In 83 years, not much has changed.

 I was lucky enough to be born in a military family. I was not exposed to the hatred of people of color when I was younger because the military had been integrated since the 1950s. I remember moving to Germany in 1962 and becoming best friends with Diane, whose family lived in the apartment right below us. We became inseparable until her father was transferred and another family moved in her apartment. 

By the time my father was looking at retirement and the decision was made to move back to Florida to be closer to my grandparents, the courts had ruled to integrate all the public schools in the state. I was in 9th grade and really had no idea what the fuss was about, but boy, was there a fuss. By the time I entered high school, the tensions were still thick between black and white students. 

I became the president of a new organization on campus, TEMPO, which stood for Teens, Educators, Moms and Pops Organization. We had a diverse membership and strived to make the student population more aware of why we needed to all work together to get along. We did some good things but ultimately the racism that existed with some, never went away. I made many friends during that time, some still around today, but lost some who seemed to not be able to change their attitudes. They very freely used the term "nigger lover" to apply to me and whomever else tried to ease tensions on campus.

I was fortunate as well in the choice offerings of classes we were allowed to take. This was before the experts (I use that term very loosely) were allowed to revamp the high school system to the totally boring and uninspired system that I must teach in today. One of the classes I chose to take to fulfill part of my 4 years of English requirement was with a class titled, "Black Literature." I had a wonderful teacher, Thelma McCann, who introduced me to some wonderful writers as well as history of the Harlem Renaissance, the Jim Crow South, and lots of things in between. I think of her often, she is still teaching the little ones, and have hopes of having lunch with her once Covid-19 has calmed enough for us to go back to a small bit of normalcy. 

On Friday this week, I cautioned all my kids to please be safe this weekend. I don't think I could handle one of them dying simply because of the color of their skin. I asked them all to think about what they were doing and not to take chances. I should not have to caution my students in this way. I thought about that this morning when a friend shared a poem on Facebook. I had forgotten the poem, but not the author. Langston Hughes was always one of my favorites. How terrible that in 83 years, this poem still has such meaning. I will leave you with his words, written in 1938. 

This is for the kids who die,
Black and white,
For kids will die certainly.
The old and rich will live on awhile,
As always,
Eating blood and gold,
Letting kids die.

Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi
Organizing sharecroppers
Kids will die in the streets of Chicago
Organizing workers
Kids will die in the orange groves of California
Telling others to get together
Whites and Filipinos,
Negroes and Mexicans,
All kinds of kids will die
Who don't believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment
And a lousy peace.

Of course, the wise and the learned
Who pen editorials in the papers,
And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names
White and black,
Who make surveys and write books
Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,
And the sleazy courts,
And the bribe-reaching police,
And the blood-loving generals,
And the money-loving preachers
Will all raise their hands against the kids who die,
Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets
To frighten the people—
For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—
And the old and rich don't want the people
To taste the iron of the kids who die,
Don't want the people to get wise to their own power,
To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together

Listen, kids who die—
Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you
Except in our hearts
Maybe your bodies'll be lost in a swamp
Or a prison grave, or the potter's field,
Or the rivers where you're drowned like Leibknecht
But the day will come—
You are sure yourselves that it is coming—
When the marching feet of the masses
Will raise for you a living monument of love,
And joy, and laughter,
And black hands and white hands clasped as one,
And a song that reaches the sky—
The song of the life triumphant
Through the kids who die.

Langston Hughes