For Trayvon Martin: The Last Supper Club

The Last Supper Club

Welcome to the last supper club

where we welcome brother Trayvon to the Lord’s table….

where last meals go to dream of freedom…

the first member was admitted on the coast of Ghana

where he swallowed sand to remind him of home

as he was dragged to the Lord’s Mercy

bound for Jamaica;

then what of the man

whose last meal from Angola to Brazil

was his own tongue

or the girl who was force fed yams swimming with weevils

and choked on her way from Igboland to Virginia;

“eat negar eat….”

last suppers—-a black pig roasted over wood in Haiti; before a bayonet from Napoleon’s guard

gassed Haitians forgotten with sugarcane in their teeth…

a handful of rice down in South Carolina before the Stono Rebellion commenced; and his head was displayed on the way to Charleston

“make him a lesson for the rest…”

oysters in the belly of Denby shot dead on the Eastern Shore of Maryland

dying of hunger, heartache and murder

she swallowed cotton root tea after being raped by her Master,

she was a teacher after Reconstruction—lynched in Mississippi–

a bellyful of corn muffins and country ham….

butterbeans and buttermilk to the tune of 5,000 men women and children

a seafood muddle in Wilmington,

hotwater cornbread in Tulsa

Sunday greens in Red Summer

peppermints and soda water in the belly of Emmett Tilll

Mississippi mud in a cotton gin fan,

“gotta teach that boy a lesson,”

Violet Liuzzo, Shwerner, Cheney, Goodman

foccacia and matzo, poundcake and honey cake

a pig’s foot in Watts

Memphis barbecue, King is shot….

rice and peas in the gullet of children in London’s Brixton,

Sus-Laws and the National Front say “There’s No Black in the Union Jack,”

a piece of pizza in Bensonhurst “what’s that moli doing…….”

rice and beans and ground nut stew leaking from bullet holes

in Harlem,

the empty stomach of Troy Davis down in Georgia

all of you, at the Lord’s last supper club

and now a stomach laced with skittles

a last taste of 17 year old sweetness

for a boy hunted down

on the streets of Sanford

sitting himself in sorrow

next to the ancestors

the freedom fighters

the justice seekers

all of them, all of us, all of us

hungry

hungry

hungry

for peace.

—-Rest In Peace, Trayvon, it could have been any of us.

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About michaelwtwitty

I am a Judaics teacher and Culinary Historian focusing on the foodways of Africa, enslaved African Americans, African America and the African and Jewish diasporas.
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3 Responses to For Trayvon Martin: The Last Supper Club

  1. Ruchikala says:

    There is nowhere to grieve in this America that I am told is very different and yet very much the same.

  2. Karen says:

    Thank you for your continued eloquence to unfolding events in America.

  3. Susan S says:

    Not a bit of difference between 1921 and 2012, save the ammo and the guns.

    How on earth do I open the eyes of my white sisters and brothers to the privilege granted by the color of their skin? Nothing’s going to change before that happens. Until we get over the freedom we’ve granted ourselves through our lightness, and recognize that WE did this, WE shaped the situation in our image and exploited faith, technology, disease, and riches to do so, then no matter what happens, it’s always going to be hotwater cornbread in Tulsa, sand in Ghana, and Skittles in Florida.

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