yeah I see what you are saying, good fellow. is why I wouldnt ask you to put yourself in the mind of an oppressor, just an average white guy trying to survive the 21st century
figured it would be more of a challenge.
I mean no disrespect, there is some method to my madness
it's very generous of you to accept, and I thank you heaps and bunches. dont feel tethered to a word count
Here's what you have asked of me: Cabcool, good to see you. most of us have done what you asked. I wonder if you'd be able to write an essay from the perspective of an average white guy
fair is fair and all that jazz
I told you I would deliver, and here I am. Hopefully, you don't mind me presenting my vicarious experience in poetic form. What that does is give me latitude to take advantage of poetic licence in expressing more graphically what prose delimits. It also gives you and other readers the opportunity to read between the lines and see as much as you wish to see (although some might even see less than I intend to say, by their own unliberated minds).
Because I am not "keeping elementary school," I will not rush to give an interpretation of my own poem at this time of posting. I would rather wait to see how others interpret me. BUT, because I also believe in highlighting covert meanings and intentions that are of notable import, I might return afterward to elucidate certain allusions and symbolism that I do not wish to miss the eye or be excluded. slavesong
♪a white slave owner struggles to emancipate his mind♪
“A private faith that does not act in the face of oppression
is no faith at all.” —William Wilberforce
grandfather owned a thousand slaves;
now he and they sleep in their graves.
he was their master, they his knaves;
they had no rights, he had no wrongs.
how oft they sang their mournful songs,
confused by cruelties and throngs
of passions they could not resolve! high whites, low blacks
the chains involve;
short nights, lame backs, long days revolve
around a pendulum of pain,
scorched by harsh sun, drenched by hard rain
—and gosh, the smell of blood’s stale stain!
dad gifted me a blind black boy
to serve me as my private toy;
my conscience he would occupy
—this willing, fragile peter pan,
whose limited attention span
suited my father’s master plan.
his loyalty was genuine,
seemed like a sin.
i wondered how he felt within,
strained by my every beck-and-call.
what words could his poor soul enthrall
that would not straightly mine appall? the souls of black folk,
says dubois, may echo haunting airs of awe
unfamiliar to the bourgeois
but flesh for flesh
and bone for bone:
how has my white advantage
what can for colour crimes
hits my eyes, hewers of wood
in silence rise; drawers of water
their spirit, by strange means, transcend: methinks
white rule has hit dead-end!
© Copyright 2020 September 24
by Clyve A. Bowen♫