't it just like a Black woman
to have a day dedicated to her
but spend it praying for somebody else?
And today, nobody
gets jammed up out west.
No turf war has happened over east.
No police go acquitted up north.
Today, the block is quiet.
Today, the morgue is empty.
Today, the jailhouse chatter
has fallen to a sweet mutter of "Mama,"
'cause the truth is
no Black boys die on Mother's Day.
We are all here
under our grandmother's
hymns, hats, and hallelujahs.
Our blunt, blistered lips
touch cheek, turn kiss,
before our heads bow to pray.
And I know, Mama.
I know with all that's
going on in the world,
it gets harder and harder
to get us all together like this.
But you managed it this year.
And we are all here.
We are all
here.
(applause)
