My cousin, Tim Alexander, is a poet.
Actually, one never stops being a poet, but experiences outages when poems aren't written at the breakneck pace from the first day the light switch turns on.
I read his poetry at age eight and had no clue what he was talking about or trying to say to me. He was extremely "cool," and I kept reading them until it finally made sense. It was water fertilizing a seed.
Then came Amiri Baraka, and then Nikki Giovanni, and then Sandra Sanchez... and finally, I heard the "Right On!" album by the Last Poets.
In spite of them all making me want to put away my pens and paper while listening to WWRL 1600, in the comfort of the black lights illuminating the velvet posters in my bedroom in Paterson, NJ, I kept at it.
And after years of reflecting, foot dragging, obstacles and rough sands travelled, here it is - the book.
Part autobiography, part personal observation, part reflection, part personal therapy.
This is dedicated to Reverend Thomas C. Harris, whom it took me most of life to understand.
I resented his strict traditions, being the inquisitive kind, full of legitimate, calculated questions, and the answers coming only when I finally looked back at the time and matched it against his rigidity and came away with the realization that I am alive today, because that rigidity was a strong shield protecting all of us from what was "out there."
I'm sure it pained him not to entertain as many father-son chat requests as I wanted to have with him back then, but he knew me. My questions, he knew were calculated, honest and genuine. The answers would have fueled me and taken me to places I should not have gone and said things I should not be saying and asking questions of those who did not love me like he did.
So, this for you, daddy....
I understand today and love you endlessly for your love, and protection... especially your protection from myself.
Sleep well and we'll have those father-son chats in heaven, uninterrupted, unprotected and unfiltered.
To Marva - My wife, in the inner circle of phenomenal women that Maya Angelou phenomenally penned in her poem... my best friend and my rescuer... my endless love...
To Elaine & Tom - My siblings... My support...
To Stephanie & Julia - Not just my daughters, but my hearts...
To Mommy - Betty Marie Harris.... You were the one I came to when I had questions bursting within me that I couldn't ask dad. I was satisfied just enough to douse the burning bush I was. You taught me to be a good listener. I love you, miss you and am still and always will be... Mama's Boy
To my ancestors, who followed the light of Jesus Christ through slavery, reconstruction, persecution, racism and all inequities that they should not have and yet did experience, and somehow, overcame it all... so that I could be here to do this, in your honor. I, too, walk in that same light and trust Him in every and all things.
Thank you... although never hearing your voices, feel you holding me in your arms and knowing me in your lifetimes, you taught me with your lives and the stories you left for me.
I am, today... because you were, yesterday...
...and for my hometown, the City of Paterson, New Jersey, where all of this started, and one day, will ultimately end...
