poem: Casey RocheteauPosted in Articles, Autobiography, Media Archive, United States on 2016-05-19 01:53Z by Steven |
Union Station
January 2014
The first time I was black
I was staring out the sliding glass door
at the mourning doves in the back yard.
My white mother came up
behind me and said that if anyone
didn’t want to be my friend at school
it was their loss. I asked,
Why would anyone not want to be my friend?
well, because you’re black.
I looked at my hands
uncomprehending…
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