"What are you doing with a black last name?"
my colleague asks, half-teasing,
a smile across her brown face.
In the moment's surprise,
I smile back and say,
"I don't know."
But I do know.
Surely, we both must know
how my fathers' name got black--
that this name sharing
is an artifact from an ugly time
when her fathers were stripped
of African names and sold naked.
These are things about which
we do not speak.
Concerning me, they are repugnant and shameful,
and for her . . . .
We do not know
what to say.
We do not even know
the terms. Black, or African-American?
Caucasian, or White?
In a way, it seems more polite
just not to mention it.
My student "of a darker hue" hesitates
to call the lightest crayon its proper color.
"That's racist!" he warns.
For this essay,
we find our vocabulary lacking.
But may I start by saying,
"I am sorry"?
Weak, I know . . .
but we must begin somewhere.
I like this version of the poem. You've made it sharper, more focused. Such things are difficult to write about. I think you've done so with great sensitivity and gentle acuteness. Brava!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Thomas. Yes, it is hard to write about this. I kept worrying that I might be saying something unclear or offensive, and so kept revisiting the poem. I'm glad you think the changes helped!
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