Pigment of Our Imagination: Day 2, Selma AL

3/11 

I've able to connect three quotes I've encountered previously into my experiences today:

1) Trauma is the wound that cries out

2) If we are silent about our pain, they will think we enjoyed it

3) The worst thing you could ever be is a silent witness

All of these these things have one thing in common: the importance of the voice. When trauma cries out, it's always in a manner that we recognize. In being able to identify, we are humanizing this person. In being able to talk through her trauma, Ms. Joanne Bland is able to begin working her way through her wounds. She told us about Selma, the march across Edumund-Pettus, and Bloody Sunday. What surprised me the most was that most marchers were killed back in Selma, not on the acutal bridge. They followed them back, and terrorized them for the rest of the night. Ms. Bland recalls a woman being pushed down steps, breaking both of her arms, and not being able to stop to help her unless they wanted to end up like her. At the age of eleven years old, Ms. Bland had been arrested over 20 times. Eleven. Years. Old. Selma is so deeply marked by violence. Most of the houses look dilapidated and worn. There is a statue of Martin Luther King Jr that reads "I Had A Dream." There was a dismal cloud that hung over our heads as we felt that the dream of Selma had be lost, never to be recovered. A particular moment on the tour around Selma that marked me was when we stopped in front of a house. It was this beautiful house with four gigantic columns in the front. It was the slave master's house. It hurt my heart to hear Ms. Joanne's unfortunate encounter with the tour guide in which she assumed that she knew this house was built, the marvelous wooden staircase was carved, by the hands of slaves. Ms. Joanne then took us to the last piece of land that could be saved from where they organized for the march. We each picked up rocks and were told that this is sacred. That no matter how low we may feel, look at this rock and always remember that there is hope. I tried to feel it. To feel the hope. To walk away triumphant. But teardrops from the sky plopped unto my head and there was a gray haze. I couldn't feel the hope. 

So we learned a lot about the Voting Rights and there was more and more blood shed. Their cries and screams etched on my skin. I feel haunted. I walked across the Edmund-Pettus bridge. I saw the memorial and there was this picture of Jesus on the cross. Above him it said "The Lynching of Jesus Christ." That had a way of coloring Jesus, likening him to the black people. I still don't know how I feel about that. 

Julian Bond spoke to us today. Prolific. 

Everything just feels like a scrambled mass in my head. Reminds me of what Bond said today "America scrambled is 'I am race'" I'm overloading myself with information and race relations and the like. All I can do is talk through it. So as I leave Selma, Selma has left me feeling weary. 

"The struggle continues..."