Day of the African Child

This weekend, I went with Malcolm, my colleague and twenty something refugee children to the Day of the African child. Malcolm had a great time and fit right in with the rest of the crowd. At the end of the day some of the children sang old slave songs that they learned at home before coming to America, and Malcolm stood up and danced. The other children laughed-and he laughed and I thought about circles and generations. I thought about my people as slaves returning to Africa and teaching songs there to people who did not speak English or understand its meaning who taught it to their children, who lived through war, who came to America and taught it to my African and American son who laughed and sang and danced and loved everyone and who cried and slept when they left and we went home.