Eldridge Cleaver – Soul on Ice
Queen-Mother-Daughter of Africa
Sister of My Soul
Black Bride of My Passion
My Eternal Love
I greet you, my Queen, not in the obsequious whine of a cringing Slave to which you have become accustomed, neither do I greet you in the new voice, the unctuous supplications of the sleek Black Bourgeoisie, nor the bullying bellow of the rude Free Slave—but in my own voice do I greet you, the voice of the Black Man.
And although I greet you anew, my greeting is not new, but as old as the Sun, Moon, and Stars. And rather than mark a new beginning, my greetings signifies only my Return.
I have returned from the dead. I speak to you in the Here And Now. I was dead for four hundred years. For four hundred years you have been a woman alone, bereft of her man, a manless woman. For four hundred years I was neither your man nor my own man. The white man stood between us, over us, around us. The white man was your man and my man. Do not pass lightly over this truth, my Queen, for even the fact of it has burned into the marrow of our bones and diluted our Blood, we must bring it to the surface of the mind, into the realm of knowing, glue our gaze upon it and stare at it as at a coiled serpent in a baby’s playpen or the fresh flowers on a mother’s grave. It is to be pondered and realized in the heart, for the heel of the white man’s boot is our point of departure, our point of Resolve and Return—the bloodstained pivot of our future. (but I would ask you to recall, that before we could come up from slavery, we had to be pulled down from our throne.)
Across the naked abyss of negated masculinity, of four hundred years minus my Balls, we face each other today, My Queen. I feel a deep, terrifying hurt, the pain of humiliation of the vanquished warrior. The shame of the fleet-footed sprinter who stumbles at the start of the race. I feel unjustified. I can’t bear to look into your eyes. Don’t you know (surely you must have noticed by now) that for four hundred years I have been unable to look squarely into your eyes? I tremble inside each time you look at me. I can feel . . . in the ray of your eye, from a deep hiding place, a long-kept secret you harbor.
That is the unadorned truth. Not that I would have felt justified, under the circumstances, in taking such liberties with you, but I want you to know that I feared to look into your eyes because I knew I would find reflected there a merciless Indictment of my impotence and a compelling challenge to redeem my conquered manhood.
My Queen, it is hard for me to tell you what is in my heart for you today—what is in the heart of all my black brothers for you and all your black sisters—and I fear I will fail unless you reach out to me, tune in on me with the antenna of your love, the sacred love in the ultimate degree which you were unable to give to me because I, being dead, was unworthy to receive it; that perfect, radical love of black on which our Fathers thrived. Let me drink from the river of your love as its source, let the lines of force of your love seize my soul by its core and heal the wound of my Castration, let my convex exile end its haunted odyssey in your concave essence which receives that it may give. Flower of Africa, it is only through the liberating power of your re-love that my manhood can be redeemed. For it is in your eyes, before you, that my need is to be justified, Only, only, only you and only you can condemn or set me free.
Be convinced , sable sister, that the past is no forbidden vista upon which we dare not look, out of a phantom fear of being, as the wife of Lot, turned into pillars of salt. Rather the past is an omniscient mirror: we gaze and see reflected there ourselves and each other—what we used to be, what we are today, how we got this way, and what we are becoming. To decline to look into the Mirror of Then, my heart, is to refuse to view the face of Now.
I have died the ninth death of the cat, have seen Satan face to face and turned my back on God, have dined in the Swine’s Trough, and descended to the uttermost echelon of the pit, have entered the Den and seized my Balls from the teeth of a roaring lion
Black Beauty, in impotent silence I listened, as if to a symphony of sorrows, to your screams for help, anguished pleas of terror that echo still throughout the Universe and through the mind, a million scattered screams across the painful years that merged into a single sound of pain to haunt and bleed the soul, a white-hot sound to char the brain and blow the fuse of thought, a sound of fangs and teeth sharp to eat the heart, a sound of moving fire, a sound of frozen heat, a sound of licking flames, a fiery-fiery sound, a sound of fire to burn the steel out of my Balls, a sound of Blue fire, a Bluesy sound, the sound of dying, the sound of my woman in pain, the sound of my woman’s pain, THE SOUND OF MY WOMAN CALLING ME, ME, I HEARD HER CALL FOR HELP, I HEARD THAT MOURNFUL SOUND BUT HUNG MY HEAD AND FAILED TO HEED IT, I HEARD MY WOMAN’S CRY, I HEARD MY WOMAN’S SCREAM, I HEARD MY WOMAN BEG THE BEAST FOR MERCY, I HEARD HER BEG FOR ME, I HEARD MY WOMAN BEG THE BEAST FOR MERCY FOR ME, I HEARD MY WOMAN DIE, I HEARD THE SOUND OF HER DEATH AS SHE SCREAMED FOR ME TO COME TO HER AS SHE LAY IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE BEAST, I CAN STILL HEAR HER, I CAN STILL HEAR HER, THE SOUND OF YOUR SCREAMS THAT ECHO WITHIN ME, A SNAPPING SOUND, A BREAKING SOUND, A SOUND THAT SOUNDED FINAL, THE LAST SOUND, THE ULTIMATE SOUND, THE SOUND OF DEATH, ME, I HEARD, I HEAR IT EVERY DAY, I HEAR HER NOW . . .
I HEAR YOU NOW . . . I HEAR YOU. . . .I heard you then . . . your scream came like a searing bolt of lighting that blazed a white streak down my black back. In a cowardly stupor, with a palpitating heart and quivering knees, I watched the Slaver’s lash of death slash through the opposing air and bite with teeth of fire into your delicate flesh, the black and tender flesh of Afrikan Motherhood, forcing the startled Life untimely from your torn and outraged womb that incubated Ethiopia and populated Nubia and gave forth Pharaohs unto Egypt, the womb that painted the Congo black and motherland Zulu, the womb of Mero, the womb of Ghana, the womb that felt the might of Chaka before he saw the Sun, the Holy Womb, the womb that knew the future form of Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, the womb of Mau Mau, the womb of the blacks, the womb that nurtured Toussaint L’Ouverture, that warmed Nat Turner, and Gabriel Prosser, and Denmark Vesey, the black womb that surrendered up in tears that nameless and endless chain of Africa’s Cream, the Black Cream of the Earth, that nameless and endless black chain they sank in heavy groans into oblivion in the great abyss, the womb that received and nourished and held firm the seed and gave back Sojourner Truth, and Sister Tubman, and Rosa Parks, and Bird, and Richard Wright, and your other works of art who wore and wear such names as Marcus Garvey and DuBois and Kwame Nkrumah and Paul Robeson and Malcolm X and Robert Williams, and the one you bore in pain and called Elijah Muhammad, but most of all that nameless one they tore out of your womb in a flood of murdered Blood that splashed upon and seeped into the mud. And Patrice Lumumba, and Emmett Till, and Mack Parker.
O, My Soul I become a sniveling craven, a funky punk, a vile, groveling bootlicker, with my will to oppose petrified by a cosmic fear of the Slavemaster. Instead of inciting the Slaves to rebellion with eloquent oratory, I soothed their hurt and eloquently sang the Blues Instead of hurling my life with contempt into the face of my Tormentor, I shed your precious blood When Nat Turner sought to free me for my Fear, my Fear delivered him up unto the butcher —a martyred monument to my Emasculation. My spirit was unwilling and my flesh was weak.
Ah, eternal ignominy I, the Black Eunuch, divested of my Balls, walked the earth with my mind locked in Cold Storage. I would kill a black man or woman quicker than I’d smash a fly, while for the white man I would pick a thousand pounds of cotton a day. What profit is there in the blind, frenzied efforts of the (Guilty) Black Eunuchs (Justifies) who hide their wounds and scorn the truth to mitigate their culpability through the pallid sophistry of postulating a Universal Democracy of Cowards, pointing out that in history no one can hide, that if not at one time then surely at another the iron heel of the Conqueror has ground into the mud the Balls of Everyman? Memories of yesterday will not assuage the torrents of blood that flow today from my crotch. Yes, History could pass for a scarlet text, its jot and title graven red in human blood. More armies than shown in the books have planted flags on foreign soil leaving Castration in their wake. But no Slave should die a natural death. There is a point where Caution ends and Cowardice begins. Give me a bullet through the brain from the gun of the beleaguered oppressor on the night of siege. Why is there dancing and singing in the Slave Quarters? A Slave who dies of natural causes cannot balance two dead flies in the Scales of Eternity. Such a one deserves rather to be pitied than mourned.
Black woman, without asking how, just say that we survived our forced march and travail through the Valley of Slavery, Suffering, and Death—there, that Valley beneath us hidden by that drifting mist. Ah, what sights and sounds and pain lie beneath that mist And we had thought that our hard climb out of that cruel valley led to some cool, green and peaceful, sunlit place—but it’s all jungle here, a wild and savage wilderness that’s overrun with ruins.
But put on your crown, my Queen, and we will build a New City on these ruins.