Tonight, I get to meet the daughter of a hero of mine, and give her the poem I wrote for her much beloved, respected, admired - worshipped - mother. I wrote this poem years ago, and I've shared it many times, but never with the family to whom it truly belongs. Tonight, I hope my words reach the heart of Nina Simone through her daughter Lisa, and that she understands that, before her mother left us, there were people in this town who were unbelievably proud to be from, or living in the same place where her mother was raised, people who understand what it's like to feel as if you don't belong, people who have something to say, and look to Nina for the inspiration to be able to find our voices.
I belong here now, and so does Nina. I wish we had all been able to give each other a chance, before it was to late for her to recieve the heroes' welcome-home that she deserved, and to give and recieve the forgiveness that we all deserve. But through her family, and through the people of Tryon - especially our Dr. Crys, another beloved, talented native - not giving up, doing what it takes to build the bridge, we have come to be able to celebrate and share her legacy, and our pride in Tryon's most auspicious child, Eunice Waymon, nee Nina Simone.

Here's this poem, yet again, reposted from my blog on Tuesday, May 4, 2004

Nina

You sing to me
when the hurt is so deep
that nothing else can touch it.
Your voice is rough and strong,
like my fathers hand resting on my back,
weighted heavy with long years
of understanding ache.

You know the burdens
of love and salvation,
the sound of grief
at the bottom of a glass,
and you talk to me, soul sister,
any time I need to hear.

Sundays,
I walk past the place
where you slept and dreamed
of other lives, of freedom.
I imagine that you came this way,
swinging your arms,
singing softly to the graveyard.

Did you sit here
on your steps and cry so loud
that all the Mill Village
dogs would howl,
but not another human could hear you?
I hear it, and I howl too.

Now, all the wealthy white men –
actors, poets and politicians –
have their names plastered
on every other building.
Not one of them knows me,
or you, or cares.
Civic pride has a limit, I suppose.

I know you won’t come home –
I can’t blame you.
I came here to get away from home.
But your voice still rings down Markham,
across Scriven creek valley,
and gives me courage to face another day here.

My civic pride says:
“She got out.
Will I ever?”
It also says:
”Of all the things I’ve found here,
I am most proud of you and I.

-sll 1999

by the way, i can't tell you what a joy it is to live in a place where you are able to wake to the sound of the river on a gorgeous spring morning, fix breakfast and coffee for self and friends and then pack folks up to go hear Lisa Simone Kelley sing to children for free. blessed be!!!
Crys, and everyone who has been a part of this amazing project, thank you so much for all you have done. Thank you for letting me help a little. And for letting  me hold the power in my little hand. <3