‘Twas The Night Before Christmas … at Trump Tower
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the land,
Not a leader was stirring, no promises planned.
The stocks were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that dividends soon would be there.
Our leader was nestled all snug in his bed,
No vision of poor people danced in his head.
And profits were high, his income so sweet,
Had just settled down for many more tweets.
When out in the streets, there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from euphoria to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, expecting more cash.
The moon on the breast of the new-voters’ glow,
Gave the luster of loyalty to subjects below.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, full of people in fear.
With a little old lady, who smelled like rubble,
He knew in a moment it must be trouble.
More rapid than eagles her patriots came,
And she whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now! Poverty, now! Homeless, now! Blacks, and Whites,
On, Muslims! On, Mexicans! On, Syrians and dikes!
To the top of the tower, to the top of the wall,
We’ve got nothing to lose, nothing at all!”
As food stamps that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the condo-top the poor people flew,
With the sleigh full of hope, and anxiety too.
And then in a tweeting, he got from the tower,
Their angst and fear of facing his power.
As the leader drew in, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the bag lady came with a bound.
She was dressed all in rags, from to her feet to her neck,
And her clothes were all shreds from leader’s neglect.
A bundle of bills she had flung on her back,
And she looked like a peddler just opening her pack.
Her eyes–how they squinted, like coals after fire,
Her cheeks were so hollow, her face frowned in ire.
Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And her yellow teeth were like ‘don’t-eat’ snow.
The stump of a joint, she held loose in her teeth,
And the smoke it encircled her head like a wreath.
She had a thin face, and from the privation,
It cracked when she smiled, probably starvation.
She was angry and angst, a wronged old elf,
But the leader he laughed, in spite of himself!
A wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Soon gave him to know he had something to dread.
She went straight to her work, and ignored all her ills,
And burned all the stocks, and left all her bills.
And leaving her pack – what’s in it who knows?
Then giving a finger, up the chimney she rose!
She sprang to her sleigh, with her team still believin’,
And away they all flew, just trying to get even.
And he heard her exclaim, ‘ere she drove out of sight,
Happy greed to ‘The Donald,’ and to all a good-night!
Merry, Merry to all!
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My personal history is the stuff they write books about. And that's what I am doing. The working title, "Chains of My Father: Marry White."
"The ghostly image of the tragic mulatto trapped between two worlds." - Barack Obama
This perspicacious line from the Prologue of Barack Obama's "Dream from My Father" wrenched my aspiration into action. I started writing, furiously. Unlike Obama's perspective, my pain had been for the opposite reason: I was not seen by whites as a "tragic mulatto," rather I lived every day of my childhood hoping whites were not "searching my eyes for some telltale sign" that I WAS mulatto. This is my story.
It's historical fiction because I cannot find enough records to substantiate all facets of the story. I've combed the genealogy, traveled to my father and grandmothers' birthplace, walked the graveyards, searched the churches and ... well, all the facts aren't there. I have written three books based on the genealogy of other families but my ancestors emerged from a journey that left too few records – slavery.
My paternal, great grandmother was a "freed slave." My grandmother, Amelia, was born to a mixed race slave named Mary (we do not know her last name) and a white, French plantation owner, the Count de Poullain, in Grenada, West Indies. Amelia was raised in the "Big House" and in adulthood, in an attempt to escape her black heritage disowned her mother, telling her, "Get out and never come back." Amelia, as a mother of twelve children, enshrined into the family commandments, "Marry white." Many did, including my father. My mother was a lovely, white, Anglo-Saxon protestant born in England. They met in Canada where my dad studied and became a doctor.
It has taken five generations for the descendants of Mary to free themselves from the stigma of their black heritage but today my children embrace it. Unfortunately, the past 250 years have been a wasteland of bigotry, racism and bullying. But, on closer look, we see not only the brutality, fear, violence, and murder but also the self-respect, dignity, love, kindness, perseverance and indomitable spirit.
As of the spring of 2025, the depth of historic perspective and the sweeping inspiration of oppressed people has created a two-volume duology of which I have only arrived at the middle of the 19th century. 1840 is the year my great grandfather was born, the beginning of Volume II, and he's pushing me to make sure our story is published by the summer of 2026.
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