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I was eleven years old
When I watched, from the shag carpeted floor,
Roots – the series proclaiming 
Injustice beyond my comprehension
Prejudice that would prevent me
From ever blurting that horrible word

Despite all of my sins
The darkness that drowned out my hopes
Somedays making me feel like I deserved
The worst there is, the cell…
Where prisoners slept – the cross…
Where Jesus met death,
I didn’t say that word, the one starting with “n”

There was one girl in my class that year
She was black and she was my friend
I felt the need to share my heart with her
As we stood in a lunch line,
Waiting for the scoops of mashed potatoes and dumplings
The carton of milk that accompanied them

“I watched Roots…” I hesitated,
Watching her dark eyes fade gray
Before I could tell her that I felt ashamed
Of the whites who had been my ancestors
My forefathers, my relatives…

She turned away and didn’t look back
I never had the opportunity to say anything else
About Roots or my shame or the fact that
I wanted her to know I didn’t claim to understand
How she felt.. No, I wasn’t black
But I knew she was good and kind and I loved her
And, I absolutely wouldn’t ever say that word
The one that started with “n”, the one that taught me
That the darkness inside those called Master
Was a bigger darkness than the black skin of the slave

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