A Story in Black and White
R. Allen Shoaf
§ Long since torn down, the house I grew up in Sat atop a modest hill, the street belowDividing the ghettos (ours white, theirs black) Equally destitute, dirty and grim;But color meant everything to everyoneIf you wanted to know where you could walk Or whom you could ask for the time of day. White skin covered everything black skin did notIncluding the savagery of scarsOn the limbs and backs of women and children, The rites of the “massas,” the war be damned—Nothing had changed, as we today know all too well: Black is the slave and the criminal, too,Only white can drink another man’s blood And declare that god would have it that way. § I would walk to school along the pale white line(Invisible unless you looked for it)And keep my eyes warped to the right and down,Glancing ahead now and then but never behind—That could be mistaken for fear or care;Either would be the wrong signal to send.I never had to fight, I’m fortunate,But I remember days I wished I’d stayed home.Bad as home was, it was better than the street,And I learned early to give thanks for a home—Cockroaches, silverfish, flies, and worms … But the roof didn’t leak and the door stayed shut;I was never surprised in what we called homeThough I was depressed every day I lived there—Sad and weird what a man will get used to.
§ Long since torn down, the house I grew up in Sat atop a modest hill, the street belowDividing the ghettos (ours white, theirs black) Equally destitute, dirty and grim;But color meant everything to everyoneIf you wanted to know where you could walk Or whom you could ask for the time of day. White skin covered everything black skin did notIncluding the savagery of scarsOn the limbs and backs of women and children, The rites of the “massas,” the war be damned—Nothing had changed, as we today know all too well: Black is the slave and the criminal, too,Only white can drink another man’s blood And declare that god would have it that way. § I would walk to school along the pale white line(Invisible unless you looked for it)And keep my eyes warped to the right and down,Glancing ahead now and then but never behind—That could be mistaken for fear or care;Either would be the wrong signal to send.I never had to fight, I’m fortunate,But I remember days I wished I’d stayed home.Bad as home was, it was better than the street,And I learned early to give thanks for a home—Cockroaches, silverfish, flies, and worms … But the roof didn’t leak and the door stayed shut;I was never surprised in what we called homeThough I was depressed every day I lived there—Sad and weird what a man will get used to.
§
I knew very young I was lucky to be white.Poor as we are at least we’re not like them:A refrain I heard throughout my childhood,Even when I was too young to understand.It was important our skin was not black.This made no sense then, nor does it today(There you have why I’m not a politician.),And I acknowledge I’m hated for this.Just the way I am: I don’t mind difference.But don’t hate me for self-righteousness—that’s not it—I just don’t mind that people aren’t copies of me:I can get through life without any doubles.Just as a singer won’t listen to himselfBut feel his body generate his sound, I feel the eyes of others and know who I am.
§ I remember rooms full of men swapping stories.I was there, old enough, barely, and white,Though some of the men, kin of mine, glanced at me.Here I learned how white boys would bust their first nutIn black girls their mothers sold for $2 a night,Standing by for when they had had enoughBut urging them on to open wide and let them all in.I knew enough to keep my mouth good and shut,And I could see my kin tighten their lips,The look in their eyes shading toward sorrowTeaching me helplessness is often real,And even good men can’t do the good,Bound in customs just like slaves in shacklesNo law can remove, the will is so hardBeaten to believe only one way to be.
§ The old preacher who helped me in my teens,Blessed with a voice Abraham could hear from on high,Would sit with me in his old black Buick and growl—His skin and hair I couldn’t tell you what color, “A touch of the brush,” whitey-whites would say—But he told me god loved me and wanted my lifeTo bear witness to his power and glory.I know better than this now, but I’m grateful stillSince I know the old man loved god in meAnd that’s what kept him going for all his flock.(Some would’ve said it was the Holy Ghost at work.)And every day now I write a new poem,I give thanks for him and all the othersWho acted in my life whenever they couldThough it’s only a story in black and white.