I am continuing my tradition of staying away from the television, unless I have control of what is being shown. I read the texts, the tweets, and the posts as they came across my media-feeds all the while I created syllabi, attended meetings, wrote a grant, and answered emails. I promised myself, after a walk, I would read Amanda Gorman's inaugural poem, "The Hill We Climb," that she read yesterday at the 2021 inauguration of a United States President. As I watched it on YouTube, then found the text in its entirety, I had to lay it out in the rhythm I hear in my head.
I recognize beautiful when I see beautiful. I recognize teachable, when I see teachable. I recognize hope, when I see hope. And I am forever thankful to Don Tate who quickly inked this portrait of Amanda Gorman (last night he gave me permission to share it - all of us in the literacy community should acknowledge and celebrate such wonderful awesomeness. I hope young artists everywhere were inspired to create art today, too). I've been telling CWP teachers, don't "tie this poem to a chair, forcing a confession out of it" in the ways poet Billy Collins warns in "Introduction to Poetry." Today, I told them, just let the gift be the gift and let kids make from it what they will.
For other poems written for inaugurations, go here: Literary Hub (Gosh, I love the Internet and the fact that organizations have been collecting and curating knowledge for us all and loading digitally for days like today).
I'm sharing Amanda Gorman's inaugural poem, "The Hill We Climb," as a way to continue my 14th year of daily, blogging and reflection. Because she mentors us all with with her thinking, I want it to marinate and beautify this space. I typed it in the ways it flowed across the pages of my head. I would love to see the choices, however, she made with her spacing.
When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.
We braved the belly of the beast.
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,
and the norms and notions of what “just” is
isn’t always justice.
And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation
that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time
where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves
and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president,
only to find herself reciting for one.
And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine,
but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us,
but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat,
but because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree,
and no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time,
then victory won’t lie in the blade,
but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.
It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it.
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed,
it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith we trust, for while we have our eyes on the
future …. history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.
But within it we found the power to author a new chapter,
to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert,
how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be:
a country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation,
become the future.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain.
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the West.
We will rise from the windswept Northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked South.
We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.
And every known nook of our nation
and every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful,
will emerge battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame
and unafraid.
The new dawn balloons as we free it.
For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.
I will be a better educator, a better human being, and a better man as a result of listening to this poem over and over again. In the tradition of Walt Whitman, Maya Angelou, and so many others....still it rises and rises and rises, only to make the song that much more spectacular.
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