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A Note To Sister Sonia I am thinking of you, elder. I am thinking about the night when you swept into a little chapel in Georgia and brought the Holy Ghost with you. I watched you. I heard your invocation of spirits that are too volatile to be called by name. I listened to the rise and fall of the voice emerging from your body. It burst forth like dew drops at sunrise, and then settled again, real easy, like my mind when mama tells me "It'll be alright." It was your voice that quietly barged into my thoughts, pulling me closer, even when the rhythm of the rainfall outside was just a little bit louder. And now I remember how comfortably your words rested on my spirit. I am wondering if my brothers, lions in waiting, were truly listening when you intro duced them to their ancestors, their legacy, and their destiny. I am recalling the stories of activism, and red-headed demagogues whom you knew on an intimate basis. The tales of men whom you called Malcolm with facility, even while others barked "Yessir Brother Minister," as they choked back their fear and stumbled over their awe. Elder, you made friends with the archetype of resistance, the spirit which my generation silently waits for, just as we wait to act. What other spirits, have you embraced, my elder, as you made your journey to that chapel? I must tell you that some folks are going to be upset with me. They want me to write down very pointedly that the Honors Program and the SGA sponsored an assembly where you spoke to a few folks in Sale Hall Chapel at Morehouse College during our Spring semester. They want me to blah blah blah about what a grand evening it was and how articulate you were, and maybe mention that your new book is on the shelves now. But this is not for them. This is a thank you note addressed to no one but you. It is an expression of gratitude for raising hell even as you re-visited heaven on paper. It is a rememberence of your infectious smile, and your call to arms, and your poetry and prose and wisdom and insight (though I got them all confused with each other). Sister Sonia, this is just a little acknowledgement, while I got space to share it, so that someone else might read, and think, "Oh Yeah, I was there that night . . Maybe as they remember, they will send you affirmation for the inspiration that you gave us that night. But just as there were times when I felt that you were only speaking to ME, well right now it is just me and you. And my thoughts. I am thinking of you elder, as this soft cushioned chair begins to feel terribly uncomfortable. I am thinking of you, Sister Sonia, as I rise up. The Maroon Pace 15 by marc joseph editor-in-chief May 1997