Thought it was just me when I read the poem, so I scrolled through the peanut butter, washed my feet, and moved on. Do it all the time. Prob’ly won’t stop actually. But I appreciate that someone took a minute to speak on it. Because it does get old–the peanut butter trudging, that is. Read on.
Dear Whitey and other assorted Whiteys,
In the wake of the continuing dehumanization of, murder of, lynching of Black children I see that you may want to find a way to use your position to make a statement.
Right now just about every Black person I know is in pain. We have to see on social media how many of our sometimes beloved friends are racists. We have to watch people who could be us or our children be murdered and blamed for their own deaths.
Many of us are reaching out to our elders, to other black people we admire for comfort. For something.
We want to make sense of things and one of the…
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