Do I know what it was like to be black in 1953?
Why, no, miss, I do not.
Do I know it was horrible?
Yes.
Do I know that equality was a word
That never passed a child’s lips—
For who dared to think,
Dared to imagine
That they deserved the same as someone else?
Yes.
But do I understand,
Can I ever know
Know for real, from inside
The hardships of those marked by color,
The pain, confusion, call it what you will
That took a man and turned him into an animal
And took an animal and made him something less?
No.
I’ve grown up in a world
That lacked that kind of distinction.
Love thy brother, love thy sister, love anyone you please,
But hate—now, that is a foreign concept to me.
Call it a success, if you will
Although I’m not quite sure it is
Because I know that hate still exists
Beyond the borders of my sheltered life.
It’s just a beast that’s never been hiding under my bed.
I know that hate is real
With googly eyes and big, sharp teeth
But I can never know more,
Not for real.
So when you ask me if I know
What it was like to be black,
The answer will always be no.
Not because I don’t understand the history,
But because I don’t quite know
How to be hated any more than how to hate.