The sun rose in the sky again this morning.
Sometimes I wonder why it wants to rise
And look at all the wrongs it has to see.
Perhaps it doesn’t want to, and can’t help it,
The way white people don’t want—I suppose—
To be unkind, and yet can’t seem to help it.
No, nothing happened, more than usual.
I hunted for a decent place to live
And found a shanyy—fit for use, they said.
White people went by in a shiny car.
I heard one say, “They’re almost animals
To live like this. Oh, well, I guess they like it.”
I wonder if he really thinks we like it.
We’ll move next week. We’ll move into the shanty
And leave the willow tree where mocking birds
Sing songs for us as it our skin were white.
The schools are better there, or so they say.
They can’t be worse, at least, and Jimmy’s smart.
Don’t know if being smart will help him any,
But if there’s any chance, he’s got to have it.
Sometime I think there isn’t any chance.
Sometimes I press the darkness to my eyes
And wonder why the sun would want to rise.
–From the Greatest of These (written in 1946?)