Feeling the Spirit Now Darkened in New Orleans
My mother came over and I was bawling on the sofa. She wondered what was wrong with me, as I watched the news on television.
“Look at those people! That is a live shot from the press and nobody is rescuing them in New Orleans. I have to go get them! Those are my people, I have to get them!” I exclaimed, as I bawled some more.
“Those are not your people,” said my mother. “Those people are even black,” continued my mother.
“They are God’s people, our people, and my people!” I exclaimed.
“They are God’s people, Dawna, but they are not your people. They are even black,” said my mother.
“Black, green, purple or yellow, I do not give a damn, they are my people and I cannot just sit here and watch this! Where are the rescue boats? Where are the rescue teams? I do not understand any of this! It is my responsibility to help these people out!” I cried to my mother; however, she did not understand my emotions.
“No, it is the government’s responsibility to help them out,” my mom tried to explain.
“What government? Do you see a government there? Do you see anybody there? What are you talking about? It is the responsibility of every single one of us here in America, across seas, and anywhere we live in this world, to take care of God’s people, our people, and my people! We all must play a part!” I exclaimed, now getting upset with my mother because she was not feeling the sadness I was feeling.
“And, Dawna, you have no money,” she said.
“I do not need money,” I said.
“Oh, so you think God is going to fly you there on a wing and a prayer?” asked my mother sarcastically.
“Close. God gave me talent, and even if I cannot help them out now, I will help them out later. I am going to work on what God did give me, and I can give to the people. I will write a book and help them out with money I make through that book. I will help out the hurricane victims that had no insurance, and those who did have insurance but the insurance companies would not pay. I will make a CD with the music I wrote and sing them, if I must. I will do whatever it takes,” I said. “There are people in New Orleans that lost everything and they are millionaires and they had insurance. I do not see a purpose in giving them money, as I heard they are even taking their own money and helping their own neighbors out. I will have it all given to an organization who will give the money to the victims in need, and there are many of them. There are many of them in Mississippi and in Alabama too, as I am not forgetting those people either. If another hurricane strikes somewhere in the meantime, then I give to those people too,” I continued, with tears still streaming down my face.
“You are crazy,” my mother told me.
“Yes, I am crazy in love with my people, God’s people, and our people!’
“So you think black people are your people?” my mother asked me.
“I do not think it; I know it. All the people in the world are God’s people, our people, and my people. You do not understand it, so do not judge it,” I said, as my mother walked out the door shaking her head as though I were nuts. If helping people makes me nuts, then I am glad to be a nut. See, sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you do not.