I have spent the past few weeks living with
these words: “That summer marked the beginning of a realization that I could
never live happily in Africa—or anywhere else—until I could live freely in
Mississippi. “ Alice Walker is writing from the perspective of an African
American woman during the Civil Rights Movement. She is living and
working and teaching in Mississippi and through all of that strife, she
discovers that the south is much more than a place. It is home, it is
soul, it is self. I find it astonishing that she could have such a
profound revelation during such a terrifically tumultuous time. I have
often wondered if times of social change (which are covered in chaos) are times
when we most commonly self-reflect. I also wonder if this reading was
divine intervention. Those words seemed like an awakening and a jolt to
my soul.
I
think that within the context of this text, Walker speaks for the collective
people. Not all people of her generation, or her race, or her gender, or
her place, or her space, but for all people. When she claims that
she can never be free anywhere else until she is free in Mississippi, she is
speaking for everyone in the state which lays claim to some of the most tragic
systemic injustice in American history. Walker’s” I” is collective.
She is speaking to the thousands upon thousands who are left to defend their
place. She is speaking to the others, the ones who carry the evils of
racial injustice in their bones and spill it into Mississippi and the rest of
the country. She is speaking to those who are unable to reach a level of enlightenment
that will allow them to be free. She is speaking to the people who live
in what is commonly called a state of oppression, but is more aptly described
as a state of fear. She is speaking to the fear of being able to live
outside the confines of what is expected, and living within the freedoms of
self. She is speaking to me. Furthermore, she is speaking to all of
us.
Can freedom be real if
others are enslaved? No. “I could never live happily in Africa—or
anywhere else—until I was free in Mississippi.” Of course she
couldn’t. She could never live outside the confines of southern living,
and truly be living at all. Not when the multitudes were still powerless,
and unable to attain selfhood. Not with the souls of many unable to
escape. She could not escape into the abyss of creativity, agency, love,
and personal bliss, when her people were suffering and dying with their higher
selves left behind. Left behind to fill a place with their spirits, which
were damaged and needed repair. She could live a life of an artist, fulfilling
her personal destiny far away from the depravity called Mississippi. She
could be, but she could not be free. And neither can I.
I grew up in Georgia, and spent all of my formative years denying the truth of
myself, but most importantly, denying my power. The power to get
free. The power to delve into the darkness and embrace it, and find the
higher version of myself. I call this prayer. A
self-reflection. Alice Walker has taught me a lesson which is invaluable.
If we the people aren’t free, then I, Wesley, am not
free. I already had found within myself a desire and a need to help other
people find that freedom. But I had not found my absence of true freedom
by acknowledging the collective’s enslavement. This freedom I speak of
starts with love, and ends with self. The in between part is the
journey. And because so many have neglected that journey, it is my
responsibility to help people to it, and through it.
The part of myself that I denied was also a thing I had never seen. I had
never seen or known someone who was like me, and for that matter, I don’t even
know that I had a word for it. I lived 19 years until I said it. “I’m
gay.” Those words, for me, meant that I would spend my life with that
truth, and never suppress it. Despite the invisibility of people like me,
there is one thing I actually had seen. Suppression. While I
never heard anyone out and proudly proclaim those same words, I certainly saw
myself and many others refuse to say it or even believe it. Or maybe even
refuse to know it. This is the freedom Walker speaks of. And as it
relates to me, it means that every boy and girl be able to proclaim that truth,
and not live inside the limitations that bind them to be anything other than
the full version of themselves. The divine. The soul. The true self.
I need to leave the south. The south—more than a place, a landform, a
certain vegetative group, or a region; it is my home, it is my family’s home,
it is the common thread of my friendships. The south is my soul.
The south is me. But I must go. I must go to find within me the
ability to help freedom prevail. I must go to learn how to make a world
where a 10 year old gay kid in Georgia is able to call himself that. And
I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that I needed to go to just
breathe. To breathe the air of tolerance, and love, and autonomy.
But Alice Walker has taught me the most important reason why I need to
go. And that is to feel the distance of those back home, and perhaps fill
that expanse with hope and love and truth. I won’t be satisfied until
this work is done. I won’t be happy until my people are full people and
able to call themselves whole. I won’t be free until the south is a place
where no one leaves behind their souls when they leave behind their
bodies.
I thought I would be leaving for me. That’s a lie. I will be
leaving for them and me, in hopes of one day bringing back that power I find
within myself and use it to help people all over this place, this space, this
collection of souls, Georgia, the south, home. The power to be us.
The power to know thyself. The power to be free.
The quote by which this post was inspired is in a collection of essays by Alice Walker entitled"In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens". I highly recommend it, especially to those who call themselves spiritual. And to those who wish to find self.
