Real Voices From the Front
Hamlet, North Carolina
December 8, 1996
What's shaking Dawn,
Here, it's definitely not Hamlet. I've been thinking about our conversation, and I don't think I would make a good subject for a writing project. I'm boring, take too many things for granted, and live in a place where running a stoplight is the thrill of the week. I don't mean to trash the place where I made my humble entry into the world, but putting that and me on paper in writing would require a creativity that I don't possess. So, how are things with you and your family? Good I hope, and happy, very happy. I've talked to several people this week, and none of them are very happy. If confronted with that assessment, these same people would deny it. It comes out in different ways. Happiness, an elusive place for so many people. Here in the stronghold of the Bible-belt, we're taught that just to be able to get up in the morning clothe in our right minds and able to put one foot in front of the other is a blessing, and I believe that, but I also believe that the Creator wants us to be happy. I believe the people I talked to don't know that. So they go about their lives looking for things or someone to fill that place, but when they get these things or that someone, it still feels empty. It's a never-ending quest, and the toil it takes on their lives is maddening. Forgive me, I'm rambling. It was so good to hear your voice on the phone, and talk to you. It's been a long time. Did you forget the package? I don't remember getting anything from you when you said you had sent the package. My memory is really bad. I forget a lot of times. Please send it to me, whatever you have. I would love to read it. I love to write Dawn, but I feel like my writing is so amateurish, and unpolished. It's a comfort to me, but I wouldn't want to push it on others. When one writes, sometimes it is a baring of the soul, and it always leaves one open to hurt and humiliation. I write letters to friends, and tell them how I feel and hope they will be kind. I don't consider myself as a good writer, just someone that gets filled up and writing is the release. I'm sending you a poem that I wrote during the time Toni was driving me crazy. It's nothing special. I thought you might like to read it. Let me hear from you, and take good care of yourself. You're in my prayers, and that doesn't mean I think there's something wrong with you (smile).
Sincerely yours,
Cassandra
The lack of it can be seen near and far.
It has been the catalyst for even war.
It cannot be bought for a price,
though it has been used to cover many a vice,
and can be as elusive as the throwing of dice.
It has the power to create such beautiful feelings,
many a soul has felt its healing.
It is often uttered as a lie;
however, to be without it, some would rather die.
It is the greatest gift mankind can receive,
but even harder for him to perceive.
Cassandra Smith Friday, September 2, 1996
Hamlet, North Carolina
December 19, 1996
Dear Dawn,
Every time I talk to you on the phone, or get one of those little cards where you eventually end up writing a letter instead of a note, it always picks me up and makes me feel better. You should sell that stuff girl, you'd make a fortune (smile). I will try to write something for you, and all I ask is that you be kind. This hasn't been a good two or three weeks for me because of an incident that happened in Charlotte, you may have heard about it. A young African-American man was shot by a White police officer five times, and the young man was unarmed. When things like that happen, I don't know how others respond, but it bothers me real bad. I feel there should be some response, but I don't know how much good it will do to take to the streets even in peaceful resistance. I feel there should be some response. I don't have anywhere to go with my feelings. I can't do anything. I feel like a prisoner. I feel like nothing. There is so much rage and anger, but you can't give in to those feelings. I feel like a mad dog, and my anger and rage is like gasoline waiting for the haphazardly thrown match. It is so frustrating. The feeling of hopelessness is like a rope around my neck, killing any life, and I am swinging in the breeze. Dawn, it is maddening. It is almost unbearable. It has to be like dying a painful death, you pray for the end. It is like a bottomless pit, with no hope of ever seeing light. Where do you go, and what do you do? How long can you pretend? I cannot rationalize one thing in this life to justify why I shouldn't feel the way I do. I want to scream, kick, and holler, the outrage I feel. When will I, and all the Black folks in this country, become human beings? Who will decide when we can be treated like humans, instead of menacing, angry, beast? How long must I wear the shackles of hate and contempt before I can step out in the sunshine and feel its warmth, and light? Forgive me, I'm rambling again. It's just that it makes me so sad, and it's like a physical pain that will not go away. Please have a wonderful Christmas, and tell your family hello for me, and I do wish you the very best of everything in the New Year. No comment on the poem? Where's the stuff you're suppose to be sending me? My son says I ask too many questions, and I probably do, but send the stuff you want me to read. Again, Merry Christmas. Toni says hello.
Until the next time,
Cassandra
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