Some days the shame and disappointment
strangles words ready
to erupt and disrupt all sensibility.
I am without tranquility.
In the Sixties racial stereotypes
hung heavy from the tree
of white supremacy.
The weight of reality
hung heavy on the children of Africa,
torn from loving arms and proud history.
The little ones feared my touch
on nappy-haired heads
I clasped with love until they trusted
my joy in the texture of their lives.
“I am Black and I am proud!”,
I taught them to say.
And teaching hope along the way
offered the chance to redraw destinies
and reclaim equal possibilities.
These children reclaimed rights,
led the good fight,
worked hard for their rights
and mine.
Yours, too, women and LGBTQ.
But, white backlash has been fierce
at every step of the way.
And when it seemed victory grew near
hatred and stereotypes born in fear
and insecure ego led by id unleashed
terror, once held in check
but never defeated;
allowed to fester and grow more intense.
Where did hope go?
To video recordings on cell phones
disclosing what had been hidden from sight
that white supremacy maintained tight
control of its wealth and power with stealth.
Police treating white children with dignity
As they attacked a Black children with immunity.
The mall was crowded. People filmed it all.
It went viral.
And still, there are those who see justice
instead of racism.
Who argue they acted according to normal protocol
instead of racial stereotypes.
Sixty years from the sixties
and I still rejoice in the phrase
“ I am Black and I am proud!”.
Sixty years from the sixties
and I still feel shame and disappointment
in my whiteness, and that of my country
annarino writes 