I waited, on the stairs inside my house, with my phone
With my son
For the verdict to go down
For the man who “stood his ground” and killed Trayvon Martin
He was acquitted, as you know
My son, pleaded with me why,
How could they do that?
And some weak joke about Florida justice wouldn’t cut it
This is my America
My country, tis of thee, sweet land of
Sweet land of
Sweet land of
I can’t sing
You see, my eyes might be blue,
and my hair some shade of blonde
But, my heart
When the elderly Mrs. Harn’s taught me in Sunday school class
When I was too young for school
“Jesus loves the little children, all of the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight”
My heart believed that
When my classmate Kimberly called the school janitor a nigger in first grade
I sat there, as if time stopped.
I saw his face, the tear that formed in his eye, as he turned his head away
I felt his pain.
When I turned back to my classmate
I did not look at her as the same little girl
In pretty dresses
And fixed hair
Because Kimberly didn’t see John as he picked up after us
Did chores while whistling
Or fix things around our school
She took offense at what
His creator gave him
That was taught to her
My parents
Forgot to do some things most do
They never identified a person by their race
That I can remember.
So when I saw John, I saw him.
Oh, I knew he had that nice ebony skin,
The kind that didn’t burn, like mine,
But I saw him.
Might be the same reason that I was half way through a year of teaching my first period class
Before I noticed that whites were in the minority
There were all races sitting in my classroom
But they were my beloved students, not labels
Hashtag
Hands up, Don’t shoot
Hashtag
I can’t breathe
Hashtag
If they gunned me down
Hashtag
If I die in police custody
When I hear those words,
Those cries
The fear that my fellow citizens have
Living in the land of the ----
It becomes my fear and those cries belong to the faces of people I know
It’s the young man who is such a good friend to my son
It’s the young men that I will see dressed in suits in debate competition this weekend
My students sitting in my classroom
Those on the sports field and in the gym
It’s my friend’s nephews
That one who plays in the band at church
It’s a college student named Xavier at UT
Who is a son to me
It is not us and them
It is not black and white
It is us, we, together
It is not Black History month, it is our collective history
When are we going to stop the madness?
Let us tell the truth.
We sing their songs. They are our songs
And watch them play sports on our teams
They are our neighbors, our co-workers, our friends, and perhaps family
We’ve read their books, our books
And admired their achievements in fields from science to politics
And consider that American progress
And yet
For them, their America, our America
Still isn’t a land of liberty
Until a person will be judged
By the content of their character
And not the color of their skin
It. Will. Not. Be.
Martin knew what he was talking about
Sometimes I look around and think that I am in the minority
Feeling out of place
Knowing I’ll raise my voice anyways
And I will hold out my hand
My white hand
In their struggle
In our struggle to find the soul of this country
America in 2015
You see, my eyes might be blue,
And my hair some shade of blonde
But, my heart…
