‘Clarence Thomas, American Hero’: A Poem by Cynthia Erlandson

Clarence Thomas, American Hero

“The mob I now faced carried no ropes or guns. It s weapons were
smooth-tongued lies spoken into microphones and printed on the
front pages of America’s newspapers. It no longer sought to break
the bodies of its victims. Instead it devasted their reputations and
drained away their hope. But it was a mob all the same, and its
purpose—to keep the black man in his place—was unchanged.”
—Justice Clarence Thomas

Surrounded by a mob with verbal arrows
And spears all aimed to keep him in his place—
A black man who had had the nerve to raise
Himself from poverty—he felt dark shadows

Of bigotry: they leered as if a gallows
Were right outside. New slave-masters, their goal
Was “high-tech lynching”: microphones and all
The media presenting them as heroes

(So they assumed), and him as villain. Masked
In lies, they warped the hearing to a trial,
Accused him, without evidence, of vile
Acts he’d never done. They glared, and asked,

And slandered. Assumed guilt served as lynching-ropes,
Their sword-sharp tongues to rip his reputation.
They tried to drain his dreams and hard-earned hopes,
To chain him in their up-to-date plantation,

To rob him of fair judgment—slavery
In sinister disguise. They’d use this man
To show that any black American
Who won’t submit to meek dependency

Upon the dubious “help” of government
Could be humiliated on TV,
Instead of being hung up in a tree,
Deprived of any prospect of improvement.

He knew this was insidious enslavement,
A modern bondage. “Welfare” was illusion,
A swiftly-escalating segregation
That built no wealth, becoming permanent.

Entitlement disguised as charity
Restrained the people’s chance to use their talents.
These policies did not make sense to Clarence;
Such schemes would not abolish poverty.

Some of the senators, to their disgrace,
Fumed at his refusal to abide
Their unjust judgment. No-one of his race,
They thought, could be permitted any pride

For an achievement that he didn’t owe
To them. They wanted him still in the ghetto
That they—supposed superiors—had created.
His crime: not needing them to be supported.

Blacks were all supposed to think the same.
They were expected to be full of rage,
Told that non-black people were to blame.
Such rage, he knew, would bring us to the edge

Of civil war again. This proud cabal
In front of him, he knew, did not allow
Him to possess his own thoughts. Even now,
“The beast of rage kept gnawing at my soul,”

As he would write. To keep it in its cage
Was what he must do, he had learned. Obsession
With anger only led to more oppression.
Not hating back, had made him fit to judge

Impartially. Through life’s frequent frustrations,
He’d never come to hate his native nation.
And now, he faced the mob. In some expressions
He read hostility. Through all their questions

He kept his beast-like rage controlled as they
Tried, with insulting claims, to make him say
Something yielding his integrity—
To no avail. He spoke confidently

As the entire nation watched and heard.
Denying charges, weighing every word,
He showed by self-control that character,
Not color, counted. They had caricatured,

Abused and accused him on national TV
As a warning to “uppity blacks” that this committee—
Although it could not hang them from a tree—
Could wreck their lives. This was a travesty,

He said, after which he now was here
Not for a seat on the Court, but for his name.
He’d never been ambitious for mere fame;
His conscience and his principles were clear.

He stood for what was right, and would not bow
To their old order, or to those who said
All blacks must think alike. That segregated
People by race again. He’d not allow

His mind to be chained, for no-one in this free
Country should give up their liberty
To think or speak their mind; no-one should be
In bondage to a new captivity.

Successfully, he held the raging beast
Within him, and the roaring mob, at bay.
America has been profoundly blessed
By those like Justice Thomas, who display

Virtue, truth, and love of our own nation.
These are things that call for celebration.

Poet’s Note: the above is based on My Grandfather’s Son: A Memoirby Clarence Thomas, and specifically the part recounting his 1991 hearing in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Cynthia Erlandson is a poet and fitness professional living in Michigan.  Her third collection of poems, Foundations of the Cross and Other Bible Stories, was released in July, 2024 by Wipf and Stock Publishers.  Her other collections are These Holy Mysteries and Notes on Time.  Her poems have also appeared in First Things, Modern Age, The North American Anglican, The Orchards Poetry Review, The Book of Common Praise hymnal, The Catholic Poetry Room, and elsewhere.