When I was in fourth grade I wrote a poem that made me quite popular. My fourth grade teacher, Sr. Maxine, gave us a writing assignment that required us to write about our favorite place to be. I quickly jotted down a little ditty called “My Dad’s Chair” that shot me straight to fourth grade super stardom. In response to my new found talent of rhyming words in an organized fashion my Mom bought me a floral writing journal that was quickly dubbed my “book of poems” (original, I know), which I carried with me often. My head was often bent in concentration as I scribbled down my thoughts and ran to show them off to hear others rant about how great I was. (Some things never get old.) By the time I was in 5th grade about half the book was filled with my talent and two of my sisters had plagiarized my name for school assignments.
I’d like to take a moment to dissect one of those poems with you today. The following should be worth approximately .02 college credits and if you’d like me to write a letter of participation to be turned into your professor I’d be obliged to provide.
In fifth grade I had really developed a sense of Just. Like most my age I had received a healthy dose of American history and I was appalled at the prejudice that existed in the world. I wanted to make it very clear that I, for one, certainly was NOT prejudice. In fact I LOVED black people. I thought black guys were “foine” (fine). I used words like “hode up” (hold on) and “hella” (a lot/ very) on a regular basis. And to drill the point home I would talk about how I had black cousins and there was no WAY I could be racist if I had black cousins.
(Two actually. My very white aunt married a black man who never came to any of our very white family gatherings. They had two kids who I saw and see MAYBE once a year. I think that alone makes me about 30% black myself and therefore not racist by default.)
To raise some awareness in the world I wrote a poem I titled “Blacks”. Appropriately named, don’t you think. I mean what better way to show your support to the black community than to group them together under one broad headline based solely on the color of their skin and write a poerm about them?? Anyways, here it is:
Blacks.
By me, Kathy B. (I thought it was catchy that I could make my name rhyme)
It has to be
Blacks are just like you and me.
Free to walk. Free to dress.
They weren’t put on Earth for another mess.
So please, don’t have a fuss.
When you are around them do not cuss.
They’re just like you in another color.
So if you don’t like the way they are,
Go outside and hop in your car,
And think about what you just read,
Then go home and hop in bed.
Then maybe on another day,
You’ll feel a totally different way.
They’re not just like a paper sack,
Just because they’re simply black.
A brief pause while I wait for the applause to die down. Ahem. Let’s start with the first two lines shall we?
“It has to be/blacks are just like you and me”
I mean it HAS to be. What OTHER reason could there be for their existence?? Right? Except for the color of their skin, they look and talk JUST like us. So they MUST be like us.
“Free to walk. Free to dress/They weren’t put on Earth for another mess.”
I believe our God is a loving and fair God. He wouldn’t have put black people on Earth to add to our problems. We have a lot of other things to worry about. Like gay people. God would not put black people on this Earth to cause trouble when clearly gays are such an issue.
“So please, don’t have a fuss.
When you are around them do not cuss.
They’re just like you in another color.”
Again, really important to reinforce the idea that we are all the same. Skin color is not a good reason to start raving on and on like some kind of deranged lunatic. STOP FUSSING!!! If there is one thing we don’t need more of in this world it’s FUSSY adults cussing out black people. If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times. It’s time to move on, and if you can’t…well then:
“So if you don’t like the way they are,
Go outside and hop in your car,
And think about what you just read,
And then go home and hop in bed.
Maybe on a different day
You’ll feel a totally different way,”
I like how I spent the next six lines of my poem talking about how you need to take a break and think about the first seven lines of the poem. You know. Really let my point and deep thoughts sink in. Go for a drive. Get some fresh air. Sleep on it. Just mull it over for a bit and soon you will come to the same conclusion that I, in just 11 short years of life (fascinating isn’t it?) had come to myself:
“They’re not just like a paper sack,
Just because they’re simply black.”
Paper sacks are very bad. Garbage. We fill them with things and throw them away. Used and abused. Black people are NOT like that. The color of your skin is a simple discrepancy, Other than that there are virtually NO differences. Well. Except that they can jump higher and run faster and are generally better at sports than white folk. And then there’s the whole “dancing” thing. And also that “street language” barrier I have such a hard time with. But those differences are just minor and insignificant and certainly not anything that should place a person at the degrading level of a sack! Come on people! Open your minds!!
If there is anything clear about my poem it is this. I was a thinker. An EXTREMELY non-racist thinker to be clear.
