To my son,

My son, I told you your life would be hard,
Because your skin is a chocolate brown.
But please, for me, never stop fighting,
For rights that should not have to be found.

No matter how hard things seem for you,
They can always be worse, you see.
Your ancestors worked in the fields all day,
With no more reward than to live one more day.

The men with clean, white faces,
Took them from the lives they knew.
They said they could bring them to a new world,
Who knew what they said was so true.

From the moment they left their villages at home,
They lost their liberty and their hope.
Why would god make an inferior race,
All people are people at the end of the day.

Time cannot heal all wounds on its own,
And even today you are not free.
Your uncles have fought a passive fight,
But still you do not have your liberty.

They sat in the back of the bus,
They went to schools with no books to read.
They drank from a broken water fountain,
When nice clean water dripped at their feet.

Today, you think you see improvement,
They say you can do all that the white folk can do.
But they know that the fight is not over,
It is a fight that will not end soon.

They tell you to stay with your own kind,
Do not marry their porcelain daughters.
Your dirty brown skin will taint their business,
How could they hire someone so vile?

Oh honey, I always told you
Your chocolate brown skin was beautiful.
I’m sorry I lied to you, my son,
Your color will only bring you troubles.

There is a challenge that you must finish,
A fight that cannot be won.
You see there can be no winner,
But you cannot go back, only forward, my son.

For your brothers who worked under the hot sun,
For your sisters who were beaten by a cruel hand,
Find us liberty in your day,
Give us back what they took away.