What Do I Know?

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.