Love Trumps Hate

“You know,” they told me, 13 years old,
cheeks still round with idealism, that
racism was over.
“You see now, don’t you?” they jabbed
at my ribcage, not yet fully grown into.
“We’ve got ourselves a black president.”
And in class we read a book about Malala,
the girl who stood up for her education,
got a bullet through the
skull. I thought my, oh, my
does the world have a lot of problems.
Good thing we don’t have any of those here.

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