They ask me if I’m proud to be white.
And I pause—
Not from shame,
But because I’ve learned not to answer
Without first remembering what came before me.

Proud of what?
Of conquest dressed up as progress?
Of freedom that came with a foot on someone else’s neck?
Of laws that wrote Blackness into *******
And whiteness into power?

My people wrote the rules,
Then broke the spirits
Of the ones they feared would rise.

They burned books
To keep minds dark.
They banned reading
Because education meant rebellion.
And rebellion from the enslaved
Was labeled violence,
While the chains weren’t.

They tore families apart,
Sold children like stock,
Then centuries later
Wonder why Black homes
Are fighting to stay whole.

They unleashed dogs on marchers,
Sprayed fire hoses at children
Just for asking to be seen.

This is how I remember.

I remember Emmett Till,
Fourteen years old,
Lynched for a lie.
I remember Tulsa, 1921,
Where success was a threat

Black Wall Street turned to smoke and ruin.

I remember redlining,
Where maps bled prejudice
And banks drew lines
That locked Black families out of futures.

I remember the war on drugs,
Where addiction in white skin
Was a health crisis,
But in Black skin,
A crime.

I remember George Floyd,
Face pressed to pavement,
A knee on his neck
For nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds
A public execution
That still needed a trial
To prove what we all saw.

This is how I remember.

And today
The Confederate flag still flies
On porches,
On plates,
On shoulders
Like a badge of glory.
Some still preach “heritage”
But won’t name what it honors
A war to keep humans in chains.

They talk of “states’ rights”
As if those rights weren’t
The right to own a man.

In some parts of this country,
They still act like the South won
Like their freedoms were stolen
When the shackles came off someone else.

And racism?
It didn’t die.
It just learned how to dress.
It put on a suit,
Picked up a microphone,
And ran for office.
It showed up in school curriculums
That call slavery a migration,
Or erase Black names from the pages.

It whispers at kitchen tables,
It votes in silence,
It marches in khakis,
And calls itself “tradition.”

This is how I remember.

I am a white man.
I didn’t own slaves.
But I live in the house they built.
And every brick
Carries the weight of what was done to build it.

I’m not proud of that.
But I won’t pretend it isn’t mine to reckon with.

I am proud of my shame.
Because shame means I still have a conscience.
Because if I can feel it,
I can face it.
And if I can face it,
Maybe I can change what comes next.

I remember
Because forgetting
Is the first act of violence.
Because pretending
Is how this all keeps going.

We don’t heal
By rewriting history.
We heal
By learning to carry it honestly.

This is how I remember
And this time,
I refuse to look away.

Author’s Note:
I am a white man.
Fourteen generations here in America
I sought my family history
I choose to remember all of our history—
not just the parts that make us proud,
but the parts that make us pause.
I refuse to wash it away.
Because truth, no matter how painful,
is the only path to justice.

Think, they need only to understand
Understanding means commitment
One side or the other
There’s no middle ground
The victory of the conception
Means the distinction of the other
The diminished responsibility of proof, just the response to obey
The scale of disenchantment and disillusion that will follow
The manipulation of Ferber
When the political forces seek loyalty above compassion
Correct positions aligned will come to the poet to the intellectual
Not abstract to be the mouthpiece of the tyrant
Once the voice of the abstract people
Now slaves to their cause
A scapegoat for their errors
An undeclared war on society
Pitting those who will gain the advantage and to those who will find discrimination, disappointment and depression

Ignorance will be the death of our democracy

You say—
You don’t agree with me.

My opinions are heard
Engage until enraged
I’m using my words

against you.
I’m  speaking the truth
Based on facts
and you’re not using facts.
You’re repeating false claims

I’m speaking truth.
Not to win—
but because it has to be said.
Because silence
lets the lie live longer.

And when I am in power—
if I’m wrong,
then use my words against me.
Hold me to them.

I hope you do.

Because I speak the truth,
and truth must be heard.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it turns on me.

Let the record show:
I stood on truth.
So use my words—
not to destroy me,
but to remind me
who I said I was.
hood

MMR.
Three letters.
A shield forged in science.
But you turned your back,
Called it poison,
Chose pride over protection.

You read one blog.
Watched one video.
And suddenly,
You’re wiser than the centuries
That buried children
By the thousands.

You walk freely,
But carry death on your breath.
Invisible.
Unknowable.
Unforgiving.

The infant at the store-
Too young to be immune.
The neighbor with chemo-
Too weak to fight.
The pregnant nurse-
Counting heartbeats
That may never take their first breath.

You say,
“It’s my choice.”
But your choice
Becomes their grave.

The virus doesn’t care
What you believe.
It only cares
That you were kind enough
To let it in.

So when the fever comes-
When the rash blooms
Like fire under your skin-
When the breath shallows,
And your lungs forget how to rise-
Know this:

You could have stopped it.
You could have been the break in the chain.
But you chose to be the link.
And now,
You’re the strain.

I asked myself daily—
What would Jesus do?

Did you read the Word of God?
Preach it amongst the followers?
Find comfort in your parish?
Fellowship in the church?

Do you walk the walk?
Or just talk the talk?

Do you follow the teachings of Jesus?
Do you help others?
Give of yourself—
The shoes off your feet,
The clothes off your back?

If so,
You walk the walk.

But—
Do you tell them of your good deeds?
Read from the Word?
Practice what you preach?
Or do you talk the talk
But don’t wanna walk?

Do you follow in His path of righteousness—
Or are you just righteous?

Do you practice your religion,
Or parade it?
Do you heed the words you read,
Or twist them when it’s convenient?

Do you show kindness to the less fortunate?
Do you care for the poor?
The marginalized?
Do you teach them the ways of God?

“Blessed are the poor in spirit…”
“Sell your possessions and give to the poor.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
“The Kingdom of God is for the poor.”

Jesus Himself showed compassion to the poor.
Healing the sick,
Feeding the hungry,
Speaking out against injustice.

So remember His words—
Before you use them as your own.

Walk the walk.
Don’t just talk the talk.

“Whatever you did to one of these brothers and sisters of mine…
You did to Me.”

You said it so well
Love…
It’s not just a feeling.
It’s a force.
Profound.
Precious.
The kind that reaches deep,
that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.

Your parents
they gave you a glimpse
of what love looks like
when it’s real.
When it’s patient,
when it’s not performative,
but lived.

They showed you
what it means to be seen,
to be chosen again and again,
not because you’re perfect,
but because you matter.

And now,
you carry that vision
a love that’s sincere,
pure,
unshaken by storms,
unafraid of silence.

It’s what we all want, isn’t it?
Not the fairytale,
but the truth.
Not perfection,
but presence.

So if the road feels long,
if hearts have closed
and promises broke,
don’t lose faith.

You-
the one who believes,
who dares to dream of something more-
keep walking.
Keep loving.
Keep becoming.

Because love like that?
It doesn’t just appear.
It arrives
for those who are ready
to receive it.

And you will be.

Hey—
Look up. Be still.
Life won’t wait and time won’t chill.
It moves with or without your glance,
So don’t just scroll—give now a chance.

Being present ain’t just “being there,”
It’s showing up with eyes that care.
It’s hearing meaning past the sound,
And feeling what’s beneath the ground.

It’s catching more than just the loud—
It’s reading silence in the crowd.
It’s not just nodding to pretend,
It’s listening like you’re with a friend.

Don’t wait to speak—
just wait and hear.
You’ll see the world become more clear.

‘Cause moments fade and chances fly,
And you’ll miss life just blinking by.

So don’t drift off or disappear—
You’ve got a mind, you’ve got an ear.
You’re not just watching—
you’re the scene.
Be part of life, not just the screen.

Be here.
Be now.
Be wide and true.
Be present—
The world is waiting for you.

I want them to shake you-
not to break you,
but to stir something deep.
To rattle you, gently,
from places I’ve let fall asleep.

To spring anger—yes—
but only where healing begins.
To draw tears,
like cleansing rain,
and decorate the silence
with something real again.

I want them to leave you wondering,
just quietly wanting more.
Not confused,
but curious—
like standing before an unopened door.

I want my words to shake you,
not to harm—
but to hold.
To bring you to the floor,
only so you rise
even more bold.

My words should empower you,
Implore you to want more—
more peace,
more light,
more truth than ever before.

To leave you hanging—
not lost,
but suspended—
in a breath,
where something new is just about
to begin.

Because words can move—
and I hope mine move you,
like kindness in full bloom,
like quiet strength
in a still room.

Our world runs on hard work
The sacrifice of self,
With no regard for safety,
Dropped into the Earth to mine coal.

Generations of miners
Uncles, fathers, grandfathers
Rose from the mines,
Their skin darkened by dust, not sun.

But who will take their place?
As generations tire,
The work remains,
Yet no one volunteers to fall deep into the Earth.

Have we denied ourselves a workforce
By coddling the young?
They sit in gaming chairs,
Lost in fantasy, where reality is not.

Unwilling to do the work of their fathers,
They’ve seen the pain,
Heard the cough,
Watched lungs blacken with coal dust—
In a society that turned its back on them.

And would I take that chance?
I can’t blame them—
I understand where they stand… or sit.
They do not know the sacrifice of kin.

They are the Yeah, No Generation.

I knew in a moment—
my heart fell fast.
In your eyes,
I was caught—
in a love
meant to last.

Your hand in mine,
like a thread through time.
And in that second?
The world
was mine.

You laughed
like a song
only I knew.
And I held
every word—
like it might not be true.

Each look
was a fire.
Each touch,
a flame.
And nothing we felt
ever once
felt like shame.

But your father—
he stood there
still.
With a wary stare
and a warning to ****
what we had
before it flew too far.
Said:

Love takes time, son.
Don’t chase a star.
It burns too bright.
It fades too fast.
Young love is fire—
but it never lasts.

He told me to walk.
To spare you the pain.
To disappear
before we both go insane.

But I looked in his eyes
and I said quietly—
If she’s gonna hurt…
Then let it be me.

Not the man she believes in.
Not the one she adores.
Not the first love she’s known
who then slams the door.

If I break her?
Time might heal the ache.
But if you do it…
it’s a different break.

You’ll teach her that love
isn’t worth the risk.
That it ends
in silence,
in rules,
in a fist.

Let her feel it.
Let her fall.
Let her rise,
even if she crawls.

Because love—
even young—
isn’t always a lie.
It can teach us to live
even when we say goodbye.

So if it must end…
then I’ll take the fall.

But don’t be the reason
she builds up a wall.

Let her believe
that her heart can be free.
And if it must break?
Then let it
be me.