August 1963 Poem by Jeffrey Tedford

My mother, twitching, cannot sit still. She reassures herself there's not one dish left to wash./ Within moments, the poor people milling about the monuments, 'aliens' in our nation's capitol will begin/Their protest./ 'What do they want? ' mother rasps in her scotch and whisky-drenched voice./'A handout', my grandfather snaps./'A free lunch' responds my depression era grandmother/ 'Watermelon' pipes up Aunt Mildred, setting off a nervous titter around the table./ I alone, not seeing what the joke's about, /Neither snort or laugh./ I'm as grave/As a bright nine year old can be, /Determined to unravel the dread knot of adult behavior./My grandfather labors tirelessly for The Salvation Army, Shriners, Exchange Club, vestry of the Upper Alton Presbyterian Church./ He was a model 'Book of James' Christian/ When he passed the church is jammed with mourners of all stripes/What I know about practicing Christianity in the 20th Century Midwest/ I learn from Popo./ 'Communists', he hisses./'Hoover's got a file THIS THICK on the Reverend King.'/ Years later, I'm told of his 1920s Klan membership by my mother/ And my stomach knots and twists with nausea, betrayal.What do words like 'Honor' mean in that context? /Against such a background./My gentle grandmother, reared in Arkansas, tittered nervously and blushed/ At brother Earl's 'coon ' jokes./ I loved Earl, too, but I didn't encourage him at the risk of appearing ill-humored/ A small price to pay for conscience./ The black children I knew were often poor, sometimes under-educated or underfed/ But neither stupid or morally defective compared to the rest of us./ The sight and sound of Dr. King's 'I have a dream' speech/Looking out over the sheaves of my new neighbors' faces/ Moved me more than preachers, principals, police or Senators like Everett Dirksen./ 'I have a dream' sailed and alighted straight 'round my nine year old heart./ I would never be perfect but I'd never be the same.