Freedmans Cemetery

Human remains…chipped fragments of a trabecular bone rests in the palm of my hand. The rain storm from the night before stealthily disturbed the unmarked graves that encompasses over 5,000 slaves. On my knees, resting in the shade of an old oak tree I clench the wet dirt beside me and weep. My tears quickly join the fully saturated mud. The beauty of freshly manicured green grass and the blinding blue sky fades to anguish that consumes every fiber in my body. Here in my hand I hold the unknown. Beneath every step I take rests scattered bones of the nameless and forgotten. 2 hours passed and I’m still alone. The Walmart parking lot is restless with customers. This busy freeway and side street once sprawled with successful black owned businesses, schools, churches, and entertainment. This small piece of Dallas was once the heart and soul of the black community and served as a self-sustaining haven. I walk lightly. At every tree I stoop and gaze at the chunks of conglomerates, marred concrete, and artificial floral arrangements that serves as a humble sentiment of remembrance. I try to quell the hostile takeover of the foreign emotions that accompany my racing thoughts. Who are you? What was your name? What was your life story? Question after question quietly pour from my mouth. Questions that will never be answered. I quake and beg for forgiveness. Forgiveness. Please forgive me. My lineage falls between two worlds of which will never gracefully flow intertwined eternally in the very fabric of my DNA. What soul led me here? Who guides my unrelenting thirst for discovery and the truth of my ancestors? Every day I’ll search for you. Every day I cave into my deep rooted desire for justice. For answers. For reparations for my brothers and sisters. For peace. For reconciliation. For truth. But on this day I’ll mourn. I read every word inscribed on plaques that adorn the granite barricades. I follow every whip inflicted scar across your back. I focus on her curls tightly tucked beneath her bonnet. Each facial expression. The bellowing screams. The chains hanging from his wrists. Her braided hair. Her covered face. His tribal relics. Her focused eyes. Her open hand. I’ll never understand why. I’ll never be able to comprehend the atrocities, the pain, the unjust suffering…. But I’ll try.