Full text of "Drum"
THE DRUM, FALL 1975
Editorial, circulation and advertising
offices located at 426 New Africa House,
University of Massachusetts, Amherst,
Mass. 01002. 1-413-545-0768.
Copyright by Drum, 426 New Africa House
Printing: Gazette Printing Co., Inc., Northampton, Mass.
Articles, Short Stories, poems and other hterary
materials are not necessarily the viewpoints and
idealogies of the DRUM Staff.
Co-Editors Denise Wallace
David R. Thaxton
Fiscal Roy Tiller
Literary Editor Tah Asongwed
Literary Sandy Mclean
Angleo Herbert (Chaka)
Akbar Muhammad Ahmad
Art Editor Pam Friday
Photographers Juan Durruthy
Administrative Secretary Angle Small
Office Staff Patricia Smith
DRUM dedicates this issue to
all of our young, together brothers and sisters.
This is your issue, constructed with your help
and centered around your life.
You are the seeds from which all our Beautiful,
Black tomorrows shall flourish from.
This issue also goes out to a little young,
lady that holds the number one spot in my life.
Table of Contents
3 Dedication Denise Wallace
4 Editorial The Editors
8 Moving on Up: Teachingand Learning Johnetta Bagby
14 The Waiting Room Steve Masse
18 Saved? Bernard Nunully
24 Work from Che-Lumumba School Steven Oritz
26 After School Ellis V. Moss
Wanna take a look at truth?
Wanna see real beauty
Wanna meet innocence at its best?
Wanna say hello to good times, happiness
lollipops, ass beating, funfilled
Saturday mornings, waterfights, alligator
tears, toothless smiles and profound
Say hello to Youth
Do you remember those days of your youth when life
seemed so carefree and so simple? Days when you felt
happy and that no matter what happened or how poor
you were you always managed to have fun.
I remember my childhood days. Days of mayonnaise
sandwiches with no meat and leftovers for weel<s. Days
when all six of us l<ids and Momma and Daddy would pile
up in one big heap, junk, mess of a stationwagon and
take long rides to the beach or catch a drive-in movie. I
remember days when potato chips were 5$ a bag and there
was penny candy and thinking you could buy the whole
world with one dollar.
I remember wearing hand me down clothes and
swearing that I was clean! I remember hot muggy days
down South walking barefoot through puddles left by
summer showers. I remember Saturday night revivals and
Sunday afternoon dinners. Remember Daddy and IVIom-
ma working overtime the week before Christmas just so
us kids could wake up smiling, finding something under
that ole Christmas tree, (I remember being too poor to
even have a Christmas tree).
I remember skipping rope and hooking classes and
running home from nasty little boys, who said nasty little
things and always tried to peep under your dress. I re-
member the countless ass kicking I got for dirtying my
clothes after school or for clowning in Church.
Yes, I remember all those days "when life was slow
and oh so mellow". Then it happened. I became older. I
was growing up, grown up. I recall my grandmother tell-
ing me to take it easy and not try to grow up so fast. Now,
I know what she meant. My funfilled bubble was slowly
fading away getting ready to POP! The days were becom-
ing more complex, more compounded with problems. The
word responsibility and growing up were becoming, had
become synonymous, and I had to realize that all those
happy carefree days of my youth could only linger on as
DRUM dedicates this issue to the children of the
world. Children who know only of the hatred, fears, prej-
udices that we their parents and older acquaintances in-
still in them.
Children whose innocence is too often marred by sick,
irresponsible adults wanting to satisfy their animal instinct
on some "fresh stuff". Children that are forced to grow
up hustling, struggling to survive in concrete hells, weav-
ing through reefer filled hallways, spitting up smack in-
fested shit, while nodding out in the corner on a coke-
Innocence that is being trampled upon in South
Boston and starved to death in West Africa and India. In-
nocence that was blown to bits in Alabama and watches
their parents harrassed and unjustly victimized by a
poor excuse of a higher institute of learning. (I should re-
phrase that, because here one does learn advanced theo-
ries and techniques in racism and keeping people op-
pressed.) U-Mass. Innocence that from now on real-
izes that they have to have a second to second account
for everyday of their lives, so when Just-us confront them,
they can pull out a pad and say "Um — let me see, August
7, 1974 — Oh yeah I was taking a Piss."
Our children are caught up in a technological era.
One in which feelings and behavior patterns will soon be
arrayed on grocery isles. It is up to us to preserve our
future today. Such notions as behavior control and geno-
cidal attacks against our communities must be halted.
We must start today thinking about tomorrow, and our
children are our tomorrow.
The glorification of the Mack, Superfly, Supernigger,
and SuperWhore has to be halted, ceased, terminated.
We have to eliminate the quick hustling, smooth talking
pimp process. We instead must tend our children with care.
A farmer does not just throw seeds into a field and
not properly water and fertilize them. Instead he takes his
time. First, he cultivates the field, then he plants the seeds,
next he fertilizes the ground and if the crop isn't receiving
sufficient water he digs ditches to irrigate the field and after
tedious care he produces a Blue Ribbon Crop.
This is what we must do with our children. We must
first cultivate the field by clearing out our minds, getting
our heads together. We then plant the seeds of truth into
our children. Fertilization of our children, comes about by
helping them evaluate for themselves what is right or
wrong. The irrigation of our children is done by giving them
continually praise and inspiring them to go on after each
fall. And like the farmer a Blue Ribbon is received for every
top crop. Malcolm was a Blue Ribbon, Marcus, Sojourner
Truth, Martin, Nat Turner, Angela, Harriet Tubman and
in our children's eyes so are we.
A mind is a terrible thing to waste. And waste is one
thing that poor and oppressed people can not afford.
So-whats the holdup?
Poem of childhood
I would like to tell you of childhood
innocence, fancy and dreams
Of breezy sunny days, outside flying kites'
rainy days inside, playing nice and quiet,
inside rainy day games
I would like to tell you of childhood;
happiness tun and love
Of mother's reading stories and singing in the tub.
I would like to tell you of childhood;
only it just wasn't that way
Please don't ask me why I'm blue,
just convince me that I should stay.
Sittin' in study class, me and Michelle.
Reading one of Sonia's poems
Me and Michelle, the only blacks in the room
Feeling good and proud
Feelin good cuz our blackness fills the room
I turn to Michelle and find her lookin' at me
with a smile, for she notices my pride.
And feels the same
I wink my eye and
pat my fro.
Susan Jeryl Robinson
drifting aimlessly and carelessly through life
to no place and everyplace
Spiting at everyone around you
Molding yourself to any size, shape or form to
You can be high if you want to
reaching for the heavens
or better yet another dimension
You can be low and wash your face in
the burning streams of hell
or bury your troubles in a deep, Black grave
Sholling lazily in the shade
free, wild and alive
today you are free
today you stand unmoved
tomorrow you will fight
You will fight against the
people who hate and despise you
and you will win
Because you are Black.
High School Student
Awake and arise
The horizon challenges your
Awake and arise
Take the monster which is a lie
By the tail and shake him
Unleash the fires of truth
That lie smoldering within the
Depths of your soul
Meet and live life to fight the cold
Know your oppressor
And deal with him on your terms .
That YOU may challenge the horizon in
A New Day.
Mikaili (MichaelJ. Weir)
Amherst, in passing
Ms. Johnetta Bagby is a graduate from the School of BDIC class of 1975 in the College of Arts and Sciences.
She was a Black Mass Communications Project (BMCP) member, a regular on WMUA, and a successful Com-
mittee for Collegiate Education of Black Students (CCEBS) counselor. Presently she is now living in Paterson,
New Jersey and is the Program Director of the Paterson Y. W.C.A. She is also a stringer for local radio stations.
Movin' on up: Teaching and Learning
The Third World Co-op School
by Johnetta Bagby
Infant Care Experiential Center, New World Day
School, and Che Lumumba School of Truth are names
that are closely associated. These are the names of
three schools in a co-operative educational group
built around and attended by Third World children
on the U. Mass (Amherst) Campus.
The children range from infancy to elementary
school age. Infants to two and a half year old attend
Infant Care, three to five year olds attend New World
and the elementary level children are in Che Lumumba.
Infant Care is housed in the Melville dormitory, lo-
cated in the Southwest residential area and New World
is housed in the Mackimmie dormitory, also located
at Southwest residential area. The Che Lumumba
School is located in New Africa House.
This unique co-op system was founded by six par-
ents who felt the need for a new type of learning ex-
perience rather than a school like Marks Meadow (lo-
cated in the School of Ed, which is sometimes referred
to as the Alternate Learning School or the University
Nursery). They saw a need for their children to be guid-
ed in a different learning direction, and many parents
could not afford the exorbitant fees for nurseries and
baby sitters because they are in school themselves.
The parents also saw the need for their children to re-
late to other third world children, since the Valleys
Third World populous is widely spread.
The school co-op functions as follows:
1. Infant care prepares the child to deal with
close association of other children their age. They
learn how to play and share and make basic adjust-
ments at this tender age. Since most of them come
from a one child family and their parents get home
late, they would otherwise have no opportunity to
associate with another child of the same background
and would thus be forced to play and fantasize by
2. New World handles children in the three to
five year old bracket. These children are taught in a
bi-lingual environment of English and Spanish. They
learn about themselves and other members of the
Third World community. One can often watch them
leaving Southwest on a nature hike.
3. The Che Lumumba School operates for the
elementary child. Their studies include economics,
history (African and American), math and other re-
lated work. This school has been given its' accredi-
tation by Massachusetts. Many of these students un-
derstand politics and how it applys to minorities.
This is because of a constant political involvement
of parents and teachers here at the University and also
on the national level.
The basic concept of these learning centers is
"self help", but it can only be successful with more
support from parents and the community. In a locale
with such resources and bright minds available why
do we find it hard to keep systems like this func-
1. Funds always play an important role. The
Schools operate on a donational basis of toys, books,
money, and other utensils needed to run the school.
2. Commitment. More commitment must be
made by parents and the community, especially resi-
dents of the areas where these schools are located.
3. Housing. Permanent and alternative housing
for these schools to continue servicing these children.
Think about the outcome of these children on a Uni-
versity campus. It is one thing to be black students
and survive in Amherst, but it is another thing to be
a black child and exist in Umie land.
Much thanks goes to the supervisors of the three schools who are Rosa Blanco, Che Lumumba, Marisenna
Gist, New World, and Keryl Thompson Infant Care. These Women take charge of their own separate units and
yet contribute to all three.
This suggests more than quaUties of leadership and responsibility, but interests in seeing the education of
a child not going to waste.
His Daughter's Perception
He bought his one year old daughter
a very fanciful potty
taught her how to stand
and then how to sit ... .
whether she decides to make water
or just a boo
she knows where to go for her loo
And now just after a week
his daughter has made it a habit
of getting up after a boo
of staring hard at her boo
of closing her eyes after a boo
of saying, naw, naw, naw, naw, naw!
black child bitter
an American black
child, young with
green black fertility,
lays on his back
writhing to the spasms
run by the Klu with
no room for you,
black baby child
stolen from the
womb of the motherland,
you close up in a
ball of sweat and
gag from the stench of
always wet diapers . . .
you are soft as
petals on black orchids,
more unique than
snowflakes, yet they
crush you with the
sickness of dirty love,
you are shown that
miss anne is a
wicked witch of the
west, stabbing you with
Shirley temple kisses.
black teen child
you grow rough
from the nourishment
of assorted white
you are taught to
you bite at them
tasting your blood,
crying out to
dark stars for
you pant for love
in dark cellars,
lit by a dim,
get high to rise
up to level ground
in your mind,
for American chains
weigh down your
black grown child,
you have grown long
vampire fangs from
feeding on dead
you torment from being
made allergic to
yourself, taught to
circle the world
forever in search of
you breath the fire,
snorting the smoke
of burning crutches,
i know . . . they beat
you every day, every
way and you grow
tired, blue as a
i know . . . they make you
vomit endless tears,
pissing out identity
to be disposed of by
you are played for a
sucker, 'cause of your
you watch thru
tear bleached eyes as
they eat you,
piece by piece
first your strong/black
limbs, turned to
jello against white,
steel against black,
then the mind is
poisoned from nerve gas
(love some death)
while the hero rides
in white suits
on white horses
over white media
whiten, or bleach
once strong dark
warriers . . . i knowww . . .
she leaves you eyes
to, to let you see
what she has wraught. she
lets you see her hand smack
your face, oh god
i know . . . i see your
face, ironed on by
white hot metal,
kneaded into pale, beige/white
putty, wrinkled as a
prune and it's death.
you throw smiles away
unable to use them
in hard/imposed lives.
i know ... I see you
beg on millions of
hands and knees for a
swift end to the
America. I see
you offered clean,
black life and oh god
i cry as you turn it away
for whiteblack garbage,
the black you do
eat is molded by
and your mind
and your eyes
and your heart
are trained to
i see you cry
why . . . i love you
and you hate me,
i hate you and
you kill me, why?
my own mother . . .
she is not your mother
she is not your mother,
she is a sick demented
in patriotic madness to
have a child/servant;
it is unfortunate
The man is sometimes full of soul.
The man is sometimes full of jive.
The man thinks himself cool dressing to kill,
Or getting a new sports 'chine.
He thinks himself cool when he jives around with other woman
When hes' married,
The man thinks himself cool when he's gettin down
making love with his wife's younger sister.
Using her precious body to get his precious feelin.
The man thinks his woman have to have broad hips
and a protruding chest before he says you're all right for me.
All they want is a one night affair, then they tell you it's
not going to work.
That's the way of life for the man.
William Tate Age 1 3
i i * r f
children, full of life —
your life, my life, our lives
loving, caring, truthful, happy children
full of all the finer qualities of life
(as of yet uncorrupted by any evils)
too often, your needs are forgotten, but
i will remember them, for you are
a part of me that will live forever
and if i give you strength and understanding
you'll grow compassionate and strong
grow strong, my child
for you are our tomorrow
i will also give you love as you grow
so that our tomorrows will be filled with love
(we will need plenty love to continue growing)
children, full of life —
your life, my life, our lives . .
your future lies with us, my child
and ours with you
for you are our tomorrow.
ID/ 3/ 75
13 years old and strung out on drugs,
just one more to sweep up under the rug.
He never stood strong and stout, one less nigger
to worry about. But me, the needle is not my thing,
can't let them hang me out on a string. Got to get
ahead, and be cool, let them thinl< that I'm their
fool. And then like a flash I will appear, then for
once, they'll know I'm here! I want all Back to
stand by my side, cause it's gonna be a hell of a
ride. And when it's done we'll cry out loud. Yes my man,
I'm Black and Proud!
The Waiting Room
By Steve Masse
You are a tiny flesh thing— remember? Your
world is a slippery and slidey inside of a water bal-
loon, full of water, warm and easy. You exist— you! A
strange new concept. All of a sudden here you are,
feeling something. You feel your body having fun,
slipping and sliding around and around. Yes, the
awareness is beginning to seep into your newly made
body. Back and forth you slip and slide, just loving
it. What's this? Some stubby soft limb finds its way
to your mouth— your soft tiny mouth feels five tiny
stubs on one bigger stub— you taste your fingers one
at a time. The fat one tastes better— your thumb. It
must be part of you, because your mouth can feel
it and it can feel your mouth. They both feel each
other. You can feel both of them! They must both be
you— what fine innovations to slipping and sliding
you have been provided with. A mouth and a thumb-
both of them part of you!
And thinking on this, you drift into your first
embryonic sleep, thumb in mouth.
Blm, Grb, blub, clp . . . You can feel a soft voice
talking to another voice not so soft; that not so soft
voice is distant, mechanical— sterile almost. But you
are under the soft voice. Each time the soft voice
moves you stop rocking to listen to it in your slippy
sloshy home. You listen. That must be the one who
holds you— you could almost trust that soft voice.
While you are staying still, something causes
you to move. You keep sloshing around towards the
bottom of the water balloon, then bouncing up and
down, down and up! You can not yet count stairs
though— they are bouncy things which take you into
Suddenly you realize something you never knew
before— something in front of your head— feels some-
thing. Temptation. Light! Glorious shades of light.
That's what those things in your head are for. But
there's nothing in the light— it's just not the same as
dark any more— you feel discovery! What else? What
more is going to be so new! You are dying to find new
feelings— new things. Such a long while ago you dis-
covered fun. Then you discovered your thumb and
your mouth. Bouncing. And now light. What later?
What more glory could this all bring?
Your thumb finds its way to your mouth, and
you rock back and forth as the soft voice moves
further out of the light. Perhaps it is also rocking, the
owner of the soft voice— rocking back and forth in
something— in a bigger water balloon?
Suddenly it is all unlight again. Dark. The warm
water balloon is getting uncomfortably warm for
you. The soft voice is not so soft— it is what makes
you feel like not rocking back and forth. Upset. But
after a long while it is very quiet again. You feel bet-
ter—almost . . .
Perhaps the owner of the voice is sleeping— but
you have not felt such a calmness in any of the voice's
sleeping periods before. It is very calm, sedate . . .
But you can sense some sterile voices in the dis-
tance—how can one sleep so sedately while another
All of a sudden you sense a nagging tug— some-
thing pulling— drawing you. But you are not ready
to go— your body knows that twelve warm weeks is
not enough. You have yet to make preparations! The
tugging gets more and more violent— more dizzying!
It is too much . . .
Your world has been rent. The sloshy slipping
and sliding world has ripped open and the water let
out— it closes in about you like a sucked in plastic
bag! Everything becomes harsh and dry as you are
plunged into acrid light. The bag is no longer contain-
ing you, you have slipped out— but you burn! The
air feels like lye and you choke and your body vomits
for air and you are afraid! A mistake has been made.
Your lungs are soo small— you try to breathe, but
it hurts and your tiny tight-lidded eyes burn because
the light is too strong. Your entire body is burning
from the air as you shriek out a cry of anguish. You
have been betrayed by the soft voice— there is no go-
ing back. The eyes that burned from the magnesium
light do not burn any more. All is black . . .
Your body is twisted and mutilated and burning
and anihilated as you spin dizzily into a gasping,
choking black agony. Forever . . .
You have lived long enough— you are no longer
needed. They were afraid nobody would love or care
for you as a child . . .
by Steve Masse
all rights reserved
Ray Horner, Jr.
Though garbage cans in Harlem overflow
With the tears of our anguished children.
And we are the pebbles washed ashore
By the high tide of America's economic bliss,
The sea of love never dries up
And there will come a day when the pebbles will stop wailing
And their tears will give way to the lava of Life . . .
For there will come the day,
The day when our children will no longer dance to the puckering
guts of America
Nor join in the chorus of their belching voices . . .
There must come tt.e day,
The day when our time-beaten children in Harlem
With their faces riddled with irrepressible poverty.
Will rise up and tell New York City,
"You are God's way of telling America, 'I hate you!' "
And our children the world over will rise up and tell America,
"You are God's curse to the world."
That day will come, and come it must . . .
For how long shall we leave our children
Through whose faces the tractor of Love has been ploughing
Die with nothing but wrinkled contours on their faces,
And with legends untold and unsung dripping from their lips.
How long . . .
For how long shall we leave our children born sparkling
Die like tainted brass
How long . . .
We must rise up and hasten the day,
The day when our children shall rise up and tell the world
They've been used for too long like toilet paper
And now refuse to be flushed down . . .
We must rise up and hasten the day come.
The Day when our children shall no longer live
A life barricaded by fear because of lost dreams and aspirations,
Nor a life watered down by the tears that flow
Because of vanishing hopes . . .
We must rise up now and ask:
Lord, how many of you are there
And which one of you is doing this to us?
Lord, if Thou would'st have us live
Then why not let us carry our coffin on the back like a tortoise?
Please Lord, come on now, tell us, please do. Lord
Which is our Lot?
October 28, 1975
I never will forget that day,
Although it was so long ago.
I was at school and out at play
With all the kids that I did know.
That little girl who made nne cry
I could have beat cause I was bigger.
But I just couldn't even try
That first time I was called a nigger.
(For the young students in Boston public schools.)
I have discovered
in the melted snow of puddled eyes,
from the floods that rage down
the crevices of young,
by the saltwater lakes that lie in
the valleys of thick lips . . .
And the teardrops taught me that experience
is sacred knowledge.
Mungy Kimya Abudy
A SHORT STORY
by Bernard Nunally
"I feels tired and I ain't don' dat much mo' thin any other
day." Moses thought a while, lying restlessly under an
ancient shade tree. Settling into a comfortable position, he
began to review what had taken place earlier that day. He
recalled the daily kiss from his mother than awoke him each
morning. Dazed with sleep, he saw the saddened smiling
expression of her face more up and away, becoming almost in-
distinguishable from the darkness of early morning. Even
though her strength had been drained by the previous day's
tasks, she still rose and crossed the single roomed house to
her bed, knelt and kissed her younger son who had slept with
her because of illness. She moved to the center of the room
where she stood with a shorter, thinner, less erect figure of a
woman. The faint light of the morning sun began to show
through the crevices of the house and as if the early light was
a signal the two women quickened their movements. In a few
moments, they were at the door exchanging kisses and
mumbling goodbyes. The sun's rays strengthened giving
clarity to the hazy country world. Moses' mother walked
briskly towards the fields, as his grandmother watched
protectingly from the doorway.
"Awake up Moses! Boy its tim' ta get up! Its mid-day
morning now, an' I don' let ya sleep few mo' hours since yo'
Mama lef, "Granny said as she lightly shook him.
"Yes'em," he yawned.
"I's gonna need some kindlin' an' wahter 'fo breakfast. Git
up Moses, I needs dose things."
"Granny, can I he'p Moses?" Junior asked pleadingly.
"How ya feels dis mornin'. Junior?" she asked. "Ya was
sick yestiday and las' nite."
"I feels bette' now. Granny," Junior replied with a child's
"Aw' rite, go head, but be careful and don't git in Moses'
way 'cause he got chores ta do," she answered busying
herself about the table.
Before Moses was dressed. Junior was standing next to
him waiting anxiously to go. There was a special closeness
between them. Although a little less than two years separated
them in age, Moses was more than an older brother to Junior.
The only other male in the house, Moses was strong,
physically and mentally, he was respected by his elders and
his peers. He was Junior's idol. Ever since his father's
undiscussed death, Moses had assumed his role.
"Git de bucket. Junior, an' I race ya down ta de creek."
"Naw, ya git it, I's gonna beat ya t'day," Junior yelled as
he ran out the door.
"I catch ya, " Moses answered picking up the bucket and
rushing to the door.
"Junior! I said be ca'ful!" Granny called out reprovingly
from the now distant doorway.
Junior was yards ahead this morning. Moses had to stride
harder than usual to overtake his younger brother.
Exhausted, they reached the creek's edge and flopped
down into the dewy grass to rest. They joked and played
before settling down to the chores. Junior gathered small
branches while Moses dipped the bucket into the creek to
"I'll tak' de wahter back to Granny, Moses, " Junior said.
"Aw' rite, Moses replied pouring some of the water out.
Seeing this, Junior assuredly said, "I can tak' mo' wahter dan
"Dis wahter bucket is heavy, why don' ya tak' dis an'
come back fo' some mo'."
"But Moses, I can do it. I can! Let me try?"
He filled the bucket to the brim and passed it to Junior.
Struggling, Junior stalked off towards the house spilling
water every step and stopping every few steps to rest. While
gathering kindling for the fire, Moses started singing a few
bars of his favorite Sunday song to make the chores lighter
and to help quicken the passage of time.
We are soldiers
In the army
We got to fight
Although we have to die
We have to hold on
To the blood stained banner
We have to hold it up
Until we die
"Moses! Moses! " Junior called.
"I's over here, what ya want?"
Junior followed his brother's voice to where he was. He sat
the bucket down next to him.
"Granny said she wanted a full bucketo' wahter an' not
just' a ha'f empty one," Junior whispered meekly.
Moses quickly spun around and saw that most of Junior's
pants were soaking wet. He roared with laughter and Junior
slowly began to laugh too. Moses walked over to Junior,
picked up the bucket and gave him a reassuring tug. He
refilled the bucket, loaded Junior and himself with kindling
and headed home.
"How ya'U dis lawd's day mornin'? " Old Miss Queenie
said in her shrill voice.
"Fine. How ya doin' Miss Queenie?" they replied in
Eyeing Moses, she said, "Moses ever' time I sees ya, looks
like ya is gittin' bigger and bigger. You' only bout seben,
"But you's big as dem ten an' eleben year olds. Boy, ya
sure got yo' daddy's blood an' yo' Granny's mind. By de way,
tell yo' Granny an' Mama I says he an' I's gonna be stoppin'
by to chat fo' a spell. And tell yo' Granny I mite be needin'
her ta vision fo' me."
"Ya needs some he'p wit' dat wahter bucket. Miss
"Naw Junior, I got many mo' cotton harvest lef in me.
Thanks ya anyway, honey." Peering at Junior she said, "Boy,
you's too big to be habin' accidents in yo' pants."
She moved on to the creek. The boys continued. The light
morning air was mixed with many aromas and sounds.
Nearing the house they heard Granny's deep contralto voice:
Dis little light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine
Dis little light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine
Dis little light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
As they approached the house, they saw Granny outside
stirring the simmering grits in the black kettle which dangled
over a flaming kindling fire.
"Bout time ya'll gits back, breakfast almos' ready. Then
changing her tone, Granny commented, "Moses, why ya
sends so little wahter up here? Boy ya knows I needs mo'
wahter dan dat to do my work."
Moses peered at Junior and futilely replied, "I's sorry
Granny, I don't knows what I was thinkin' 'bout when I sent
up dat wahter."
Granny turned slowly, her head held up proudly, her
useless eyes staring at the clear sky, and grinning slyly said,
"Moses, ya knows better, now it gonna take all mornin' long
fo' Junior's pants ta dry!" She boomed with laughter and the
boys shared her merriment.
Almost as instantly as it began, the laughter ended with
Granny's command to Junior to bring the big serving bowl
for the grits. Junior headed for the house at once. Granny
then directed her speech to Moses:
"Moses, I want ya ta stay out de way o' dat white trash an'
o'er seer, Phillips. Yo' Mama was tellin' me dis mornin', an' I
been hearing talk, too, 'bout putting' ya out in dem fields
b'fo ya is eight summers old. Dat ain't till nex' summer."
Junior returned to the yard. Although not completely
understanding, he knew something was wrong by Granny's
"He's a mean one like all de rest. Ya stay out o' his way, ya
"Yes'em, Granny, I will."
"Here's the bowl. Granny."
"Thanks ya. Junior. Let me dip des here grits so's we can
Granny, followed by her two grandsons, entered the
house and took her seat at the table's head. Junior sat the
bowl on the table and he and his brother situated themselves
in perscribed positions on opposite sides of the table.
Granny bowed her head and started a moaning blessing;
Lawd let thy lovin' light shine in this little house dis
mornin'. We wants ta thank ya fo' dis here food ya
don' gib us. We wants ta thank ya fo' lettin' us see
'nother day. And fo' keepin' yo' mighty protectin'
arm 'round us an' my chillin'. Fo' ya made girls ta
b'come womens an' boys ta b'come mens. Fo' ya
knows dat when ya in Eg'ptland ya gota have a
mighty burnin' fire inside ya or Old Pharoah 'ill
stop ya steps. In de name o' de fath'r, an' de son, an
de holy g'ost. Amen.
"Amen," Moses and Junior responded.
Believing that her prayers would be answered, she lifted
her head and began to fumble about the table for two small
bowls Moses handed them to her. She spooned grits into
the small bowls giving larger portions to the boys than to
herself. She sat in the only chair of the house while the
boys went to sit on their straw bed. Since her talk with
Moses, a pensive air had engulfed them. They started and
finished their meal in silence.
"Granny, ya don't mind if I goes down an' checks my trap
ta see if I done caugh't somethin' las' nite? I ain't caug't
nothin' in mo' dan a week. I set it up speci'l las' nite an' I
feels kinds lucky t'day," Moses said trying to break the
"Go head boy, I ain"t got dat much fo' ya to do t'day."
"Can I go too. Granny?"'
"Awrite, Junior, go head."
They gathered their dishes quickly and piled them into the
serving bowl and headed towards the door.
"Here, " she said holding out an empty sack, "why don't
ya tak' dis here sack an' pick some berries an" thangs, if ya
sees any? An' maybe dis way ya won't spill nothin' on yo'
pants cause I don't thank dey dry yet from dis mornins'
Barely finishing the sentence, she began chuckling. Junior
ran over and got the sack from his Granny and followed
Moses out the door.
"Now don't ya spill nothin' on yo' self." she repeated.
Now that it was late morning, the day had become rather
hot and humid. They raced to the creek's edge. As they
travelled, one of the snowy fields came into view. They stop-
ped a while and watched some of their friends working in the
field. This was the time of the year when the soil needed
much care and their friends worked even harder than usual.
At the far end of the field, a man abruptly straightened
himself from his shoveling position, as if to cast an in-
tolerable weight from his shoulders. Massaging the small
of his back with his large powerful hands, the young man
vacantly glared at the heavens as though he expected some
long overdue relief. He stared, waited and eventually
lowered his head in disgust. Perfunctorily, he returned to his
Moses and Junior continued their journey alongside the
creek, quickening their strides as they neared the wooded
area where the trap was laid.
"Hey Moses! Hey Junior! Where ya'll headed ta?"
"Gain' ta check my trap, Luke, ya want ta come?"
"Naw, I got some stuff ta do fo' Big Mama. I see ya'll later
on. Hopes ya catches somethin'. See ya . . ."
As Luke went on his way, Moses sighed with relief, "Ya
know, he got a big mouth an' I hopes he don't go tellin' what
I'd doin'. Junior. 'Cause if Phillips find out he'a get me and if
we catch somethin' he'a take it er'way and keep it fo' hisself .
Come on, lets go," Moses said.
They finally reached the small thicket. Junior started
picking berries from a patch he found and Moses went to his
trap. He found that the trap had been triggered each morning
for more than a week. Last night he had prepared it specially
so that any jarring of the bait would cause the box to fall
instantly entrapping the prey. Coming closer, he feared that
his trap had failed again, but as he approached and kicked
the box lightly he heard the frightened squeal of his prey.
"We got somethin'. Junior, we done caug't somethin'!"
Junior dropped his sack and ran towards the excited voice,
"What ya git. Mosses! What ya git!"
"I don't know, but de way dat box'a jumpin', its big. Find
me a stick sos I can kill it!"
Junior scurried off looking for an appropriate stick.
While he searched, Moses called informing him that they
had caught a large grey rabbit for supper. Junior found an
old heavy branch and rushed back to Moses.
"Yea Junior, dats fine, now ya hold dis box so we won't let
t'nites supper git er'way."
They worked together. Junior went in back of the box and
held it tightly as Moses lifted the lid and repeatedly plunged
the stick into it. When he was certain the rabbit was dead he
lifted the trap and they proudly viewed their prize.
"Junior, Granny gona cook meat t'nite, ain't she?"
"Yes, she gona cook meat t'nite!" Junior repeated.
"Hey, I's gona hang dis rabbit up an' let it drain, sos ya go
head an' finish pickin' dem berries sos we can go sho'
Granny what we got."
They both rushed themselves to complete their task.
Moses drained the rabbit and Junior filled the sack with
enough berries to last a couple of days.
"Is got 'nough berries, Moses, ya ready?"
"Awrite Junior, lets go home den."
Leaving the woods, they retraced their path up the grassy
creeks edge, past the field and hurried home.
"Granny! Granny! " Junior called.
"Ya'll back al'ready?"
She stopped stirring the boiling clothes, turned to them
and said, "What ya'll done got?"
"We got a bunch o' berries an' Moses an' me done caug't a
big ole rabbit!"
Slowly she lowered her head and blindly studied her image
of Moses. A lofty smile inched its way across her wrinkled
face saying, "Moses, dats good."
He understood. She turned then to praise the younger boy.
"Junior boy, ya b'comin' a mightly big man der! Ya don a
good job too. Ya'll go head and take dem thangs inta the
house an' I git ta dem rite after I finish dese here clothes.
As she had instructed, they entered the house, placed the
berries on the table and the rabbit in the empty water bucket.
For a moment they stood and admired their contribution to
their daily substance. They were both pleased with their
"Mornin' Masa Phillips. How you doin' dis Lawd's day
mornin'?" Granny greeted him compromisingly and loudly
to signal the boys. Understanding her signal, they hurried
about the room hiding their morning success.
"Carrie, where's that grandson of your'n, Moses?"
"He in de house Masa Phillips, he an' his brother ben
feelin' rite poo' here lat'ly."
As if ignoring her words, Phillips tersely continued, "We
got a large crop this year an' I done decided that that boy,
Moses is old enough to work in the fields. Call him out
"He an' his brother been sick."
"Call him out here, I say!"
In defiant hesitation Granny called to Moses, "Moses,
Moses I want ya ta come out here."
Hearing Granny's defense, Moses malingered from the
"Boy! You better rush your black ass out here. If I have to
make you hurry, you'll be sorry!" Phillips barked.
In a bravodish way, Moses entered Phillips' glare.
"Boy, you be in them fields in the morning with your
"But he ben sick, Masa-"
"Shut up, old woman. He"s sick? Hell! That ain't never
stopped my niggas from working before. Boy, I best see you
out there with your mammy in the morning.
"But . . . Masa Phillips . . ."
"Don't you be late, cause if you is I got something waiting
for you and you'll regret it!"
Phillips marched away. Allowing for their distance to
increase, Granny inaudible mumbled something as if to curse
upon her foe. Moses' recalcitrance lost its mask. Entering
the yard. Junior quietly witnessed and absorbed their mood.
"Sometim' ya wonder why, days like dis here gits to come.
Time's I wonder why we is so down an' dey is so up. It tak'
ya back some. Make me wonder if ya gots ta make life a' new
o' wait fo' it ta git better. Moses, I an' you knowed dis day
was a comin'."
"Yes'em, Granny, we knowed."
"Moses, my growin' Moses, 1 wants you an' Junior go
head on wid ya'lls' frien's whiles ya got time."
Obeying Granny, Junior walked towards their daily play
area. After taking a few steps, he felt that he was alone.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw Granny and Moses
implanted, intensely staring at each other as if sharing all
"Go on now, b'fore de heabiness o' dis life falls on ya."
Slowly Moses turned and walked away. They were silent
from the house to the play field. The distance seemed
unusually long. The mood lingered as they neared the shouts
and laughter of their aging friends.
"Las'nite, nite b'fore
Twenti fo' robbers at ma do' ..."
"I be de mama, you be de baby an' you be de . . ."
"I got up an' let dem in en hit dem in de head wid a . . ."
"Hey Moses an Junior, come on an' play some tag!"
Knowing that tag was Junior's favorite game, Moses said,
"Go head Junior, an' play."
"Naw, I gona tak a walk, I be back an' git ya so's we can
go home t'gether."
With childhood enthusiasism. Junior ran out with his
friends to play. Moses watched for a while as his brother
became totally involved in play.
"You it. Junior!" someone shouted.
"You ain't tag me," yelled Junior.
Moses turned and walked away. "Guess I shou'd be tired
from now on . . ." he thought as he stretched out in the shade
and closed his eyes.
Moses woke with a cool breeze kissing his face. It was early
evening now and the summer day was slowly coming to its
end. Unhurriedly, he sat up, stretched, yawned, sat a while
longer and mused about the freedom of animal life and his
coming fate. Remembering that he and Junior were to return
home together, he rose and left the soft protection of the
shady tree. Reaching the play field, he saw only a few
children still there.
"Moses, I ben waitin' fo' ya. You awrite?"
"Yea Junior, come on, let's go home."
"Ya know Moses, eber'body was askin' where you was."
"An' 1 tol' dem ya was gona have ta work in de fields, an'
eber'body kept sayin' ya was awmost a man!"
The world became silent to Moses. The time, the day, his
being appeared to have lost its essence. His thoughts
surrounded nothing but his supposedly becoming a man.
"How ya'll doin'. Granny asked, sitting in the chair. Junior
responded immediately that he was fine. Seconds passed
before Moses realized they were actually home. He
nebulously answered, he was fine and walked over to their
straw bed and sat beside his brother. Silence engulfed the
room until Junior asked, "Granny, tell us ah story please?"
Granny rearranged the chair to command their full
attention. She pondered for a few moments in search of a
story. She started.
"We come from a place long er'way from here cross a big
sea. Moses an' Junior, our peoples ain't natur'l in dis Ian'.
Mama us'ta say we hads o'r own way er livin' der in o'r Ian'.
We was a proud, rich folk, havin' 'nough food an'nev'r was
nobody's slaves. We was bough't ober here from Eg'pt Ian
at de hands o' dis evil white man.
Der was a many a battl's b'tween o'r people an' dem wite
mens. Mama say dat o'r warri'rs foug't brave. Mama's
daddy, a man call'd Okonkwo, ya'U's big daddy times over.
He was a leader er warri'rs, a warri'r 'mong warri'rs. He was a
proud respected man, er doin' an' not talkin'. When dat las'
battle was ober, many was dead an' we was in chains. Mama
us'ta say, look lik big daddy's spirit went out'a him. Likes he
couldn't see him an' o'r peoples as slaves. Dey chained us,
walked us an' put us on boats an' boug't us over here. Ya'U's
big daddy a'most died on dew way over. Maybe cause he
refus' ta eat de slop dey giv' him, maybe caus' dey giv' him so
many beatin's caus' he had his own mind. Maybe caus' he
hated his new fate. Well dey gots us ober here an' puts us in
bondag' like de children o' Isra'l, cept dey couldn't git mens
like ya'U's big Daddy ta be slaves. Dey whopped an'
whopped an' look like dey brok' de natur'l life in dat man.
Till one day, he said wouldn' worf livin' as slaves an' went
out an' r'newed de battle fo' his freedom. Some mo' mens
joined him an'dey killed an' boug't feared ta many a wite
folk b'fore de was finely outnumber'd an' killed. But ya'll Big
Daddy died a natur'l man.
When Granny finished her story, she was completely
exhausted. Sweat beaded about her worried forehead and
gently rolled down her tired cheeks. Her small frame sagged
as if it needed nourishment. Moses and Junior sat transfixed
by her force and wisdom.
"How ya'U? How ya'll?", a woman's tired voice repeated
from the doorway.
Junior jumped, ran to her and with his arms clasped about
her neck announcing; "Mama, Moses an' me gona be mens.
We is gona be mens. Mama!"
Enbracing her younger son, she was obviously distressed
by his pronouncement. She gazed at Granny and Moses and
intuitively understood what had taken place. In a crying
voice mixed fatigue and pride, she said; "I know baby, I's
afraid ya'll gona be mens."
S X 5 5
t. ro o
J Q >
en -en J.
— c ♦:
Work from the Che-Lumumba School
October 31, 1975
I was only ten years old when I first met Harriet Tubmen. The wind was
howling. The rain smashed around our wagon. ... It was an old wagon full
of cotton. Harriet was in the wagon watching the cotton making sure the cotton
would'nt fall. All the cotton got wet and so did Harriet. We almost could'nt
see because it was so dark. We took hours to get the cotton to the masters house.
When we got there the master asked us what took so long and we told him and
then we had to work double time in the plantation. We also got wipped. The
place that I always saw her at was at the plantation picking goods. Some times
I walked down the street and I saw someone getting wipped. Once I was thirsty
for some more water but they would'nt give me some more so Harriet saw that
I was so thirsty and she gave me some of her water. Once when everybody was
eating she shared with other people.
The people loved Harriet more and more every day.
Vincent Sotolongo 10 years old
U. Mass- Amherst.
I was only ten years old when I first met Harriet Tubman. The wind was
howling. The rain smashed all around the wagon. The wagon was full of people.
The wagon was very old.
Harriet had scars on her back because her master whipped her. The path
was crooked. The road were full of guards in the street. Harriet called her house
the John Brown House. I was in Auburn, New York. Harriet was whipped when
Harriet was a little girl, they transferred her from camp to camp. Harriet was a
revolutionary women. They put posters that said dead or alive. Me an Harriet
were very good friends, but before she died she said every one should be friend
and not kill each other.
U.Mass. - Amherst
CHE-LUMUMBA LIBERATION NEWS
Robert Earl Brown Framed
Robert Earl Brown was tried because the police found the first Black man
they could find to blame for robbing McDonalds. Two white women said that
they saw him rob McDonalds.
His mother, family, his Sisters and Brothers and people from the communi-
ty were inside the courthouse to see what happened to Earl Brown. Outside, the
police surrounded the courthouse. Judge Paul A. Tamburillo sentenced him for
3-5 years. Earl Brown is in the Hampshire County Jail on Union Street in North-
ampton. All help would be welcome.
Sekou Lumpen visits Che-Lumumba School
Sekou came from Alabama to Amherst to tell people how he and his Broth-
ers were treated in Atmore and Holman prisons. The food had cockroaches,
wire, worms, rat hairs and was brought to them at the same time as the floor toi-
let was flushed. Guards hit prisoners who struggle to be treated as human be-
ings and not like animals.
by Ellis V. Moss
I've always wanted to be tough. I wanted to
walk down the streets and have everyone speak to
me. Sometimes, when you walk the streets in the city,
you can try to be nice and say hello and some people
will just look away and keep on going. But if I were
tough, I'd be respected and folks would have to
speak to me: They'd say, ". . . hey, he's tough, so
you'd better be nice to him." But, I never really was
such a tough guy.
I was a little angel. While in elementary school,
my parents had told all of my teachers to punish me
and call them if I ever got out of line. I figured that
this meant that I'd get everything just short of death
by a firing squad if I had gotten rowdy. So, I smiled
often and said, "yes ma'am" or "no sir" to my el-
ders. I feared corporal punishment worse than death
itself, so I studied hard, and actually tried to be a
good little boy.
There were three of my classmates who took
the same route home as I did. We'd talk loudly like
all homeward bound fourth graders and laugh about
everything from what guy liked which girl in the class
to how one of our female teachers wore men's shoes
(now that was hilarious; one of our prettier teachers
wore big 1940-ish, pointed-toed 'boats'. I never could
figure out why she wore those silly shoes back then
and I still sit and laugh about that now and then.).
These three guys were regular fellows, on my level:
they laughed when I laughed and we were so close
that we'd all drink out of the same soda bottle with-
out wiping the top first.
There was another kid who walked with us,
Myron. He was taller and slower than the rest of us.
He was big and dumb, not to mention that he always
got his hair cut too short. His ears stuck out far
from his nearly bald head and it made him look a bit
like a monkey. We'd always kid him about how he
looked like an overgrown chimp, but he would just
walk along and ignore us. He was our punching bag,
and since there were always four of us and one of him,
he'd get pushed around by at least one of us every
day. He'd whine for us to leave him alone, but he
was never bold enough to try and make us stop play-
fully slapping him across his smooth head. So, not
only was he a big monkey, but he was a big, sorry sis-
sy. Since he seemed to be afraid of us, we spent a lot of
time just slapping Myron; is was something to do.
Part of our daily after-school routine was stop-
ping at a nearby doughnut shop for a little snack be-
fore we started the truck home. One day, Myron was
standing next to the counter looking stupid (as usu-
al). He was standing there with his mouth hung open
staring blankly into space. It was as if he was in a
world of his own; but boy, did he look stupid! At
first, I thought that it was really funny, but then I
felt sorry for him. He seemed as if he was lost and con-
fused. I suddenly felt that he was helpless and with-
out a friend.
I decided that I would be nice and gave Myron a
dime and told him to buy himself a couple of dough-
nuts (remember when doughnuts cost a nickle a
piece?). I was proud of myself and I had done my
good deed for the day. I felt sorry for someone and I
sacrificed for that person. I was a good, sensitive kid.
I was your basic good guy.
The next day, when we were in the doughnut shop,
I felt that the time had come for Myron to re-pay me
for my kindness. After all, he did owe it to me. Being
very diplomatic, I walked over to the big ape and asked
for my dime.
"Gee man, I'm sorry but I don't have it right now.
Maybe tomorrow I can "
"Whoa pal," I said, "so, you don't have it, huh?"
"No, I don't have it now, but maybe later "
As soon as he said that, and quicker than I had
started to pity him the day before, I had made my
mind: I knew that since he owed me money that I
had every right to jump into his face and give him a
beating until he paid me. It didn't matter whether or
not he could pay me later. He owed me ten cents and
he had to pay me one way or another, right then and
there. I was a toughie all of a sudden. "I shuck and
jive, but I don't play!" I was ready for action.
There he was, a big, dumb, scarey, sissy and he
wanted to weasel out of paying me! I mean, how bold
could you get? I gave him another chance:
"Say man, pay up right now or you're in real
trouble; and I mean right now!" He had made me
mad, but I didn't want to hurt the fool unless I just
had to. But I could sense that I was going to have
to lay that clown out sooner or later. It was his choice
between paying me or fighting me.
"But I don't have no money, look," he said as
he pulled his pockets inside out, showing that he real-
ly was broke.
"You should have known bettet, but you're
fixin' to learn a lesson." With that declaration and a
homocidal spirit in my head, I jumped into the air
and smacked Myron squarely in the jaw. Everyone
jumped back and let him fall to the ground. They
quickly formed a circle around us and waited for me
to beat the pants off of him.
"Listen, I don't want to fight you; I can pay you
'.'Myron is a chicken!", one of my friends yelled.
I kicked Myron on the leg and made him fight like
a man. I was so tough that I turned punks into men,
even if it was only to have them fight and fall at my
feet. I was unstoppable.
I took the offensive and after taking several
quick blows to my face, I realized that I had over-
looked one thing: Myron was about four inches tall-
er than I was, and his arms were longer than mine.
Every time that I tried to get close enough to hit him,
I'd get hit, right in the face. I knew that I was quicker
and smarter than that big ape, but he would tag me
pretty good every time that I came in too close to him.
He just stood there and every time that I acted as if
I was going to hit him, he'd smack me in the face.
I had an audience to please and I took every-
thing in stride: "Oh, those baby punches don't hurt!
Not me! But you gonna pay me that dime! You can't
hurt me! " That was one of the biggest lies that I have
ever told in my life. I had rudely started a fight, then
1 was right in the middle of getting the snot beaten
out of me. I was sure that I would win because I was
right. But I was wrong.
I finally broke down and started to cry. For the
first time as far as I knew, Myron smiled. He had
won. He had beaten me badly; I wasn't bleeding, but
my entire face was hurting. I lost my temper and
made a man out of a sissy, at my own expense no less.
I never did get my ten cents back but I got more
than a dime's worth of learning about starting sense-
less fights with people. I was hurt because I had made
a fool of myself in front of all of my friends and got-
ten my face battered. I thought that I was tough when
I started the fight. But the tough part came when I
had to own up to my friends, and to Myron, and
admit that I had been wrong. It's always tough to
admit that you're wrong. But for once, I was tough
enough to admit that I had been wrong. So be tough,
but be careful as to how you try to prove it. I had
to be beaten before I realized what tough really is
and just how tough I really wasn't.
Although I never approved
Of the way you brought me up
1 always dug where you were coming from
And even though our communication
Went as far as the soap operas on T.V.
I knew we had an understanding
Because it was always what we didn't say
that meant the most
More times than not you always
Thought me to be selfish and ungrateful
But what you didn't know
Was that I was grateful
For being taught how not to be
It would have been nice to tell you
How much I felt your pains
And shared your problems
Even those you didn't know you had
But then only you know
That I couldn't possibly have had a
Problem at my age
So now that I'm well on my way to 1 7
Going on 40
I thought it would be nice
To share something more
Than our wardrobes
Wanda L Givens
* ' 't
I'll take anything
You bring it,
I'll take it
I don't have
William H. Smith
Suffer my little child, place your head upon my chest
Cry all the tears of sorrow, for I know you feel the unrest
Mama's tried to protect you and raise you the best she could
She's tried to be to you the mama that she should.
Now it's time my little soldier, for you to sprout your wings
To build a nation for your people and become a king of kings
Be proud my prince of blackness, with head up high stand tall
For through your perseverance you'll sing freedom for us all
And when I'm laid to my rest, in deepest reverence sing
All praises are due to me, for I have borne a king
Cheryl (Niambi) Barboza
coming at me, at you, US, them '
Coming out of corners, alleys, middleclass america?
coming out of rat-infested slums
and the star-gazed galaxies of Hollywood?
Coming from Harlem, Boston, Mississippi, L.A.
Talking in Spanish, Black English and
Saying "Que Pasa", whats happenin and
meaning the same.
Strolling down the streets with blue prints
for positive tomorrows and memories of
Blackness, yellowness, redness, brownness, too
coming at ME, you, them, us
in all shapes, sizes and forms (just like Maidenform
only more supportive and guaranteed not to
stretch, bend, fold or wash away)
Some with big bright eyes and runny noses,
pissy diapers and tremendous lies.
tones, shades, hues of black, brown, red
coming at me, YOU, them, us
breaking through that soft dark womb.
Feet kicking, eyes scoping.
Mind going, fist clenched tight
and ready to fight.
coming at me, you, us, THEM
in non-returnable bottles.
FEB 24 1976
IHBV- 6f MASS.
The staff of the DRUM would like to thank:
Brother Chester Davis for staying behind us and giving us his confidence in the DRUM, during
our reorganizing period.
Johnetta Bagby 8
Ellis V. Moss (Amherst College) 27
Steve Masse 14
Bernard Nunully 18
Steven Ortiz 24
Vincent Sotolongo 24
Students from Che-Lumumba School for Truth 25
Michael J. Weir
R. A. B.
Mungu Kimya Abudu
Wanda L. Givens
Ray Horner Jr.
Front and back cover:
Mural under the direction of Oletha Devane and Donna Jones (Summer Arts Program '75)
The Editors would like to personally thank Sister Angle Small and Brother Roy Tiller for sticking with us
during our trying times.
And a very special thanks to this years DRUM staff. Don't know what I would've done without you.
Brothers and Sisters,
Let us not become too involved
within ourselves that we forget
the injustices that prevail around us.
Earl Brown and
Craeman Gethers could have
been you or L
The Drum Staff
'MfVj ©r MASS,