Written by Reverend Vivian Brown-Touissaint
This morning the song My Worship Is For Real (Bishop Larry Trotter) began playing. I sang along, loudly and out of tune on the drive to the church:
“You don’t know my story,
All the things that I’ve been through;
You can’t feel my pain,
What I had to go through to get here,
You’ll never understand my praise,
Don’t try to figure it out;
Because my worship is for real .
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.”
The reality of that line seemed to just touch something deep in me.
“I’ve been through to much not to worship Him. “I sang. And suddenly a memory from childhood flooded in.
I don’t know how old I was, I was probably in middle school. I know I wasn’t in high school yet. A memory I’d buried. Buried because I knew that to remember it, to talk about it was unbearable. It was unbearable because it happened because we were Black and poor.
I often think of Mr. Owens. How he loved me. How I loved him because I knew he loved me. His love for me was so great that although he knew I had to be punished when I got into trouble, he could never be present while I was being punished. Whether it was being fussed at or getting a spanking, when I got into trouble, he’d put on his hat and go for a walk or sometimes just out on the front porch. (Those were the days when men wore hats). Afterward he’d tell me how important it was that I do right, as he held me on his lap. Or took me for a treat. (Yes, I was spoiled. Don’t be jealous).
But this morning I recalled his death. Today I remembered the part of story that was the “too much I’ve been through.”
I discovered Mr. Owens was sick and told my mother. She called an ambulance. The hospital was in the neighboring town. This was when the ambulances operated out of the hospital. My mother helped him get dressed and to get to the sofa and we waited for the ambulance. We waited and we waited.
I saw Mr. Owens slump on the sofa and I knew he was dead. My mother didn’t say anything as she sought to protect me from the reality. I didn’t say anything because I knew I wasn’t supposed to know that he’d died.
We didn’t have a car and I have a vague memory of how it happened. A neighbor, Ms. Gussie was contacted. Ms. Gussie had a station wagon and she came to take him to the hospital. Somehow, they got him loaded in the back of the station wagon and she drove him to the hospital.
The ambulance didn’t come. They said they were sending an ambulance and it never came. I don’t know if the outcome would have made any difference in the outcome. But I wouldn’t have watched him die.
The ambulance didn’t come. It didn’t come for the old Black man who loved me so much, that it broke his heart to see me hurt.
The ambulance didn’t come for the old Black man who walked to meet me after school to carry my books, because he felt the books were too heavy.
The ambulance didn’t come for the old Black man who peeled potatoes and cooked me French fries for an after school snack when I got too old for him to meet me and carry my books.
Even then, I knew they didn’t come because we were Black and we didn’t matter, our lives didn’t matter. What’s one more dead Black man?
It didn’t matter that I watched him take his last breath and my mother pretended he was still alive to protect me and I pretended he was still alive to protect her.
I have a vague memory of overhearing my mother say that the ambulance got another call when she returned home and told us he was dead.
But we’d called first, why didn’t they come to us first?
But it was Mr. Owens the man who’d been the grandfather I never had.
They got another call, but it was Mr. Owens, the man who I watched read his Bible when he could barely stay awake after hauling wood all day.
They got another call, but it was Mr. Owens who modeled what it meant to love your neighbor as yourself. He let strangers charge things to his store account with no expectation he’d be repaid.
The ambulance never came, we waited, but it never came. We pretended everything was ok because the truth was too difficult to admit.
The ambulance never came for the old Black man. I held on to the love, but I buried the experience.
How does a young Black girl of maybe 11 or 12 (maybe 1974 or so) deal with the pain that the old Black man whom she loved died on the sofa as she watched because the ambulance never came. It never came because we were Black.
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.
I’ve been through too much for people to tell me that “All lives matter” when saying this discounts my experience and the experiences of many other Black people. I’ve been through too much for people to say I don’t see color, for not to see color is to not see me.
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.
I’ve been through too much for people to tell me how I and other Black people should respond to racist treatment. I’ve been through too much for people to tell me how I should feel.
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.
I’ve been through too much to hear the “if they just did what the police said it wouldn’t have happened.” I’ve been through too much, I’ve seen too much, I’ve heard too much. I’ve experienced too much.
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.
The ambulance never came for that old Black man who read the Bible to me and patiently let me “read” the Bible to him when I didn’t know how to read. I’ve been through too much to let anyone explain what is and isn’t racist.
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.
I’ve been through too much to be moved by your tears when called out for your behavior. I’ve held my tears, I’ve followed the “never let them see you sweat.” I’ve worked twice as hard to be considered merely competent.
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.
I’ve given up too much of who I am in hopes of being seen as good enough. I’ve been through too much only to discover that it has had little affect and effect on the way Black people are viewed as a whole. I simply became one of the “good Black people.” I’ve been through too much I’ve simply been through too much!
“You don’t know my story,
All the things that I’ve been through;
You can’t feel my pain,
What I had to go through to get here,
You’ll never understand my praise,
Don’t try to figure it out;
Because my worship is for real .
I’ve been through too much not to worship Him.”