What to do when everything feels broken

"I've got people in me."

So sang the late Abbey Lincoln.

I take that lyric as mantra.

I've got people in me.

Jomama Jones is the person in me
I turn to as a guide.

She's my alter ego.

I've been embodying her
in performance since 1995,

and she comes around when
she has some insight to offer folks.

At this time of radical change

I'm glad to be the vessel
for her message to you.

Jomama Jones: What if I told you

it's going to be alright ...

but what if I told you not yet?

What I told you there are trials ahead

beyond your deepest fears?

What if I told you will you fall ...

down, down down.

But what if I told you
you will surprise yourself?

What I told you will be brave enough?

What if I told you

we won't all make it through?

But what if I told you

that is as it must be?

What if I told you I've seen the future?

Do you like my hands?

They're expressive, yeah?

Now look at your hands --

now go on.

There's so much history their touches,

and marks of the future
sketched on their palms.

Sometimes hands grip tight,

sometimes hands let go.

What if I told you

it's all going to come undone?

Hm.

Ladies and gentlemen

and otherwise described,

I am Jomama Jones.

Some call me a soul-sonic superstar

and I agree.

Even in my past I was from the future.

Let me take you back to girlhood.

Picture this:

it was Planting Day,

which was a holiday I invented

for the Black youth
community group I founded.

I dashed home to put on
my gardening ensemble

when I caught my Uncle Freeman red-handed.

He was standing over my piggy bank
with his hammer raised high.

He was fixing to steal my coins.

And you see,

my Uncle Freeman was a handyman.

He could fix anything --

a broken chair,

a shattered pot --

even bring grandmother's
plants back to life.

He had that magic touch
with broken things ...

and broken people.

He would take me with him on his jobs

and say, "C'mon Jo,

let's go do something to make
this world a better place."

His hands were wide and calloused

and they always reminded me
of displaced tree roots.

As we worked he would talk with folks

about the change he was sure
was just around the corner.

I saw him mend flagging hopes.

He'd leave folks
with their heads held high.

His hands stirred the sunshine.

And now he was about
to break my piggy bank.

I said "step back, man

and show me your hands."

You know the irony was

he used to give me all the old coins
he'd find under the floorboards

while working.

And I put them in the piggy bank

along with the money I earned
through my childhood side hustles.

But by the spring of 1970,

Uncle Freeman had lost his touch,

along with most of his jobs.

He saw a heavy future of civil wrongs
and Black power outages in his palms.

The last straw had come
the previous winter

when they had gunned down Fred Hampton.

Overwhelmed with fear and rage and grief,

Uncle Freeman tried to gain his future.

He gripped too tight,

and he started playing the numbers.

"Well, one of these numbers
is gonna hit, little girl.

You got a quarter for your Uncle Freeman?"

Now some of y'all have that relative.

And I knew right then and there
I had to do something.

I jumped up and I grabbed that hammer

and I brought it crashing down
on that piggy.

And Uncle Freeman started to weep
as I gathered up all the coins.

"We're not buying another
lottery ticket, Uncle Freeman."

"C'mon."

We spent every last cent
at the seed store.

You know, the kids in my gardening group?

They didn't bat an eye when I had
Uncle Freeman get down

and put his hands in the earth again

and start breaking up
that soil for our seeds.

And my little friend Tyisha even came over
and started slapping him on the back

saying, "Cry it out, Uncle Freeman.

Cry it out."

"I can't fix this," he sobbed.

It's an ancient-future truism, that.

He wasn't the first to feel that way
and we wouldn't be the last.

Right now it feels as though everything
is breaking beyond repair.

It is.

But that breaking apart
can be a breaking open,

no matter how violent

and uncertain

and fearsome it seems.

The thing is ...

we can't do it alone.

Uncle Freeman cried so much that day
as we planted our seeds --

he was our very own irrigation system.

"I don't know who I am
anymore, little girl,"

he said to me at sundown.

"Good, Uncle Freeman.

Good.

You're new again,

and that's just how we need you."