Song of the South I thank my Momma and my Daddy too. Thanks to them, I got this song for you. Birthday is tomorrow. I’m an old man now. I tried so hard but it doesn’t matter anyhow. I grew up with racists. There’s so much to blame. It’s what history did, to our ever-lasting shame. I see a person, there’s a battle I can’t win. A thing I still notice is the color of their skin. It is a curse I think, a present from the South. Some things I used to say now banished from my mouth. Momma had a kind heart, but Daddy had it bad. The 50’s hit him hard. At first it made him mad. He began to teach in a school for only whites. Math for little white kids— so much for civil rights. There came a point something happened to my Dad. He liked so many Blacks the teaching made him sad. He joined the War on Poverty, worked with Blacks every day. He knew from his own life together they’d find a way. Daddy was a smart man. It couldn’t be shut out: Blacks should be equals, not something he could doubt. He didn’t tell me what to think. I could think for myself. But he helped my life along to become something else. The curse I carry forward. Soon I’ll find my grave. But I hope I have respected the gift my Daddy gave.
0/500