annarino writes

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