That Sunday morning Mom cried …

Raymond Nat Turner, BAR poet-in-residence

20 May 2026

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Mourners in New York City watching as the funeral procession for Malcolm X arrives at Faith Temple in New York.

I.
I awakened early that Sunday morning. Seized time for
talking, that Sunday morning. Time for connecting.
Time for catching up before breakfast-bound siblings and
Dad woke wanting her attention … that Sunday morning

That Sunday morning her mind was on pots and pans
and she schooled me on shucking peas. Put me to work
prepping Sunday’s dinner, that Sunday morning.
My hands and mouth moved in sync that Sunday morning

That Sunday morning I stretched out. Questioned and
voiced thoughts. Tested theories, that Sunday morning.
Caught up, that Sunday morning. Carved time out of
pea hulls and TV talk shows … that Sunday morning

II.
NEWS flash! NEWS bulletin! Black Nationalist leader Malcolm X shot —
killed in New York, that Sunday morning. Mom’s primal shriek rocked
my world, that Sunday morning. Saline tears never stained her dark chocolate
cheeks — until … that Sunday morning

Panicked that Sunday morning, I vomited, “He preached hate!”
Regurgitated school district indoctrination, that Sunday morning.
Belched brain-washed bile Los Angeles Times teen digest, instead
of slathering Mom with sympathy, that Sunday morning

Should’ve swept her up in sympathy that Sunday morning. Day her friend died.
Friend she loved and respected. Friend she shared strong coffee demitasses with
when he came west fishing for men. Friend she teased about ‘cold feet,’ and
odd socks. Grass root messenger. Ballot or bullet friend, Black as his vinyl

III.
Year later, since that Sunday morning. Mom and I spoke Malcolm-ease. His words
deepened, broadened our bond. “Don’t stop suffering; just suffer peacefully. Long
as you’re south of the Canadian border you’re south: up south, out south,
down south.”
“You been had. You been took. Naw, you need a revolution! They wouldn’t even
let Baldwin speak ‘cause they know he’s liable to say anything. Told those Negroes
what signs to carry. What songs to sing. And to be out of town by sundown. Why,
that’s a Negro who’s out of his mind!”

That Sunday morning, South Los Angeles slumbered swollen with
resistance. Pregnant with leaping orange flames longing to explode
in “Burn, baby, burn!” shouts. That Sunday morning, City of Angels
slept six months from bloody breech birth

Panthers, dancers, poets, painters, BSUs spurted from blackened
bullet wounds —
crescendoing like Civil Rights exploding into ringing Black Power,
ringing in ears of those yet born …

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet, BAR's Poet-in-Residence, and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC. You can vote for his work at GoFundMe and PayPal.

Malcolm X

Black Liberation

resistance

black power

civil rights

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