Free We Speak Your Names: A Celebration by Pearl Cleage Page A

Martin, Terry McMillan, Audra McDonald, Melba Moore, Brandy Norwood, Michelle Obama, Suzan-Lori Parks, Valerie Simpson, Anna Deavere Smith, and Susan L. Taylor—to our chorus. At the glittering Legends Ball, we offered the poem one more time as a parting gift before we all headed home the next day to our busy, separate lives, promising not to forget what had happened among us, promising to stay in touch. And then it was over.
Three days after I stood in Oprah's garden, surrounded by a feeling of connectedness not only to the women whose names we had called but to the ones whose spirits we had raised whose names we never knew and never will, Zaron and I were driving home to Atlanta on Route 66. When we stopped for the night, I turned on the television, and suddenly, there we were, Oprah's Legends Ball, live and in living color, as the lead story on Entertainment Tonight. It startled me, not so much because I hadn't expected to see the event covered by the media, but because the story that I saw didn't get to the heart of the matter. Yes, there were stars. Yes, there were wonderful flowers, and fabulous gowns, and diamond earrings, and designer shoes, and caviar in silver spoons. The camera captured all of that perfectly. The only thing it missed was the presence of all those spirits who hadn't gone anywhere after that luncheon except right back to the ball with us, so that when we sang “Ain't No Mountain High Enough,” they sang it, too. When we danced all night, just because we could, they were dancing, too. Which is the reason we are all smiling when you see us in those pictures. Because we do love our earrings, but in that one amazing moment, we loved one another more, and more, and more, and more. …
Being a worrier by nature, I turned off the television and immediately began to wonder how long it would be before the real feeling faded. I wondered how long before I could only remember what happened —who wore what and who sat where—but not what it felt like to be there. How long before it became a wonderful memory and nothing more. But we continued our journey home, and gradually the beauty of the landscape cleared my head, and the sweetness of the people we encountered soothed my soul, and at some point—I think it was when we stopped for the night outside of Amarillo, Texas— I stopped worrying. In that blessed moment of calm, I read the poem to myself out loud, and the feeling from the gazebo came back strong. The more I read, the less I worried about what I might forget and the more I understood that this was something I would always remember.
Oprah calls it a praise poem. I call it a celebration for the same reason, because this piece is part of an oral tradition that goes back as far as we do: a tradition that grows out of an understanding that some things must be spoken out loud to get to where the magic is. This poem is like that. If it were a spell, I'd encourage you to cast it. Sisterhood in the service of truth is an undeniable force in these remarkable times. My Sisters, here, there, and everywhere, this poem is for you. Use it, adapt it, pass it on. …

We Speak Your Names:
A Celebration
    Because we are free women,
    born of free women,
    who are born of free women,
    back as far as time begins,
    we celebrate your freedom.
    Because we are wise women,
    born of wise women,
    who are born of wise women,
    we celebrate your wisdom.
    Because we are strong women,
    born of strong women,
    who are born of strong women,
    we celebrate your strength.
    Because we are magical women,
    born of magical women,
    who are born of magical women,
    we celebrate your magic.
    My sisters, we are gathered here to speak your names.
    We are here because we are your daughters as surely as if you had conceived us, nurtured us, carried us in your wombs, and then sent us out into the world to make our mark
    and see what we see, and be what we be, but better, truer, deeper
    because of the shining example of your own incandescent