Wildflower

Be nobody's darling; Be an outcast. Take the contradictions Of your life And wrap around You like a shawl, To parry stones To keep you warm. Watch the people succumb To madness With ample cheer; Let them look askance at you And you askance reply. Be an outcast; Be pleased to walk alone (Uncool) Or line the crowded River beds With other impetuous Fools.

Make a merry gathering On the bank Where thousands perished For brave hurt words They said.

But be nobody's darling; Be an outcast. Qualified to live Among your dead

Alice Walker

Denver, Colorado, a magnificently beautiful city situated on top of a mountain surrounded by mountains, is where I was born and is where I live now. This Western Gateway to both coasts is the largest city in the Rocky Mountains. We have had two black mayors though only five percent of the population is Black. Our community has always been vibrant and progressive, providing us with a sense of accomplishment in areas other cities our size cannot compare.

My grandparents on both sides were from Texas and Missouri. My mother's father, George Dickerson, met my grandmother, Essie Lee, on a train ride from Dallas. My father's father, Edward Clark, met my grandmother, Anna, on the train as they made their way to Denver from Missouri. Dad's family was a gregarious bunch who loved to have fun. Richard, my father, was the youngest. Albert and Donald Anna, Lucille, Geraldine, Emma, Myrtle, Venita, and Lorraine had adventurous spirits. Their children were like brothers and sisters to me. We relished the times we spent at each other's houses. I especially looked forward to visits because I inherited Dad's sense of humor and would mimic everyone I thought to be funny or weird. We would talk, sing, dance, and eat junk food the entire time. It was great. With them, I could be me. There was an air of stuffiness at my grandmother's home, where we lived after returning from Los Angeles. There was alcoholism, but no one spoke about it. The spirit bottles were in the upper kitchen cabinets when the family got together. Though we had picnics and barbecues, laughter was subtle.

My mother, Georgia, was the youngest girl. Her sisters, Sara, Lois, and Wilma, lived near us. They were my surrogate mothers, and I grew up adoring them. When I was in my late teens, early twenties, I found myself growing further away from them. Aunt Lois and Aunt Sara frowned on my reluctance to attend church. When they saw I left Cal and my visible activism in the Black Panthers, they had little conversation for me. They both had this odd way of looking through you. It was a dreadful feeling. Aunt Wilma was my rock and confidant. She was never judgmental about anything I did or said. She had this lighthearted way of making you feel better on your darkest day. Laughter came easy for me, as it did for most in the Clark family. Also, the way they worked out problems was agreeable to me. Debates were part of agreeing on subjects. Mom's family never discussed anything during the "family meetings ."There would be no debates, only decisions made without any further discussion. Looking back, I realize I was so fortunate to have both influences. The sense of responsibility to give back to my community with a bit of rebellion, protest, and activism are part of my makeup—a Colorado wildflower with a flair for unconventional behavior in a conservative way.