During the seventies, deep in the South;
You must login to vote
I was white but raised black by a black man.
As a boy, I have watched the Ku Klux Klan
on the news—I felt unsafe as a black youth
who looked white. In those days, it was uncouth
and a mark of disgrace to be less than
the white son of a white man and woman:
even then I could feel this racist truth.
Two-score years have passed and I’m still confused,
anxious and unclear as to what or how
I should be—am I white or black? (Abused
as a child, I relate to him still now.).
Granted, it’s no joy being me—like this;
but it’s better than being a racist...?
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."