Painted Over
A Letter From Iowan Claudine A. Cheatem
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When I found out that my nephew's mural of John Lewis had been painted over, I felt a little painted over myself. It brought me a sense of pride every time I rode past there and looked at it again. I would often point it out to someone that was driving with me to let them know … my nephew painted that. Now it is just a gray wall. As if he was never there. I knew that the only thing that would soothe what I was feeling would be for me to write about it.
Here is that attempt.
PAINTED OVER
It’s been done before. The attempt to erase our efforts.
The attempt to eradicate our story. The attempt to take the canvas of our history and paint over it.
It was attempted during the Tulsa Riots.
Oh, we could go on and on about them race riots, but the funny thing about it is that we’re still here.
Our roots run deep so deep you gone come up with a heap of dirt from that ditch you been digging trying to uproot us.
It’s the constant process of elimination, your attempts at humiliation and your calculated devaluation that will leave you in the ditch.
So, you can rest assured that, though a rock was thrown and your hand has been hidden. We clearly see your agenda.
We recognize the dysfunction in your actions and all the years you’ve put in trying to elevate a disproven view.
There is no supremacy. And if there was, it would not be you.
It’s too late to blot out our history. We now know that it’s not really been a hidden mystery. You see we’ve been on display throughout history.
The moxie of our spirit, the herbal healing of our body, the soles of our souls being retread so that we can walk a little further.
The callous on our feet equips us as we walk to our own beat. We can hear our rhythm and no need to explain it. It rises up from within. You can’t buy it and even if you stand real close, it won’t rub off on you.
It's an interconnection. We got it from our Momma. She got it from her Momma. And her Momma. And her Momma. And she got it from Eve.
It’s in the unspoken answer when we ask each other with just a slight lift of the head.
What's up?
We already know.
Ain't nothing but a chicken wing on a string. We over here styling and profiling. Trying to keep it real and learn this new line dance. Keeping our head above water, making a way when we can. Trying to love the Lord and drink more water. All while just trying to survive another day and the attempts of being painted over.
Claudine A. Cheatem
Des Moines, Iowa
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Your poem about the destruction of your nephew's art is onomatopoeia. Your poem is the sound of the story of rising.
An article published in the newspaper said the building mural needed to be painted over in anticipation of it likely going up for sale. Someone, somewhere, somehow thought this beautiful art piece would be a deterrent to selling the building?? This is scandalous, racist desecration of a one of a kind tribute to a legendary human hero. What could possibly justify such a disgraceful act? Nothing.
I’m ashamed. As a citizen, as a white man, as a resident of this city where nothing appears to evoke outrage or even overt public disapproval over this travesty. SHAME ON ALL OF US