1) Asher B.

Durand, First Harvest in the Wilderness, 1855, Brooklyn Museum

 2) John Gast, American Progress, 1872, Autry Museum of the American West, Los Angeles,
California

3) Linda Hogan, Trail of Tears: Our Removal, ​Dark. Sweet. ​(Coffee House Press)​,​ 2014

With lines unseen the land was broken.

When surveyors came, we knew
what the prophet had said was true,
this land with unseen lines would be taken.

So, you who live there now,

don't forget to love it, thank it
the place that was once our forest,
our ponds, our mosses,
the swamplands with birds and more lowly creatures.

As for us, we walked into the military strength of hunger

and war for that land we still dream.
As the ferry crossed the distance,
or as the walkers left behind their loved ones,
think how we took with us our cats and kittens,
the puppies we loved. We were innocent of what we faced,
along the trail. We took clothing, dishes,
thinking there would be something to start a new life,
believing justice lived in the world,
and the horses, so many,
one by one stolen, taken by the many thieves

So have compassion for that land at least.

Every step we took was one away from the songs,

old dances, memories, some of us dark and not speaking English,
some of us white, or married to the dark, or children of translators
the half-white, all of us watched by America, all of us
longing for trees for shade, homing, rooting,
even more for food along the hunger way.

You would think those of us born later

would fight for justice, for peace,
for the new land, its trees being taken.
You would think
the struggle would be over
between the two worlds in this place
that is now our knowledge,
our new belonging, our being,
and we'd never again care for the notion of maps
or American wars, or the god of their sky,
thinking of those things we were forced to leave behind,
living country, stolen home,
the world measured inch by inch, mile by mile,
hectares, all measurements, even the trail of our tears.

With all the new fierce light, heat, drought

the missing water, you'd think
in another red century, the old wisdom
might exist if we considered enough
that even before the new beliefs
we were once whole,
but now our bodies and minds remain
the measured geography.
4) Bessie Smith, Homeless Blues, 1927, USA Records

Song Link: ​https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_VvGGSX3YtA

Mississippi River, what a fix you left me in,

Old Mississippi River, what a fix you left me in,
Mudholes of water clear up to my chin.

House without a steeple didn't even have a door,

House without a steeple didn't even have a door,
Plain old two room shanty but it was my home sweet home.
This song was originally posted on protestsonglyrics.net
Ma and pa got drownded, Mississippi you the blame,
My ma and pa got drownded, Mississippi you the blame,
Mississippi River, I can't stand to hear your name.

Homeless, yes, I'm homeless, might as well be dead,

Oh you know I'm homeless, homeless, might as well be dead,
Hungry and disgusted, no place to lay my head.
This song was originally posted on protestsonglyrics.net
Wish I was an eagle, but I'm a plain old black crow,
Wish I was an eagle, but I'm a plain old black crow,
I'm gonna flap my wings and leave here, and never come back no more.
5) Excerpt from Alice Walker, ​The Color Purple,​ 1982 (made into 1985 film of the same name)

Trying to chase that old white man out of my head. I been so busy thinking bout him I never truly
notice nothing God
make. Not a blade of corn (how it do that?) not the color purple (where it come from?). Not the
little wildflowers.
Nothing.

Now that my eyes opening, I feels like a fool. Next to any little scrub of a bush in my yard, Mr. 's
evil sort of shrink.

...

Man corrupt everything, say Shug. He on your box of grits, in your head, and all over the radio.
He try to make you think
he everywhere. Soon as you think he everywhere, you think he God. But he ain't. Whenever you
trying to pray, and man
plop himself on the other end of it, tell him to git lost, say Shug. Conjure up flowers, wind, water,
a big rock.

But this hard work, let me tell you. He been there so long, he don't want to budge. He threaten
lightening, floods and
earthquakes. Us fight. I hardly pray at all. Every time I conjure up a rock, I throw it.
6) Valerie Hegarty, Fallen Bierstadt, 2007, Brooklyn Museum